Page 98 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Three days passed in a blur of frantic preparation.

Moyra found the first note tucked beneath her breakfast plate on the morning after the council meeting.

The refugees in the east wing need blankets. Cook says we’re low on grain. And ye need tae eat more than half a bannock fer breakfast.

No signature. Just Euan’s bold, efficient script that somehow managed to convey impatience even on parchment.

She smiled despite herself, reaching for the quill Catriona had left on the table. On the back of his note, she scrawled a response.

The refugees have blankets—I saw tae it yesterday. The grain situation is handled. And I’ll eat a full bannock when ye stop skipping meals entirely tae brood on battlements.

She left it on his desk in the war room, weighted down with a stone, and went about her day organizing supplies, checking on wounded warriors, doing everything possible to keep her mind off the approaching invasion.

By evening, another note appeared—this time tucked into the medical supplies she’d been cataloging.

I dinnae brood. I strategize. There’s a difference. Also, the sentries report ye were on the walls after dark. Nae safe.

Moyra’s lips curved. She grabbed a scrap of parchment.

Brooding and strategizing look remarkably similar from where I’m standing. And I was checking sight lines fer archers—someone needs tae think practically. Also, ye have ink on yer jaw. Left side.

She left it wedged in his armor stand, knowing he’d find it when he dressed for patrol.

The game escalated over the next two days.

Euan’s notes started appearing in increasingly creative locations—tucked into her medical bag, slipped between clean linens, even once folded into the butter dish at breakfast. His messages remained practical but gained an edge of something warmer.

The council meeting ran late because ye were right about the grain shipments. Malcolm says ye have a head fer logistics. He’s nae wrong.

Brighde mentioned ye’ve been working yerself tae exhaustion. Rest. That’s nae a suggestion.

Found yer doodle on the battle plans. A stag? Really? Me strategizing deserves better than woodland creatures.

That last one made Moyra laugh aloud. She’d sketched a small Highland stag in the corner of his maps—antlers proud, stance noble—because watching Euan pore over defense strategies with furrowed brow had reminded her of exactly that. Regal and stubborn and entirely too serious.

Her response came swift.

The stag represents noble leadership and unwavering determination. Also stubbornness. Mostly stubbornness. If ye’d prefer, I can draw a hedgehog instead—prickly exterior, soft inside.

She left it on his pillow, knowing he wouldn’t find it until he finally collapsed into bed near midnight.

His reply appeared the next morning in her herb basket.

I’m nae soft. And if I find a hedgehog on me battle plans, there will be consequences. Also—the east tower guard rotation ye suggested actually works better. Dinnae let it go tae yer head.

Moyra’s chest warmed. That was practically a declaration of affection from Euan MacLeod—admitting she’d been right about something tactical.

She crafted her response carefully, adding a tiny sketch of a hedgehog wearing a crown at the bottom.

Too late. Me head is insufferably swollen with pride. I expect ye’ll just have tae endure me gloating. PS—What consequences? I’m terrified.

She wasn’t terrified. She was delighted.

By the fourth day, their notes had become the bright spots in increasingly tense preparations.

Euan’s messages grew longer, more personal. Less commander, more man.