Page 1 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER ONE

1514, outskirts of Lindisfarne Priory

Moyra’s fingers tightened around the leather strap as unease prickled down her spine. Something was wrong.

Through the carriage window, Lindisfarne Priory loomed against darkening horizon—those ancient walls her father insisted would keep her safe from the enemies he’d made in his quest for MacLeod lands. But it wasn’t the priory that held her attention now. It was the silence.

The guards had gone too quiet.

Three days she’d traveled south from the Highlands, each mile taking her further from everything she’d ever known. Her father’s words still echoed in her mind: “The priory will keep ye safe from those who would use ye against me, daughter. ‘Tis fer the good of the clan.”

But what clan? Since his marriage to Ishbel MacLeod six months past, Keith MacKenzie had spoken of little else but his newfound connection to MacLeod lands. His first wife—Moyra’s beloved mother—might as well have never existed.

Moyra leaned forward, peering into the gathering dusk. The shadows flanking their path moved wrong—too deliberate, too purposeful.

“Kristin,” she whispered, her voice tight. “Those aren’t trees.”

Her lady-in-waiting looked up from her embroidery, following Moyra’s gaze. The color drained from Kristin’s face. “Me lady⁠—”

The sharp crack of steel against steel shattered the evening air.

“Saints preserve us—” Kirstin began, but her words were lost as their carriage suddenly lurched to a violent halt, throwing both women against the wooden walls.

Shouts erupted outside. There was a clash of weapons. The screams of horses.

“We’re under attack,” Moyra breathed, her blood turning to ice.

Through the window, she glimpsed flashes of torchlight and the gleam of swords. Her father’s men—the six guards who’d accompanied them—were fighting desperately against a larger force that seemed to have materialized from the shadows.

Moyra’s mind raced as she assessed their position. The priory gates stood perhaps two hundred yards ahead, tantalizingly close yet impossibly far with armed men between them and safety. Their carriage sat exposed on the open path, making them easy targets if they remained.

But if they ran...

“Listen tae me carefully,” Moyra grabbed Kirstin’s trembling hands. Her friend—daughter of a neighboring laird and her closest companion since childhood, now serving as her lady-in-waiting—looked terrified, one hand instinctively moving to protect the barely visible swell of her belly. “When I open that door, ye’ll slip out quiet as a shadow and run straight fer the priory gates. Dinnae look back, dinnae wait fer me.”

“But me lady⁠—”

“Dinnae argue with me,” Moyra said sharply, her tone carrying centuries of MacKenzie authority. “Ye’re carrying a bairn, Kirstin. Ye need tae survive this—fer yer child’s sake. I’ll make sure they chase me instead of ye. Get tae the priory and tell the nuns everything.”

Kirstin’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I cannae leave ye⁠—”

“Ye can and ye will.” Moyra squeezed her hands. “Someone needs tae survive this tae tell the tale. And I’m far from finished fighting.”

The sounds of battle seemed to be moving closer. Through the opposite window, Moyra could see one of their guards fall, crimson spreading across his MacKenzie plaid. Her breath caught in her throat—it was Dougal, who’d taught her to skip stones as a child, who’d carved her a wooden horse when she was six. The sight of his lifeless form sent a wave of nausea through her, but she forced it down. She couldn’t afford to freeze now. Not when Kristin’s life—and her own—hung in the balance.

“Now,” she whispered, easing the carriage door open with painstaking care.

Kirstin hesitated for one heartbeat, then pressed a quick kiss to Moyra’s cheek before slipping out into the night. Her slight form disappeared into the shadows like smoke.

Moyra waited, counting her heartbeats. One. Two. Three.

Then she burst from the carriage in the opposite direction, her emerald cloak billowing behind her as she ran toward the rocky outcropping that bordered the coastal path. Her boots slipped on the loose stones, but she pressed on, making as much noise as possible.

“There! The girl!”

The accent that reached her ears was distinctly English, not the Highland brogue she’d expected. These weren’t rival clansmen come to steal her away—these were soldiers of the English crown.

But why would English soldiers attack a MacKenzie party traveling under safe passage?