Page 105 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The keep’s central courtyard was supposed to be safe.

Moyra had just finished settling the last group of children with their mothers, had just checked the barred doors and reinforced locks, when the explosion shook the eastern wall. Stone cracked. Ancient mortar crumbled. And through the sudden breach poured MacKenzie warriors—a small force, perhaps a dozen men, but more than enough to overwhelm the handful of guards stationed inside.

“Get back!” One of the guards—young Tavish from her training sessions—thrust himself between Moyra and the advancing soldiers. “Me lady, run!”

But there was nowhere to run. The corridor behind her led deeper into the keep, toward the women and children she’d just secured. She couldn’t lead attackers there.

So she stood her ground, grabbing the closest weapon—a torch from its wall sconce—and faced the men who’d come to kill her.

The first MacKenzie warrior who reached Tavish cut him down with ruthless brutality. The young guard fell with a cry that would haunt Moyra’s nightmares, his blood spreading across ancient stones.

“There!” Another warrior pointed directly at her. “That’s the MacKenzie bitch! The one the laird wants!”

They surged forward as one.

Moyra swung her torch wildly, catching one man across the face. He screamed, stumbling back, but two more took his place. A blade whistled past her ear—too close, far too close. She ducked, rolled, came up swinging again. The torch connected with armor this time, useless against steel, and rough hands grabbed her arms.

“Got ye!” The warrior’s breath reeked of sour ale. “Yer Da’s been waiting fer this⁠—”

Moyra drove her knee into his groin with all the force she could muster. He released her with a howl, doubling over, and she scrambled backward. But there were too many. They surrounded her, cutting off every escape route, their faces twisted with the particular cruelty of men who knew they were about to hurt something helpless.

“Me lady!” A familiar voice—Catriona, appearing in the corridor with a kitchen knife. “Get away from her!”

“Nay!” Moyra’s scream came too late.

A MacKenzie warrior backhanded Catriona with enough force to send her crashing into the wall. The maid crumpled, unconscious or worse, and fury unlike anything Moyra had ever felt exploded through her chest.

She grabbed the fallen guard’s sword—too heavy, awkward in her untrained hands—and swung with desperate strength. The blade caught one attacker across the shoulder, drawing blood and a satisfying howl of pain. But another warrior’s fist connected with her jaw, stars exploding across her vision as she stumbled.

The world tilted. She hit the ground hard, tasting copper. Through blurred vision, she saw blades rising, saw death approaching in the form of men wearing her father’s colors.

Then the door behind her attackers exploded inward.

Euan came through like a force of nature—armor splattered with blood, eyes blazing with fury that made even the hardened warriors take an involuntary step back. His sword was already moving before his boots hit the floor, the blade singing as it cleared the first attacker’s guard and opened his throat in one devastating strike.

“Touch me wife again,” Euan growled, “and I’ll make yer deaths last days.”

He moved like violence given form—each strike precise and brutal, his scarred shoulder flexing as his blade carved through MacKenzie warriors with the efficiency of a man defending what he loved most. One attacker tried to circle behind him. Euan spun, his elbow catching the man’s face with a crack of breaking bone, his sword following through to open the warrior’s chest.

Two more rushed him simultaneously. Euan’s blade deflected the first strike, his free hand grabbing the second attacker’s wrist and twisting until bone snapped. The man’s scream ended abruptly as Euan’s sword found his heart.

“Behind ye!” Moyra’s warning came desperate.

Euan ducked without looking, a blade whistling over his head. He came up inside his attacker’s guard, his shoulder driving into the man’s chest while his dagger—when had he drawn a dagger?—punched up under the warrior’s ribs. The MacKenzie soldier’s eyes went wide with shock before he collapsed.

But more warriors poured through the breach. Even Euan’s skill couldn’t hold against those numbers.

Then Calum MacKinnon appeared in the breach, his sea-blue eyes hard as winter ice. “Need a hand, braither?”

“About bloody time!” Euan grabbed Moyra, hauling her behind him as Calum’s blade flashed.

They fought with the fluid grace of water—flowing around guards, finding gaps, their strikes almost lazy in their efficiency until you saw the bodies piling up in his wake. A MacKenzie warrior tried to flank Calum, whose blade caught the man’s sword arm, severing it at the elbow, before spinning to open another attacker’s throat.

“East wall’s secure,” Calum reported between strikes. “David’s holding the northern approach. Archibald’s⁠—”

“Right here.” The massive warrior filled the doorway behind them, his face grim. “And we’ve got a problem. Keith MacKenzie himself just came through the main gates.”