Page 13 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

Especially a laird whose judgment might be compromised by the memory of green eyes and defiant courage.

“They might want tae send her back,” Niall said. “Ye ken that, aye?”

“Perhaps.” Euan moved to refill his whisky. “Or perhaps they’ll see what I see—an opportunity. Keith MacKenzie sent his daughter away fer a reason. If we can discover that reason⁠—”

“Then we’re using her exactly as her faither intended.” Niall’s expression was troubled. “Just in a different direction.”

The accusation hit home. Was he any better than Keith MacKenzie if he kept Moyra there against her will, using her as a pawn in clan politics? The thought made him want to put his fist through the stone wall.

“I’ll nae harm her,” he said, more to himself than to Niall. “Whatever the Council decides, I’ll see she’s treated with honor.”

“I ken ye will.” Niall moved toward the door, then paused. “But honor and wisdom dinnae always walk the same path, me friend. Sometimes ye have tae choose between what’s right fer one person and what’s right fer hundreds.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Euan alone with the fire and his troubled thoughts.

He should sleep. Dawn would come too soon, bringing with it the necessity of facing his Council and explaining how he’d managed to bring a MacKenzie into the heart of their stronghold. They’d have questions—hard ones. And he’d need to have answers that made sense to men who hadn’t seen Moyra in that cell, hadn’t watched her fight with broken courage against odds that would have crushed most people.

Instead, he found himself staring at the maps spread across his desk. Territories that had been MacLeod for generations, now under threat from a man who’d married his way into a weak claim and was willing to do anything to strengthen it. Including, apparently, sacrificing his own daughter.

The pieces still didn’t fit together cleanly. If Keith wanted to use Moyra as leverage, why imprison her? If he wanted her out of the way, why leave her alive? And why in an English dungeon?

Unless discovering her there was the point.

The possibility sat like poison in his gut.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his dark thoughts.

“Enter.”

Brighde slipped into the room, her healer’s bag in hand and concern creasing her weathered face. She’d been tending the MacLeod clan for nearly ten years now, and her sharp eyes missed nothing.

“I’ve been tae see the Lady Moyra.” Brighde set down her bag and fixed him with a look that made him squirm. “Found her pacing her chamber like a caged wolf, looking like death warmed over.”

Guilt twisted through him. “She should be resting⁠—”

“Aye, she should. But ye try telling a lass who’s spent three months in a dungeon that she’s safe tae sleep in strange quarters.” Brighde’s expression softened slightly. “I gave her something tae help ease her intae sleep. She’ll rest easier now.”

“Thank ye.” He paused. “How bad are the injuries?”

“Bad enough.” The healer’s mouth tightened. “Rope burns on her wrists and ankles that went untreated too long. Bruises in various stages of healing—some fresh from yer journey here, others older. She’s malnourished and exhausted, and I’d wager she hasnae had a decent night’s sleep in months.” She leveled a stern gaze at him. “Whatever ye plan tae dae with her, me laird, she needs time tae heal first. Mind and body both.”

“She’ll have it.” The words came out more forcefully than he’d intended. “I’ve given me word she’ll be treated well.”

“See that ye keep it.” Brighde stood, gathering her bag. “That lass has been through enough without adding more suffering tae her burdens.”