Page 24 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER TEN

The letter arrived on the fifth day after Euan had sent his missive to Keith MacKenzie.

Euan stood in his office, the morning sun casting long shadows across stone walls, and stared at the broken seal in his hand. The MacKenzie crest mocked him from the parchment—that proud stag that represented a clan whose laird had just proven himself lower than the mud beneath Euan’s boots.

His hands trembled as he read the words again, though fury rather than shock fueled the reaction. Each carefully crafted sentence was a masterpiece of cruelty disguised as pragmatism.

Euan’s fist slammed into the desk hard enough to rattle the inkwell. The sound echoed through the chamber like a gunshot, and somewhere outside his door, he heard footsteps pause before hurrying away.

Good. Let them spread word that their laird was in a black mood. It would save him the trouble of explaining later why he might put his fist through Keith MacKenzie’s face if the bastard ever showed his cowardly features within Dunvegan’s walls.

He read the letter a third time, bile rising in his throat. Not one word of concern for Moyra’s welfare. Not one question about her treatment or condition. Just cold calculation wrapped in threats—any harm that befalls a MacKenzie under yer roof will be answered in kind—as if Keith actually cared what happened to the daughter he’d abandoned.

The daughter he’d deliberately sent to rot in an English dungeon.

Because that’s what this was. Euan saw it now with perfect clarity. The timing too convenient, the English soldiers too prepared, Keith’s complete lack of surprise or outrage at the news. He’d known exactly where Moyra was. Had probably arranged her imprisonment himself.

And now he was threatening to use her as a martyr if Euan caused her any harm.

The sheer audacity of it made his blood boil.

A knock at the door interrupted his spiraling fury. “Enter.”

Niall stepped inside, took one look at Euan’s expression, and whistled low. “That bad?”

“Worse.” Euan thrust the letter at him. “Read it yerself.”

He watched his friend’s face darken as he scanned the contents, saw the moment comprehension struck like a physical blow. Niall’s jaw clenched, and when he looked up, his brown eyes held the same cold rage Euan felt burning through his own chest.

“The bastard,” Niall breathed. “He’s threatening to use her death as justification fer war while simultaneously claiming she’s worthless to him.”

“Aye.” Euan moved to the window, needing the fresh air and open sky to keep from punching something. “He wants me tae either send her back so he can dispose of her quietly or keep her here indefinitely while he spreads word that I’m holding a helpless woman hostage.”

“And if ye accidentally let harm come to her⁠—”

“Then he has his excuse tae rally other clans against us. A martyr tae MacKenzie honor, proof of MacLeod brutality.” Euan’s laugh held no humor. “It’s brilliant, really. Despicable, but brilliant.”

“What will ye tell her?”

The question hit like a blade between his ribs. Moyra, who still harbored some fragile hope that her father might want her back, who’d stood on the battlements five nights ago and smiled at the stars like they were gifts he’d given her instead of borrowed moments of freedom.

How did he tell her that her own father had cast her aside like rubbish?

“I dinnae ken,” he admitted. “But I need tae call the Council first. This affects more than just her fate.”

The council chamber felt smaller than usual with eight men packed around the ancient oak table, all of them radiating tension that matched Euan’s own. He’d called them together within an hour of receiving Keith’s letter, knowing this decision couldn’t be made alone.

“Let me understand this clearly.” Malcolm, his oldest councilor, leaned forward with narrowed eyes. “Keith MacKenzie has refused yer offer and essentially told ye tae dispose of his daughter as ye see fit?”

“While threatening war if any harm befalls her,” Euan added grimly. “He wants her gone but needs her death—if it comes to that—to serve his purposes.”

“Then send her back.” Fergus, his master-at-arms, spoke with the blunt pragmatism of a career soldier. “Drop her at MacKenzie’s gates and we wash our hands of the entire mess.”

“Nay.” The word came out sharper than Euan intended. “I’ll nae send her back tae a man who’s proven he views her as disposable. She’ll be dead within a month, and Keith will find a way tae blame us fer it.”

“So we’re tae keep feeding and housing a prisoner who brings us naething but trouble?” Another voice from down the table came. “Every day she’s here is another day Keith can use against us.”

“She’s nae trouble⁠—”