Page 3 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER TWO

Three months later, Norham Castle

The sound of steel against steel echoed through the dungeon corridors like thunder in Moyra’s dreams.

She jolted upright on the filthy straw, her heart hammering against her ribs as shouts erupted somewhere above her head. Three months of captivity had taught her to recognize the different sounds of Norham Castle—the changing of the guard, the delivery of her meager meals, the drunken revelries that sometimes lasted until dawn. But this was something else entirely.

This was battle.

Weapons clashed overhead. Heavy boots pounded stone corridors. Men roared orders and curses. Moyra shrank against the damp wall, pulse racing. Rescue? Or had death finally found Norham’s dungeons?

A scream cut through the din, followed by the wet sound of blade meeting flesh. Then another. And another.

“Holy Maither,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. The torn cloak provided no warmth—nothing could chase away the chill that had settled into her bones during those endless months of captivity.

Footsteps crashed down the stone steps—heavy, purposeful, fast. Moyra shrank into the corner of her cell, her back pressed against the cold wall, green eyes locked on the iron gate that stood between her and whatever was coming.

“Check every cell!” The voice was rough, commanding, and carried the unmistakable accent of the Highlands. “Leave nay stone unturned!”

Scottish. Her pulse quickened with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. Were these her father’s men? Or had some other Highland clan come to raid Norham’s treasures?

The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the ring of steel. Through the iron bars, Moyra glimpsed a massive shadow moving with lethal grace. A guard rushed forward, sword raised, then fell with a choked gasp as the intruder’s blade found his throat. Another guard charged from the opposite direction. The tall figure spun, his movements fluid despite his size, parrying the attack and driving his sword through the man’s chest in one devastating thrust.

Moyra pressed herself against the wall, transfixed despite her terror. The way he moved—there was a brutal elegance to it, a dance of death performed with absolute confidence. He was tall, taller than any man she’d ever seen, with broad shoulders that filled the corridor. Dark hair fell in waves to his collar, and even in the flickering torchlight, she could see the steel-grey eyes that swept the dungeon with predatory efficiency. A long scar traced across one side of his face.

When the last guard fell, he stood among the bodies, barely winded. Then those steel-grey eyes found her in the shadows.

He was magnificent. And terrifying.

“Empty,” called another voice from a cell further down the corridor.

The Highlander’s search was thorough and relentless, his attention cataloguing every shadow. When those steel-grey eyes discovered her pressed against the wall, Moyra’s pulse stuttered to a halt.

“Well now...” His voice was whisky-rough and dangerously soft, the Highland burr making each word sound like a caress. “What’s a lass doing in a dungeon?”

He approached her cell door. Torchlight threw his battle-marked features into sharp relief.

“Please,” she whispered, shrinking further into the corner. “I’ve done naething wrong.”

His gaze swept over her—tangled auburn hair, torn silk that had once been fine. Even filthy and captive, she carried herself like nobility. His eyes sharpened.

“And ye are a Highland lass it seems… Stand up, lass.”

The command was quiet but absolute. When she didn’t immediately obey, he produced a key from somewhere within his dark cloak and unlocked her cell door with efficient movements. The iron hinges shrieked in protest as the gate swung open.

“I said stand up.”

This time, Moyra forced her trembling legs to obey. She rose slowly, keeping one hand pressed against the wall for support. Three months of poor food and little exercise had left her weaker than she cared to admit, but she lifted her chin with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Who are ye?” His accent was thick, each word rolling off his tongue like honey over stone.

“Nay one of importance,” she lied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, and she caught a scent of leather and steel that made her pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear. The torchlight revealed more details—the way his dark shirt stretched across his broad chest, the corded muscles of his forearms, the calluses on his hands that spoke of a lifetime wielding weapons.

“How long have ye been here?”

“Months...”