Page 38 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

“Aye.” He met her gaze steadily. “The stream cannae stop. It’s water—stopping means stagnation, death. But sometimes it can change direction. Find new channels. Flow around obstacles instead of battering against them until both stream and stone are worn away tae nothing.”

Understanding flickered across her features, quickly followed by something that looked like pain. “Ye’re talking about more than water.”

“I’m talking about the fact that ye’re nae trapped here, Moyra. Nae really.” He shifted closer, drawn by forces he didn’t fully understand. “Ye think ye have nay choices because yer faither abandoned ye and I’m keeping ye here fer political reasons. But there are always choices. Always new channels tae find if ye’re willing tae look fer them.”

“Like marriage?” The words came out flat, bitter. “That’s what yer Council wants. What yer Covenant braithers will probably advise once they read yer letter. Chain me tae ye legally so me faither cannae use me against the MacLeods.”

“Like partnership.” His correction came swift and firm. “If—and that’s a significant if, lass—if marriage ever becomes something we both choose, it wouldnae be chains. It would be...” He trailed off, searching for words that wouldn’t sound like manipulation or empty promises.

“Would be what?” She turned fully toward him now, moonlight catching the challenge in her lifted chin.

“A new channel.” He held her gaze despite how those eyes made his pulse race. “A way forward that neither of us can see yet because we’re both too busy fighting against the current instead of working with it.”

Silence fell, broken only by water rushing toward the cliffs and waves battering stone below. Euan watched doubt flicker across her features, saw it soften into something that might have been hope. The way she bit her lip, considering—it made something flutter in his chest.

“Ye really believe that?” she asked finally. “That we could find a path that daesnae require sacrifice on either side?”

“I have tae believe it.” The admission came easier than expected. “Because the alternative is accepting that we’re both prisoners of circumstances beyond our control. And I’ve spent too many years being defined by what happened tae me as a bairn tae accept that now.”

Something shifted in her expression—the defensive walls lowering just a fraction. “What did ye have in mind? This hypothetical new channel?”

“First?” He stood, extending one large hand toward her. “I thought we might ride. Ye’ve been cooped up in stone walls fer months. Between Norham’s dungeon and me castle, ye havenae had proper freedom since... when? When did yer faither send ye tae the priory?”

“Three months ago.” The words came out hollow. “Though it feels like years.”

“Then it’s past time ye remembered what the Highlands look like beyond battlements and bars.” His hand remained extended, steady despite how his heart hammered. “Will ye ride with me, Moyra? Just the two of us and the cliffs and whatever freedom we can steal from this impossible situation?”

She stared at his offered hand for a long moment, and Euan could practically see her weighing the risk. Trusting him enough to leave the castle’s relative safety. Believing he wouldn’t use the opportunity to manipulate or control.

Then slowly—so slowly it made his chest ache—she placed her smaller hand in his.

The contact sent electricity up his arm, that same jolt he’d felt every time they touched. Her palm was cold from trailing through stream water, her fingers delicate but strong as they wrapped around his. He pulled her to her feet with careful strength, hyperaware of how small she seemed standing before him, how the top of her head barely reached his shoulder.

How right it felt to have her hand in his.

“I’ll need tae change,” she said, not pulling away despite how close they stood. “This nightshift isnae exactly riding attire.”

“Aye.” He forced himself to release her hand before temptation to keep holding it became too strong. “Meet me at the stables at first dawn light. I’ll have the horses ready.”

She nodded, then paused halfway to the garden door. “Euan?”

“Aye?”

“Thank ye.” The words were quiet, almost lost beneath water’s rush. “Fer nae treating me like I’m made of glass. Fer remembering I used tae have a life before... all this.”

Then she was gone, disappearing into the castle’s shadows like a ghost made of moonlight and copper hair.

Euan stood alone in his mother’s garden, listening to water flow toward its inevitable destination, and wondered if he’d just made the wisest decision of his life or the most dangerous mistake.

Either way, there was no turning back now.

The stables smelled of hay and horse and leather—familiar scents that made something in Moyra’s chest unknot slightly. She’d dressed quickly in the simplest gown she owned, one meant for riding, and braided her hair to keep it from tangling in the wind.

Now she stood in the doorway watching Euan move between stalls with the easy confidence of someone who’d been around horses since birth. He’d changed too—traded his formal laird’s attire for worn leather breeches and a dark shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength of his frame despite the limp that marked his gait.

Saints, but he was handsome even doing something as mundane as checking saddle straps.

“Ye came.” He glanced up, and the smile that crossed his scarred face made her pulse stutter.