Page 4 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

His eyes studied her face with uncomfortable intensity. “What’s yer name?”

“I told ye, I’m nay one⁠—”

Her words caught in her throat. Should she reveal who she was? Her father had enemies—so many enemies. The MacLeods chief among them, furious over Keith MacKenzie’s marriage to Ishbel and his subsequent claims to their lands. Then there were the Campbells, who’d feuded with the MacKenzies for generations. Even some within her own clan questioned her father’s ambitions.

Any of them might use her as leverage. Or worse.

“I’m nay one of importance,” she finished, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.

“Laird!” Another man’s voice echoed down the stone steps. “We’ve secured what we came for!”

Laird. Moyra’s blood turned to ice in her veins. This wasn’t just any Highland warrior—this was a clan chief. And from his accent and the authority he carried, she had a terrible suspicion about which clan he might lead.

The tall man—the laird—extended one large hand toward her. “Come along, lass. Ye’re coming with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with ye,” Moyra said, finding some spark of her old defiance despite her circumstances. “I dinnae even ken who ye are.”

“That’s easily remedied.” He reached out and grasped her arm with surprising gentleness, pulling her toward the cell door. “And ye’ll come because the alternative is remaining here tae explain tae Sir Geoffrey’s remaining men why their dungeon is suddenly empty of prisoners.”

The logic was sound, even if she hated admitting it. Moyra allowed him to guide her from the cell, though she kept as much distance between them as the narrow corridor would allow. His presence seemed to fill the entire space, making her acutely aware of how small and fragile she felt beside his towering frame.

They climbed the stone steps in silence, emerging into the castle’s main courtyard where chaos reigned. Bodies littered the cobblestones, and smoke rose from several of the outbuildings. A dozen Highland warriors moved efficiently through the scene, gathering weapons and supplies with practiced ease.

“MacLeod!” one of them called out, jogging toward their small group. “The southern tower is secure, and we’ve found the⁠—”

The man’s words died on his lips as his gaze fell on Moyra. Around the courtyard, other warriors paused in their tasks to stare at the bedraggled woman their laird had brought from the dungeons.

MacLeod. The name confirmed Moyra’s worst suspicions. This was Euan MacLeod—the very man her father had warned her about, the one whose lands Keith MacKenzie coveted above all else. The enemy she’d been hidden away from to prevent him using her as a political pawn.

And now she was standing in this courtyard, completely at his mercy.

“Mount up!” Laird MacLeod commanded his men. “We leave within the hour!”

Orders flew and men obeyed. Horses, weapons, provisions. All readied for immediate departure. Moyra watched the swift preparations with dawning horror. There would be no other rescue, no reprieve.

This was her chance. Perhaps her only chance.

While the laird’s attention was focused on organizing his men, Moyra took three careful steps backward toward the tree line that bordered the clearing. Then three more. The forest shadows beckoned dark and sheltering.

Freedom lay just beyond those trees.

She turned and ran.

Her bare feet flew over the rough ground, but desperation lent her speed. Behind her, she heard a sharp curse in Gaelic followed by the thunder of pursuit, but she didn’t dare look back. The trees loomed ahead, promising shelter and escape.

Almost there. Just a few more steps⁠—

Rough hands seized her from the shadows at the forest’s edge, yanking her into the undergrowth. Moyra screamed and fought, but her captor’s grip was iron-strong.

“Got her!” The accent was English, not Highland. “Sir Geoffrey will want this one alive!”

More figures emerged from the forest—Arundel’s men who had survived the castle’s fall and retreated to regroup. The one holding her was a thick-set soldier with cruel eyes and blood staining his mail shirt.

“Let me go!” Moyra twisted in his grip, managing to drive her elbow into his ribs. He grunted but held fast, his fingers digging into her arms like iron bands.

“Hold still, you Highland bitch!” He shook her roughly, and she responded by stomping down hard on his instep. His grip loosened for just a moment—but two more soldiers emerged from the trees, grabbing her flailing arms. She fought like a wildcat, kicking and clawing, her screams echoing through the forest. One of them caught her across the face with the back of his hand, and stars exploded across her vision.

“Hold her still,” the first soldier growled, struggling to bind her wrists as she continued to fight. “Hold her still, damn you!”