Page 41 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

“There’s something in yer hair.” His voice had gone rough, almost strained. “From the fall. Let me⁠—”

His fingers moved to her temple, carefully working loose a piece of dried heather that had caught in the copper strands. The simple gesture felt unbearably intimate—his touch gentle despite the calluses that marked his warrior’s hands, his focus absolute as he freed the small flower and held it up between them.

“Purple heather.” The corners of his mouth quirked. “Fer good fortune. I’d say we’ve used up today’s share already.”

Moyra found herself staring at the flower, then at the scarred fingers holding it, then finally at the face of the man beneath her. This close, she could see the exact shade of grey in his eyes—like storm clouds over the sea, shot through with silver when the light hit just right. Could count the faint scars that marked his temple and jaw, evidence of a lifetime spent fighting. Could see the way his pupils dilated slightly as her gaze traveled from his eyes to his mouth and back again.

Saints help her, but she wanted to kiss him.

The realization struck with the force of certainty. Not because he’d saved her—though that certainly didn’t hurt. Not even because of the careful way he held her, as if she were precious rather than problematic.

But because in that moment, with death a heartbeat behind them and his arms keeping her safe, she saw past the laird and the warrior to the man beneath. The one who brought her oatcakes under the stars. Who admitted his own fears instead of hiding behind authority. Who’d promised to find a path forward that didn’t require her sacrifice.

Who made her feel seen in ways she’d never expected from an enemy turned... what? Not friend. Not captor. Something else entirely that she couldn’t quite name.

His hand had moved from her hair to cup her jaw, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with devastating precision. “Moyra,” he breathed, and her name on his lips sounded like prayer and curse all at once. “We should⁠—”

A sharp cry split the air—seabirds startled from their clifftop nests, wings beating against wind as they wheeled overhead in protest at the disturbance.

The sound shattered whatever spell had fallen over them. Moyra scrambled backward, suddenly, acutely aware of how they must look—tangled together on the ground, her skirts hiked up around her knees, his hands still reaching for her as if to pull her back.

“I should—” She stood too quickly, stumbling over her own feet. “The horses. I should check on Mist.”

“Aye.” Euan rose more slowly, his jaw tight with what looked like frustration and relief in equal measure. “The horses.”

The ride back to Dunvegan passed in charged silence, broken only by hoofbeats and the distant crash of waves. Moyra kept her gaze fixed firmly ahead, hyperaware of Euan riding beside her, the weight of his attention even when she refused to meet his eyes.

What had she been thinking? Nearly kissing Euan MacLeod on a clifftop like some lovesick fool. He was her—what? Captor seemed wrong now, but protector felt too intimate, too close to admitting the pull she felt toward him went far beyond gratitude for rescue.

By the time they reached the castle courtyard, mortification had settled like lead in her stomach. She dismounted before Euan could help her, mumbling something about needing to change, and fled toward the east tower without looking back.

Behind her, she heard Niall’s voice: “How did it go?”

Euan’s response was too quiet to hear, but something in the tone made her steps quicken.

Euan watched Moyra disappear into the castle, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

“That well, eh?” Niall’s dry observation made him turn.

“We nearly went over the cliff.” The words came out harsher than intended. “The ground gave way beneath her feet. If I hadn’t⁠—”

“But ye did.” Niall gripped his shoulder, the gesture speaking of years of friendship. “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”

Safe. Aye. Except for the part where he’d held her in his arms and wanted nothing more than to kiss her senseless despite every reason it would be a terrible idea.

“There’s been another letter.” Niall’s voice went grim. “From Keith MacKenzie. Arrived about an hour ago.”

Of course. The man seemed determined to flood Dunvegan with threats, each one more elaborate than the last. Euan had stopped reading them himself after the third, letting his Council sort through Keith’s increasingly desperate attempts at intimidation.

“What daes this one say?”

“The usual threats about involving the king, but with a novelty—he’s claiming we’re holding Moyra against her will, preventing her from returning home. Says if she daesnae appear before the next gathering of lairds tae confirm she is staying of her own choice, he’ll have grounds tae petition fer her removal.”

Euan’s hands clenched. “Meaning he wants tae force her tae publicly choose between returning tae him or admitting she’d rather stay with the enemy who supposedly kidnapped her.”

“Aye.” Niall’s expression was troubled. “It’s clever. Either way, he wins. If she says she wants to stay, he paints her as a traitor to her own clan. If she says she wants tae leave, we look like monsters fer keeping her.”

“And if we dinnae bring her tae the gathering at all?”