Page 49 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The morning sun streaming through her window felt like a mockery.

Moyra sat at the small table in her chamber, pushing porridge around her bowl without appetite while Catriona bustled about, tidying things that didn’t need tidying. The maid’s usual cheerful chatter had taken on a somber quality, and Moyra found herself bracing for whatever news had cast such a pall over the castle.

“Three men,” Catriona said finally, her voice barely above a whisper as she folded the same blanket for the third time. “Lost in last night’s raid. Good men, all of them. Married, with bairns waiting at home.”

The spoon slipped from Moyra’s fingers, clattering against the bowl. “What?”

“The MacKenzie scouts that got close to the walls—they weren’t just scouts.” Catriona’s grey eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Some broke through while our men were dealing with the others. There was fighting in the lower courtyard. Brief, but bloody.”

Moyra’s throat closed. Three men. Dead. Because her father’s forces had been prowling the castle grounds, looking for... what? Proof she was there? A way to extract her? Intelligence they could use against the MacLeods?

It didn’t matter why. They were dead, and it was her fault.

“And there’ve been more letters,” Catriona continued, her voice gaining strength as if grateful to have something practical to report. “Arrived with the dawn. The laird’s been in his office since first light, reading them with his Council.”

Of course there had been more letters. Her father seemed determined to flood Dunvegan with threats, each one escalating the danger, tightening the noose around everyone here.

Around her.

“The wives,” Moyra managed, her voice rough. “The children. Has anyone⁠—”

“The laird’s seeing to them personally. Making sure they’re provided fer, that they want fer naething.” Catriona’s expression softened slightly. “He takes care of his own, our laird daes. Always has.”

The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made guilt twist deeper into Moyra’s gut. Euan taking care of the families of men who’d died protecting a castle that had become a target because of her presence.

She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her untouched breakfast. “I need some air.”

“Me lady, are ye certain? The laird gave orders that⁠—”

“I’ll stay within the courtyard.” The lie came easily, necessary. “Just a few moments tae clear me head.”

Catriona looked uncertain but nodded, returning to her tidying. Moyra moved toward the door with forced casualness, as if this were just another morning stroll rather than a decision that had crystallized with brutal clarity the moment she’d learned about those three dead men.

She had to leave.

Not to go back to her father—never that. But away from there, away from Dunvegan and the MacLeods who kept dying because Keith MacKenzie’s daughter existed within their walls. She’d figure out where later. Find a convent willing to take her, perhaps. Disappear into obscurity where her presence couldn’t be weaponized against innocent people.

The corridors bustled with morning activity—servants hauling linens, guards trading posts, life continuing as if three men hadn’t died in the dark. Moyra’s throat tightened with each face she passed, each person who knew she was the reason for last night’s blood. She kept her head down, her pace steady but not rushed, aiming for the small side gate near the kitchens. She’d noticed it during her wanderings—used for deliveries, frequently unmanned when the day’s work began in earnest.

Her escape route.

The morning air hit her face like a blessing when she slipped through the gate, cool and clean and tasting of freedom. Behind her, Dunvegan’s stones rose massive and imposing. Ahead lay the tree line, dark pines that could swallow her completely if she just kept moving.

Moyra ran.

Her slippers were inadequate for the terrain, but she didn’t care. Loose stones bit through thin soles. Low branches caught at her hair and cloak. None of it mattered compared to the desperate need to put distance between herself and the castle where men kept dying because of her.

The trees closed ranks around her. Shadows pressed in. Her lungs burned, each breath a harsh rasp that surely carried for miles. Her heartbeat filled her skull—too loud, too fast—obliterating the crack of branches underfoot, the whisper of leaves, the last echoes of Dunvegan disappearing into silence.

She’d made it perhaps a quarter mile when the first shadow moved.

Moyra froze, her heart lurching. Just a deer, she told herself. Or a bird taking flight. Nothing to⁠—

Three men stepped from behind the pines, their MacKenzie plaids unmistakable even in the dappled morning light. Scouts. Her father’s men, the same ones who’d gotten close enough to the castle the night before to kill three MacLeods.

And now they’d found exactly what they’d been looking for.