Page 59 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The wooden sword whistled past Moyra’s ear with enough force to make her duck.

“Nae like that, Tavish!” She caught the boy’s wrist before he could take another wild swing, redirecting his momentum with practiced efficiency. “Ye’re trying tae impress the lasses at the Fire Fair, nae behead them. Control the blade, dinnae let it control ye.”

Around her, a dozen young clansmen struggled through the training drill she’d been demonstrating for the past hour. Five days had passed since her nightmare in the garden, five days of relative peace that had lulled Dunvegan into cautious optimism. The MacKenzie scouts had retreated after Euan’s brutal message, and the castle had thrown itself into preparations for the upcoming Fire Fair with renewed vigor.

Moyra had found herself swept up in the festivities despite her initial hesitation. Helping Catriona arrange garlands in the great hall. Assisting the kitchen staff with preparations for the feast. And now—somehow—teaching a group of eager boys the sword techniques she’d absorbed from years of watching men train and a few lessons from Euan.

“Like this, me lady?” Young Charlie—barely fourteen and all gangly limbs—attempted the parry she’d demonstrated. His form was terrible, shoulders hunched and weight distributed wrong, but his enthusiasm made her smile despite the disaster waiting to happen.

“Better. But drop yer shoulder and—Tavish, what did I just say about control?”

Too late. Tavish’s overenthusiastic swing connected with Charlie’s practice sword, sending both boys stumbling into each other in a tangle of limbs and wooden weapons. Moyra lunged forward to steady them, but her foot caught on Tavish’s dropped blade. The world tilted sideways as she pitched toward the hard-packed earth.

Strong hands caught her waist, hauling her upright with casual strength that made her pulse stutter.

“Careful, lass.” Euan’s voice rumbled against her back, warm and amused. “Ye’re supposed tae be teaching them, nae joining them on the ground.”

Her cheeks burned as she steadied herself, hyperaware of how his large hands lingered on her waist, how the solid warmth of his chest pressed against her spine. Around them, the boys had gone silent, their young faces torn between embarrassment at causing the mishap and fascination at their laird’s sudden appearance.

“I had it under control,” Moyra managed, stepping out of his grip before her body could betray how much she wanted to lean into his touch instead.

“Did ye now?” His mouth quirked as he surveyed the chaotic training ground—boys scattered like seeds, practice weapons abandoned mid-drill, one lad nursing a bruised shin. “This is yer idea of control?”

“They’re enthusiastic.” She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed by the laughter dancing in his eyes. “That’s worth more than perfect form.”

“Enthusiasm that breaks bones is nae worth much at all.” He moved past her to where young Tavish stood frozen, the boy’s face gone pale at his laird’s scrutiny. But Euan’s voice gentled as he addressed the terrified youth. “Show me yer stance, lad.”

Moyra watched Euan’s broad hands adjust Tavish’s grip, watched those scarred fingers guide the boy’s posture with unexpected gentleness. The other boys crowded closer, hungry for their laird’s attention. His deep voice cut through the chaos, transforming the scattered drill into something purposeful within heartbeats.

She found herself transfixed by the sight of him teaching—the way his scarred shoulder flexed as he demonstrated a parry, how his mouth curved when one of the boys finally got the movement right, the absolute authority in every gesture tempered by genuine care for these young warriors-in-training.

Watching Euan MacLeod be good with children was doing dangerous things to her resolve.

“Lady Moyra?” Charlie’s tentative voice pulled her from thoughts that had grown entirely too warm. “The laird’s asking if ye’d demonstrate the counterattack ye showed us earlier.”

Her gaze snapped to Euan, finding amusement and challenge in equal measure written across his scarred features. He knew exactly where her thoughts had wandered, the bastard. The slight quirk of his mouth said as much.

“Aye.” She moved to the center of the training ground, acutely aware of how his eyes tracked her every step. “Charlie, take yer position. Tavish, watch his footwork this time instead of trying tae knock his head off.”

The boys laughed, tension easing as they arranged themselves to watch. Moyra faced Charlie, wooden sword held in the ready position. The boy mirrored her stance with endearing seriousness.

“The key,” she said, pitching her voice to carry, “is anticipation. Ye need tae read yer opponent’s body before they move. Watch⁠—”

She lunged. Charlie blocked, exactly as she’d taught him, and she flowed into the counterattack—a sweeping arc that would have disarmed him if not for Euan’s sudden intervention.

His practice sword met hers with a crack that vibrated up her arms, stopping her strike dead. “Too slow,” he said, his voice dropping to that whisky-rough timbre that made her stomach clench. “Yer opponent would have recovered and struck before ye completed that move.”

“Then show me the correct form.” The challenge came automatic, sparked by the heat blazing in his eyes and the way his body had moved between her and Charlie with predatory grace.

Something dangerous flickered across his expression. “Charlie, step back. Lady Moyra needs a proper opponent.”

The boys scrambled to clear space. Their excited whispers filled the sudden tension. Moyra gripped her practice sword tighter, heart hammering as Euan circled her with the focused intensity of a wolf sizing up prey.

“Ready, lass?” His mouth curved in a smile that was all challenge.

She attacked.