Page 6 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

From the set of his shoulders and the implacable expression on his scarred face, Moyra realized he was completely serious. This Highland giant intended to take her into the heart of enemy territory, for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Why?” she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded. “Why would ye want Keith MacKenzie’s daughter under yer roof?”

His smile this time was sharp as a blade. “Because, Lady Moyra, yer faither wants something that belongs tae me. And now...”

He reached out to trace one finger along her cheek, the touch gentle despite the calluses that marked his warrior’s hands. The simple contact sent fire racing along her nerve endings in ways that left her breathless and confused.

“Now I have something that belongs tae him.”

CHAPTER THREE

The words hung between them like a blade suspended in midair.

Moyra’s pulse hammered against her throat as she stared up at Euan MacLeod, his declaration echoing through her mind.

Now I have something that belongs tae him.

The possessive edge in his voice sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine—one she absolutely refused to examine too closely.

“I belong tae nay one,” she said, injecting as much steel into her voice as she could muster. “Me faither sent me tae the priory fer safekeeping⁠—”

“Did he now?” Euan’s grey eyes studied her with unsettling intensity. “And how exactly did ye end up in an English dungeon instead of behind priory walls?”

“We were attacked on the road.” The memory made her voice shake despite her best efforts. “English soldiers. They killed our guards and took me tae Norham.”

“English soldiers.” He repeated the words slowly, as if testing their weight. “Attacking a MacKenzie party traveling under safe passage. That’s bold, even fer border raiders.”

“I dinnae ken what their reasons were.” Moyra wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the nearby torches. “I only ken I’ve been rotting in that cell fer three months—I marked each day on the wall with a stone based on the mealtime.

A muscle ticked in Euan’s jaw, the only sign her words had struck something. “Three months is a long time fer a laird to leave his daughter in enemy hands.”

The words hit her square in the chest, stealing her breath. Three months. Three endless months she’d counted, each scratch on the stone wall another day of hope dying, and not once had anyone come for her. Not once had she heard anything of MacKenzie warriors demanding her return.

“He daesnae ken where I was,” she said, but the words rang hollow even to her own ears. “The attack happened so quickly⁠—”

“Me lady.” Euan’s voice gentled slightly, which somehow made it worse. “When was the last time ye saw yer faither before this journey tae the priory?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. When had she last seen him? The day he’d announced her departure, his eyes cold and distant as he’d explained the necessity of keeping her safe from his enemies. The day after he’d married Ishbel, the pale woman with MacLeod blood who’d looked at Moyra with something almost like pity.

“It daesnae matter,” she said finally, lifting her chin. “Whatever ye think ye ken about me faither⁠—”

“I ken enough.” Euan turned toward his men, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “We ride now! Ready the horses!”

Around her, the MacLeod men shifted into motion checking weapons, calling orders, preparing to ride. Moyra heard none of it, her world tilting as questions she’d been suppressing for months clawed their way to the surface.

“Come, lass.” Euan’s hand closed around her elbow with surprising gentleness. “Whatever the truth of how ye ended up in that dungeon, yer fate will nay longer be decided by absent faithers or English soldiers.”

She jerked free of his grasp, fire rekindling in her chest despite the ache of confusion. “And ye think it’s decided by ye instead? I’m nae some prize tae be claimed, Laird MacLeod.”

“Nay,” he agreed, those intense eyes holding hers. “But right now, ye’re safer with me than anywhere else in Scotland. Whether ye believe that or nae.”

Euan watched emotions flicker across Moyra MacKenzie’s face—defiance warring with uncertainty, pride battling against exhaustion. Even filthy and worn from captivity, she was breathtaking. All that auburn hair tangled around a face too lovely for any dungeon, and eyes the color of Highland forests that sparked with a spirit three months of imprisonment hadn’t managed to break.

Dangerous. She was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with clan politics.

The timing was too convenient, too calculated. But he’d learned enough about the lass in those few hours to know she wasn’t ready to hear his suspicions about her father’s involvement.

Not yet.