Page 71 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

“Stubborn,” Euan repeated flatly. “That’s what ye’re going with?”

“Among other things.” Her gaze met his, and for one heartbeat, he saw heat flash there—memory of the previous night mixing with this morning’s confusion. “But we agreed nae tae discuss those in polite company.”

The air between them crackled with tension. Calum whistled low.

“Oh, this is even better than I hoped,” he said. “Euan MacLeod, brought low by a sharp-tongued MacKenzie lass. The stories we’ll tell⁠—”

“Will remain untold if ye value yer teeth,” Euan cut in.

“Threatening violence already?” Moyra’s lips curved. “And here I thought ye’d at least wait until after breakfast tae start brawling with yer guests.”

“It’s nae a brawl if they’re asking fer it.”

“Begging fer it, more like,” Archibald agreed. “But perhaps we should move this inside? The courtyard’s getting crowded, and I’d prefer nae tae have an audience when I inevitably say something that makes Euan want tae punch me.”

“Too late,” David observed. “Half the castle’s watching already.”

He was right. Servants had paused in their tasks, guards were trying not to stare, and Euan could practically feel the gossip spreading like wildfire. The laird and the MacKenzie woman, bantering with his Covenant brothers as if she belonged there.

“Inside,” Euan ordered, his voice carrying the authority that made men obey. “Now.”

They moved toward the keep, but Calum fell into step beside Moyra, his easy charm on full display. “So, me lady, what’s it like being held hostage by the surliest man in the Highlands?”

“Surly?” Moyra glanced at Euan, mischief dancing in her eyes. “I’d say ‘brooding’ is more accurate. With occasional moments of almost human warmth.”

“Almost human,” Euan repeated. “Yer flattery kens nay bounds.”

“I save me flattery fer people who deserve it.” But her smile softened the words, made them almost affectionate.

“She’s perfect,” Calum declared. “Absolutely perfect. When’s the wedding?”

The question landed like a boulder in still water. Moyra’s smile vanished. Euan’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“There’s nay wedding,” Moyra said, her voice gone flat.

“Yet,” David added quietly. “There’s nay wedding yet.”

“There’s nay wedding ever.” Moyra’s chin lifted. “I’m nae some prize tae be claimed through marriage negotiations.”

“Nay one said ye were,” Archibald rumbled. “But the way our braither looks at ye suggests he’s forgotten there are any negotiations tae begin with.”

Euan wanted to punch all three of them. Wanted to defend Moyra from their assumptions while simultaneously wanting to shake her until she understood that marriage to him wouldn’t be a cage—it would be freedom with someone who actually cared whether she lived or died.

But before he could voice any of that—before he could find words that wouldn’t sound like demands or ultimatums—Moyra had already turned away, her spine rigid with wounded pride.

“If ye’ll excuse me,” she said, her tone glacial. “I believe I’m late fer something.”

She swept from the hall, leaving Euan surrounded by his grinning brothers and the weight of everything he couldn’t say.