Page 72 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The blade stopped an inch from Moyra’s throat.

“Dead,” Calum MacKinnon announced cheerfully, withdrawing his practice sword with a flourish. “Again.”

Moyra lowered her own wooden blade, frustration mixing with grudging respect. They’d been sparring for the better part of an hour in the training yard, and the man was relentless. Worse, he made it look effortless—all easy grace and that sun-bright grin that probably made half the Highland lasses swoon.

“Ye’re too focused on strength,” he continued, circling her like a hawk sizing up prey. “Ye need tae think like water—find the gaps, flow around defenses instead of battering against them.”

“Easy fer ye tae say,” Moyra shot back, adjusting her grip. “Ye’ve probably been wielding a sword since ye could walk.”

“Since I was four, actually.” His sea-blue eyes danced with mischief. “And I’ll have ye ken I was terrible at it. Kept stabbing meself in the foot.”

Despite herself, Moyra laughed. The sound felt good—natural in ways it hadn’t since that disastrous morning with Euan. Seven hours had passed since the Covenant brothers’ arrival, seven hours of careful avoidance and conversations that never quite addressed what had happened between them.

“Again,” Calum commanded, but his tone gentled. “And this time, remember—anticipate me center, just like Euan taught ye.”

The mention of Euan made something twist in her chest. She’d watched him training earlier, the way his scarred shoulder flexed as he moved, the absolute authority in every gesture. Then he’d caught her staring and his expression had shuttered completely, that laird’s mask slamming into place before he’d turned away.

“Moyra?” Calum’s voice pulled her back. “Where’d ye go just then?”

“Naewhere.” She raised her blade. “Ready when ye are.”

They engaged again, wood cracking against wood as they moved through the forms. Moyra tried to apply his lesson—reading his body, anticipating rather than reacting. When she actually managed to slip past his guard and tap his ribs, Calum’s delighted laugh rang across the yard.

“There! That’s what I’m talking about!” He caught her hand, spinning her in an impromptu victory dance that made her stumble. “Ye’re a natural, lass. Give it a few months and ye’ll be giving Euan himself trouble.”

The casual contact—his hand warm around hers, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating from him—should have felt wrong. Instead, it felt easy. Uncomplicated. Nothing like the charged tension that crackled whenever Euan so much as looked at her.

“I dinnae think anyone gives Euan MacLeod trouble,” she said wryly.

“Oh, I think ye give him plenty.” Calum’s grin turned knowing. “The question is whether ye mean tae.”

Before she could respond, David MacDonald called from across the yard. “Calum! Stop monopolizing the lady. Some of us would like tae eat before nightfall.”

“Right!” Calum released her hand, though his eyes still sparkled with mischief. “Lunch awaits. I’m sure the food’s better than me company.”

“That’s nae saying much,” Archibald MacRae rumbled as they approached the long table set up in the courtyard. The massive warrior had claimed one end, his scarred hands already reaching for bread. “Yer company’s only tolerable in small doses.”

“Says the man who once went six days without speaking tae anyone,” Calum shot back, pulling out a chair for Moyra with exaggerated courtesy. “Brooding beside a loch like some tragic hero.”

“I was thinking.”

“Ye were sulking.”

“There’s a difference.”

Moyra settled into the chair, grateful for the easy banter that required nothing from her except occasional laughter. Platters of roasted meats, fresh bread, and autumn fruits covered the table—more food than she’d seen in months. Her stomach growled appreciatively.

“Here.” Calum passed her a plate already loaded with the best cuts. “Ye need tae eat more.

Their laughter washed over her, warm and inclusive. These men—these warriors who’d survived childhood trauma together and forged brotherhood from enemy blood—they made her feel welcome in ways the rest of the MacLeod clan never quite had. As if her presence was wanted rather than tolerated.

“Where is Euan?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Where d’ye think?” Calum gestured toward the battlements where a tall figure stood silhouetted against the sky. “Brooding. It’s what he daes best.”

“Second best,” David corrected. “His best skill is actually making everyone around him feel guilty fer having fun.”