Page 80 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

She turned to find him watching her with an intensity that made her pulse stutter. The fury from earlier had faded, replaced by something softer. Something that looked dangerously like admiration.

“Fresh water,” she managed. “Lots of it. Fer washing wounds and drinking both. And we’ll need more torches—it’s getting dark and people are frightened.”

“Consider it done.” But he didn’t move, just stood there studying her face as if seeing something new. “Ye’re good at this.”

Heat crawled up her neck. “I’m just organizing. It’s nae⁠—”

“It’s exactly what’s needed.” His scarred hand found hers, squeezing briefly before releasing. “Thank ye.”

The simple gratitude made her throat tight. Around them, the hall continued transforming from chaos to order, women working together with the efficiency of those who knew their purpose. Children’s cries quieted as blankets appeared. The scent of cooking food began replacing the acrid smell of smoke.

And through it all, Euan stayed close. Not hovering, not interfering, but present. Ready to help with whatever task she assigned, his considerable strength turned toward practical needs rather than warfare.

She watched him lift a crying child with surprising gentleness, saw him steady an elderly woman as she settled onto a bench, noticed the way he spoke to each displaced villager—not as their laird commanding from above, but as a man who genuinely cared about their welfare.

Saints help her, but watching Euan MacLeod be kind was doing dangerous things to her already compromised heart.

“Me lady?” Catriona appeared at her elbow, her arms full of blankets. “Where should these go?”

Moyra forced her attention away from the broad-shouldered figure distributing food. “The children’s corner. And see if ye can find some toys—anything to keep the wee ones occupied.”

“Aye, me lady.” Catriona’s knowing smile suggested she’d caught Moyra staring. “Right away.”

The work continued through the evening. Wounds were tended, families fed, children settled into makeshift beds. Slowly, the hall’s chaos gave way to something almost peaceful—the quiet murmur of conversation, the occasional child’s laugh, the sense of safety that came from being together.

When Moyra finally paused to catch her breath, she found Euan leaning against a nearby pillar, watching her with that same unreadable expression.

“What?” She wiped sweat from her forehead, suddenly conscious of how disheveled she must look.

“Naething.” But his mouth curved slightly. “Just thinking about what Archibald said. About ye being a liability.”

Her stomach clenched. “He’s right though, isn’t he?”

“If ye weren’t here, these people would have far less comfort taenight.” Euan pushed off the pillar, moving closer. “They have organization and hope because ye gave it tae them. That’s nae liability, Moyra. That’s leadership.”

The compliment made her chest ache. “I just did what needed daeing.”

“Aye. Because that’s who ye are.” His hand found hers again, and this time he didn’t let go. “And that’s why I’ll nae send ye away, nay matter what me braithers say. Because ye’re exactly where ye’re meant tae be.”

The certainty in his voice should have frightened her, made her pull away, made her remind him of all the reasons their situation was complicated.

Instead, she squeezed his hand back and let herself believe—just for that moment—that maybe he was right.