Page 87 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The council chamber erupted the moment Euan finished speaking.

“Marriage?” Malcolm’s weathered face creased with disbelief. “Tomorrow morning? Me laird, surely ye jest⁠—”

“I never jest about matters of clan survival.” Euan’s voice cut through the rising protests like a blade. He stood at the head of the table, his scarred hands braced against the oak surface, hard as winter stone. “MacKenzie ships approach our shores. His forces have already burned our villages. Every day we delay gives him more opportunity tae destroy what we’ve built.”

“But a wedding—” Fergus shifted in his chair, his master-at-arms pragmatism warring with obvious concern. “Me laird, is there even time? The preparations alone⁠—”

“Will be minimal.” Euan straightened to his full height. “This isnae about pageantry or celebration. It’s about legitimacy. About giving the Covenant and the Crown grounds tae support us against Keith’s aggression.”

“And ye think a hastily arranged marriage will accomplish that?” One of the younger councilors leaned forward. “What’s tae stop Keith from claiming we forced his daughter intae this? That it’s a sham tae justify our own territorial ambitions?”

“Because Lady Moyra agreed of her own free will.” The certainty in Euan’s tone brooked no argument. “She understands what’s at stake. And she’s chosen tae stand with us.”

“Chosen, or been coerced?” Daniel’s mind was already working through angles. “Keith will spin this however serves his purposes. He’ll paint her as a victim, himself as a faither driven tae desperate measures⁠—”

“Then let him try. Every laird in the Highlands kens what Keith MacKenzie is. They’ve read his letters, heard his threats. When they learn he’s attacking the clan his daughter married intae, they’ll see the truth—that this was never about rescuing her. It was always about land and power.”

Silence fell. It was broken only by the crackle of torches and the distant sound of guards changing posts. Around the table, weathered faces processed the implications—war, alliance, the delicate balance of Highland politics shifting on the axis of one wedding.

“The ceremony will be simple,” Euan continued. “Before God and witnesses. Faither Dougal has already agreed tae officiate at dawn. We’ll exchange vows, make it legal and binding, then send word tae every allied clan and the Crown itself.”

“What about Lady Moyra?” Malcolm’s voice carried genuine concern. “Has anyone considered what she needs? A wedding dress, attendants, the proper preparations⁠—”

“I’ve arranged fer a seamstress.” Euan’s tone suggested this wasn’t up for debate. “She’ll have what she needs. If that’s all,” he said, though it clearly wasn’t a question, “ye’re dismissed. Get some rest. Tomorrow we change everything.”

The Council filed out, their voices rising in urgent discussion the moment they cleared the doorway. When the last councilor departed and the heavy door closed, Euan finally allowed his shoulders to sag.

He stood at the window, staring at the darkening sky, the weight of decisions that would reshape both his and Moyra’s lives pressing down on him.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Enter.”

Moyra stepped inside, her expression unreadable.

“I heard the news. Ye didnae have tae arrange fer a seamstress,” she said quietly.

“Aye, I did.” He turned then. “Ye’re giving up everything tae save me clan. The least I can dae is make sure ye have a proper dress when ye become me wife.”

She crossed the space between them, her hand finding his.

“Thank ye.”

His scarred fingers threaded through hers. “Dinnae thank me. Ye still have tae survive being married tae me.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“Have ye now?” His free hand cupped her jaw. “Because I’m fairly certain I’m about tae become the most demanding husband in the Highlands.”

“Good.” She rose on her toes, bringing their mouths close. “I prefer ye demanding.”

The knock came softly, almost apologetic.

Moyra looked up from where she sat by the fire, exhaustion pulling at her bones. The day had been endless—council meetings and preparations, refugees to organize, the constant awareness that somewhere out there, her father’s ships prowled closer.

And tomorrow, she’d marry Euan MacLeod.