Page 9 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

CHAPTER FOUR

Moyra lingered in the copper tub, savoring the first true warmth she’d felt in months. Steam rose in lazy curls around her, carrying the scent of lavender and rosemary—luxuries she’d thought lost forever in that English dungeon.

Catriona had been thorough in her ministrations, washing away three months of grime and fear with gentle efficiency. The maid had clucked over every bruise and rope burn, muttering dire predictions about what Brighde would say when she examined them properly in the morning.

Now, dressed in a clean linen shift that felt like silk against her scrubbed skin, Moyra sat before the fire while Catriona worked a comb through her damp hair.

“There now, me lady,” the maid said softly, setting the comb aside. “Ye look almost yerself again.”

Almost. Moyra caught her reflection in the polished metal mirror—hollow cheeks, shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and endless fear. She’d lost weight she couldn’t afford to lose, and her skin had taken on a pallor that no amount of Highland sun would quickly remedy.

But she was clean. Fed. Safe, if Euan MacLeod’s word could be trusted.

“Thank ye, Catriona,” she managed. “Fer everything.”

The maid’s smile was warm. “Rest now, me lady. Ye’ve had a terrible journey, and sleep will dae ye good.” She moved toward the door, then paused. “If ye need anything during the night, just call. I’ll be in the servant’s quarters just down the hall.”

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Moyra alone with the crackling fire and her tumultuous thoughts.

She should sleep. Saints knew her body ached for it, every muscle screaming for rest after her ordeal and four days of hard riding. But her mind refused to settle, spinning through the day’s revelations like a wheel that couldn’t find its track.

Euan’s words about having something that belonged to her father echoed in her memory, accompanied by the heat of his touch as he’d tended her injuries. That massive frame kneeling before her, those battle-scarred hands gentling on her wrists. The contrast had been... unsettling. Intriguing in ways she absolutely shouldn’t explore.

He was using her. A pawn in whatever game existed between him and her father.

She should hate him for it.

Moyra stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Below, Dunvegan’s courtyard lay quiet in the moonlight, the sea beyond reflecting silver. Somewhere in this castle, Euan MacLeod was probably plotting her fate. Deciding what leverage she represented, what price her father might pay.

The thought made her restless, caged. She’d spent three months locked away—she couldn’t bear to be confined again, even in luxury.

Perhaps a walk. Just to familiarize herself with her new prison.

The corridor outside her chamber was dark, lit only by occasional torches that cast dancing shadows on stone walls. Moyra moved quietly, trailing her fingers along the cold granite as she explored. The castle was ancient, its bones speaking of centuries of MacLeod occupation. Murder holes above doorways, arrow slits in thick walls, the architecture of a people who’d learned to defend what was theirs.

She turned a corner, then another, losing herself in the warren of passages. Somewhere a door slammed. Voices murmured behind closed doors. The sounds of a castle settling into sleep.

Then—a sound that made her freeze mid-step.

A groan. Low and rough, carrying pain that made her breath catch.

It came again, echoing down the corridor from somewhere ahead. Moyra’s pulse quickened. Someone was hurt.

The groan came once more, and her feet moved before her mind could object.

She followed the sound deeper into the castle’s heart. There were fewer torches in this part of the castle, and the shadows pressed closer. She could see light coming from beneath a door further down the corridor.

Moyra approached cautiously. Her feet were silent on stone. She pressed her ear to the wood.

Another groan, followed by what might have been cursing in Gaelic. Definitely pain. Someone was definitely hurt.

She knocked. “Hello? Is someone⁠—”

No answer.

She tried the latch. Locked.

“I can see the light,” she called through the door. “If ye’re injured, I can fetch help⁠—”