Page 94 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

He did, holding her close while their breathing slowed, while reality crept back in around the edges. Outside, she could hear the castle stirring—men calling orders, horses being readied, the organized chaos of forces preparing to march.

Time to go.

Moyra watched Euan pull back. The weight of his attention made her feel seen in ways that had nothing to do with their bodies still tangled together.

His wife. She was his wife now.

“I have tae go,” he said quietly, and she heard the reluctance in every syllable.

“I ken.” She reached up, her fingers tracing the scar along his jaw. “Come back tae me.”

“Always.” He kissed her once more, and she tasted desperation in it—the need to memorize that moment, to hold onto the feel of her beneath him before reality tore them apart. “Stay inside the castle. Dinnae let yer compassion make ye take risks. Promise me.”

He knew her too well—knew she’d throw herself into danger if someone needed help, knew her soft heart would override her sense of self-preservation.

“I promise.”

“Moyra?”

“Aye?”

“I—” He stopped, and she saw the war in his expression. “Be safe.”

She smiled, knowing exactly what words he’d swallowed. She felt them too—those three syllables that would change everything.

“Ye too, husband.”

The door closed behind him with soft finality that echoed through her chest.

Moyra collapsed back against the pillows, breathing in his scent that still clung to the sheets. Her body ached in ways that reminded her exactly of what they’d done, and her heart ached for entirely different reasons.

He had to come back.

She’d just found him—that stubborn, scarred, impossibly noble man who looked at her like she was precious instead of problematic. She couldn’t lose him now. Not to her father’s ambitions. Not to the war that kept pulling them apart.

The ships cut through water like knives through silk.

Euan stood at the prow of the lead vessel, salt spray stinging his face, watching the horizon for any sign of MacKenzie colors. Behind him, two more MacLeod ships carried his best warriors—men who’d trained together, fought together, who knew how to move as one in the chaos of naval combat.

“There!” Niall called from his position at the rail, pointing toward a shape emerging from morning mist. “MacKenzie vessel, bearing north-northeast.”

One ship—just as the scouts had reported. Either Keith was testing their defenses with a single vessel, or this was the vanguard of something larger. Either way, it couldn’t be allowed to reach shore.

“Battle positions!” His voice carried across the deck. “Archers ready! We intercept before they can land!”

Around him, men moved. Their arrows notched, swords drawn, grappling hooks readied for boarding. The MacLeod ships adjusted course to intercept the approaching vessel.

The MacKenzie ship spotted them. Euan watched it try to change course, to flee back toward deeper waters where reinforcements might wait. But his ships were faster, lighter, built for exactly this kind of pursuit.

“Calum, take yer vessel starboard!” Euan commanded. “David, port side! We’ll box them in, give them nowhere tae run!”

The Covenant brothers acknowledged, their ships peeling off to flank the enemy. Three vessels against one—an overwhelming force designed to end things quickly and send a message Keith MacKenzie couldn’t ignore.

His daughter was a MacLeod now. And the MacLeods protected their own.

The ships closed distance. Euan could see faces now on the enemy vessel—MacKenzie warriors realizing they’d been caught, scrambling to prepare for combat they couldn’t win. Part of him felt almost sorry for them.

The rest of him remembered burned villages and children crying.

“Fire!” His command rang across the water.

Arrows flew like deadly rain, peppering the MacKenzie ship’s deck. Men screamed and fell. Return fire came sporadic, desperate—MacKenzie archers trying to buy their ship time to escape.

But there was no escape.

Euan’s ship pulled alongside, grappling hooks flying across the gap to bite into enemy wood. His warriors surged forward with battle cries that had terrified enemies for generations, and Euan was among them—sword drawn, armor gleaming, every scar and wound that had shaped him forgotten in the clarity of combat.

The fight was brief and brutal. MacKenzie warriors fought with desperation. They were outnumbered and outmatched. Soon, the deck ran red with blood. The few survivors threw down their weapons in surrender.

“Secure them!” Euan commanded, breathing hard, his sword still drawn. “I want prisoners, nae corpses! They’re worth more alive!”

His men moved to obey, binding the surviving MacKenzie warriors. Euan moved through the carnage, assessing damage, checking casualties. Three MacLeod warriors wounded—none seriously. Eight MacKenzie dead. Five captured.

And one ship that would never threaten his shores again.