Page 99 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

The Covenant braithers’ full forces arrived this morning. Calum asks after ye constantly. I told him tae stop flirting with me wife or I’ll put him on latrine duty.

Ye were singing in the great hall today while organizing supplies. I could hear it from the battlements. Ye have a lovely voice. Sing more often.

I found yer sketch of me as a hedgehog. It’s nae inaccurate. Though the crown is excessive. Also, yer consequences are as follows: the next time I catch ye working past midnight, I’m carrying ye tae bed meself. Fair warning.

That last one made heat crawl up Moyra’s neck. She tucked it into her bodice, close to her heart, before responding.

Calum is charming but entirely too aware of it. Ye’ve naething tae worry about—I prefer me men brooding and battle-scarred. The crown stays. And regarding consequences: promises, promises, husband.

She left it tucked into his sword belt.

His response came faster than expected—a single line scrawled on parchment that still smelled of leather and steel.

Careful what ye wish fer, wife. I keep me promises.

The words sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

The fifth day brought grimmer news—scouts reporting increased MacKenzie activity, ships gathering in waters beyond the horizon. War was coming, perhaps sooner than expected.

But even with tension being higher than ever, Moyra found Euan’s note tucked into her morning tea.

Whatever happens in the coming days, ken this: ye were right tae trust me. I’ll keep ye safe, Moyra. I swear it on everything I am.

The sudden seriousness made her throat tight. She held the parchment, reading his words over and over, feeling the weight of his promise settle over her shoulders like a cloak.

Her response took longer to craft. She tried several versions—joking deflections, casual acknowledgments—before finally writing what she actually felt.

I dae trust ye. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone. Whatever comes, we face it taegether. That’s what marriage means, aye? Also, ye still have ink on yer jaw. It’s become permanent, I think. Very distinguished.

She left it on his desk, weighted with the stone he always used—their stone now, she supposed. The anchor for their secret correspondence.

When she returned hours later to collect medical supplies, she found his response waiting in the exact same spot.

Taegether. I like the sound of that. And the ink is nae permanent—ye just keep distracting me before I can wash properly. Speaking of which: taenight. Our chambers. Nay excuses about refugees or supplies or anything else. I want time with me wife before the world falls apart.

The demand made her smile despite the fear coiling in her gut. Outside, preparations continued. Warriors were drilling. Supplies were being stored. Defenses were strengthened against the coming assault. But there, in their private game of notes and promises, she and Euan managed to carve out something just for them. It was the one thing that kept them going in those challenging times.

She picked up the quill, her response simple and direct.

Taenight. I’ll be there. Try nae tae brood too much before then.

His final note of the day appeared an hour later, tucked into her sleeve while she worked—she hadn’t even seen him approach.

Nay brooding. Just counting the hours until I have ye tae meself. Also: I may have lied about the hedgehog. The drawing is perfect. Dinnae tell anyone I admitted that.

Moyra pressed the parchment to her chest, warmth blooming despite everything else. Five days of notes and teasing and slowly falling for a man who left her messages in secret places and admitted—grudgingly—that her sketches were perfect.

Five days of building something worth fighting for.

She tucked all his notes into a small wooden box she kept hidden beneath their bed—every scrap of parchment, every scrawled message, every piece of evidence that Euan MacLeod was far softer than his hedgehog exterior suggested.

And tonight, she’d tell him exactly that.

Assuming he didn’t brood himself into exhaustion first.