Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The words hung between them like a blade suspended in midair.
Moyra’s pulse hammered against her throat as she stared up at Euan MacLeod, his declaration echoing through her mind.
Now I have something that belongs tae him.
The possessive edge in his voice sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine—one she absolutely refused to examine too closely.
“I belong tae nay one,” she said, injecting as much steel into her voice as she could muster. “Me faither sent me tae the priory fer safekeeping—”
“Did he now?” Euan’s grey eyes studied her with unsettling intensity. “And how exactly did ye end up in an English dungeon instead of behind priory walls?”
“We were attacked on the road.” The memory made her voice shake despite her best efforts. “English soldiers. They killed our guards and took me tae Norham.”
“English soldiers.” He repeated the words slowly, as if testing their weight. “Attacking a MacKenzie party traveling under safe passage. That’s bold, even fer border raiders.”
“I dinnae ken what their reasons were.” Moyra wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the nearby torches. “I only ken I’ve been rotting in that cell fer three months—I marked each day on the wall with a stone based on the mealtime.
A muscle ticked in Euan’s jaw, the only sign her words had struck something. “Three months is a long time fer a laird to leave his daughter in enemy hands.”
The words hit her square in the chest, stealing her breath. Three months. Three endless months she’d counted, each scratch on the stone wall another day of hope dying, and not once had anyone come for her. Not once had she heard anything of MacKenzie warriors demanding her return.
“He daesnae ken where I was,” she said, but the words rang hollow even to her own ears. “The attack happened so quickly—”
“Me lady.” Euan’s voice gentled slightly, which somehow made it worse. “When was the last time ye saw yer faither before this journey tae the priory?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.
When had she last seen him? The day he’d announced her departure, his eyes cold and distant as he’d explained the necessity of keeping her safe from his enemies.
The day after he’d married Ishbel, the pale woman with MacLeod blood who’d looked at Moyra with something almost like pity.
“It daesnae matter,” she said finally, lifting her chin. “Whatever ye think ye ken about me faither—”
“I ken enough.” Euan turned toward his men, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “We ride now! Ready the horses!”
Around her, the MacLeod men shifted into motion checking weapons, calling orders, preparing to ride. Moyra heard none of it, her world tilting as questions she’d been suppressing for months clawed their way to the surface.
“Come, lass.” Euan’s hand closed around her elbow with surprising gentleness. “Whatever the truth of how ye ended up in that dungeon, yer fate will nay longer be decided by absent faithers or English soldiers.”
She jerked free of his grasp, fire rekindling in her chest despite the ache of confusion. “And ye think it’s decided by ye instead? I’m nae some prize tae be claimed, Laird MacLeod.”
“Nay,” he agreed, those intense eyes holding hers. “But right now, ye’re safer with me than anywhere else in Scotland. Whether ye believe that or nae.”
Euan watched emotions flicker across Moyra MacKenzie’s face—defiance warring with uncertainty, pride battling against exhaustion.
Even filthy and worn from captivity, she was breathtaking.
All that auburn hair tangled around a face too lovely for any dungeon, and eyes the color of Highland forests that sparked with a spirit three months of imprisonment hadn’t managed to break.
Dangerous. She was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with clan politics.
The timing was too convenient, too calculated. But he’d learned enough about the lass in those few hours to know she wasn’t ready to hear his suspicions about her father’s involvement.
Not yet.
“I need a mount fer the lass,” he called to the nearest soldier, who was checking their horses’ tack. “One of the English geldings should dae
“Ye’re bringing her with us?” The soldier’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “The MacKenzie lass?”
“Aye.”
“Me laird—”
“I said, nae now.” He kept his gaze on Moyra, who was watching the exchange with wary calculation. “Fetch the horse.”
When the soldier returned leading a sturdy grey gelding, Euan approached Moyra with the animal. “Can ye ride?”
Her chin lifted. “I’m a Highlander. Of course I can ride.”
“Good.” He gestured toward the horse. “Then mount up. We’ve a long journey ahead.”
She moved toward the gelding, then froze as she realized what he hadn’t said. “Ye’re nae letting me ride free.”
“Nay, lass, I’m nae.” He pulled a length of rope from his belt, hating the necessity even as he recognized it. “Ye’ve already tried tae run once. I’ll nae give ye another chance.”
“So I’m tae be a prisoner again.” Bitterness laced her words. “How is this any different from Norham’s dungeon?”
“Ye’ll nae be beaten or starved. Ye’ll have a warm bed and decent food.” He met her gaze steadily. “But aye, until I decide what’s tae be done with ye, ye’ll nae be free tae leave.”
For a long moment, she simply stared at him. Then, with visible effort, she squared her shoulders and moved to the horse’s side. “Very well. Help me up then, since ye insist on playing the captor.”
The barb found its mark, but Euan refused to rise to it. Instead, he moved behind her, placing his hands at her waist. The curve of her body beneath his palms sent an unwelcome jolt of awareness through him—she was all delicate strength and feminine softness.
He lifted her onto the saddle with more care than he’d shown anyone in years, then bound her wrists to the pommel.
The rope was secure but not tight, leaving enough slack that she wouldn’t lose circulation.
Still, as he worked, he couldn’t help noticing how slender her wrists were, how the torn sleeves of her gown revealed bruises already darkening her pale skin.
“Too tight?” he asked gruffly.
“As if ye’d care.”
“It matters if the rope cuts off yer circulation,” he said gruffly. “I need ye alive and able tae travel, nae crippled.”
She looked down at him, surprise flickering across her features before she masked it. “How practical of ye.”
“Aye, practical.” He took the gelding’s reins in hand, then moved to his own mount—a massive black destrier that had carried him through more battles than he cared to count. “Ye’re worth naething tae me damaged. That’s more than yer faither can say, apparently.”
His barb landed that time—he saw it in the way her jaw tightened. But she said nothing, and they rode from Norham’s smoking ruins in heavy silence.
The journey to Skye took four days of hard riding through rough terrain, stopping only briefly to rest the horses and snatch a few hours of sleep. Moyra endured it all in stubborn silence, refusing to complain even when exhaustion made her sway in the saddle.
Euan MacLeod rode beside her the entire way, those grey eyes constantly checking on her welfare even as he maintained iron control over her reins.
His warriors gave them both curious looks but asked no questions, and Moyra found herself grudgingly grateful for their laird’s commanding presence.
At least he kept the others at a respectful distance.
She tried not to notice the way he moved in the saddle—all controlled power and unconscious grace despite his size.
Tried not to watch the play of firelight across his features during their night camps, or the way his hands gentled on the reins whenever her horse stumbled.
Tried not to feel the strange flutter in her chest when he insisted on sharing his own cloak with her when the Highland nights turned bitter cold.
He was her captor. Her enemy, by all rights. A man using her for purposes she didn’t yet understand.
She absolutely would not be attracted to him.
But saints help her, when he’d called her “mine” in that forest clearing, something primal had responded deep in her core.
By the fourth evening, as Dunvegan Castle’s imposing towers came into view against the darkening sky, Moyra’s entire body ached with bone-deep weariness. The rope had chafed her wrists despite Euan’s care, and bruises from her captivity painted her skin in shades of purple and yellow.
When they finally clattered through the castle gates, she barely registered the curious stares of MacLeod servants and guards. All she could focus on was staying upright in the saddle a few moments longer.
Euan dismounted first, then moved to her side. “Easy now, lass.” His hands found her waist again as he carefully untied the rope binding her wrists, his fingers working with surprising dexterity. “I’ve got ye.”
The moment her hands were free, Moyra saw the damage. Dark bruises circled both wrists like grotesque bracelets, and when Euan’s gaze followed hers, his jaw tightened.
“I didnae tie them that tight,” he said quietly, almost to himself. His thumb traced the edge of one bruise with featherlight care, and the unexpected gentleness of it made her throat tighten. “These are older. From before.”
“Aye.” Her voice came out hoarse. “Sir Geoffrey’s men weren’t as considerate about rope placement.”
Something dangerous flashed through Euan’s eyes—a promise of violence that should have terrified her but instead sent an illicit thrill down her spine. He lifted her from the saddle as if she weighed nothing, setting her onto her feet with infinite care.
Her legs nearly buckled after four days of riding, and his hands shot out to steady her, pulling her against the solid warmth of his chest. For a heartbeat, they stood frozen—her hands pressed against leather and muscle, his arms circling her waist, their faces mere inches apart.