Chapter 3 #2
Close enough that she could see the exact shade of grey in his eyes, like storm clouds over the sea. Close enough to count the faint scars that marked his jaw and temple. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his large frame, warming her after days of Highland cold.
“I can stand,” she managed, though her traitorous body made no move to pull away.
“Can ye?” The hint of amusement in his voice sparked her temper back to life.
“Aye, I can—” Her knees chose that moment to give out entirely.
Euan caught her before she hit the cobblestones, sweeping her up into his arms with ease. “Stubborn lass,” he muttered, but his tone held more exasperation than anger. “Come. Let’s get ye inside before ye collapse in me courtyard.”
“I’m nae collapsing—”
“Ye were seconds from kissing these stones, and we both know it.” He strode toward the castle’s main entrance, his grip on her firm but careful. “Pride will only get ye so far, Moyra.”
She wanted to argue, to demand he put her down and stop treating her like some fragile maiden. But exhaustion crashed over her in waves, and the warmth of his body against hers felt far too good after days of cold and fear.
So instead, she let her head rest against his shoulder and tried to ignore how right it felt to be carried in Euan MacLeod’s arms.
The journey through the castle passed in a haze of exhaustion.
By the time awareness returned, she was already seated in chambers far more luxurious than she’d expected—a large room with a massive four-poster bed, a fireplace already crackling with welcoming flames, and windows that looked out over the sea.
Euan moved to pour water from a pitcher into a basin, his broad shoulders blocking the firelight.
“Let me see yer wrists,” he said, returning with the basin and clean cloth.
Moyra extended her hands reluctantly, watching as he knelt before her—this giant of a man, this Highland laird, kneeling at her feet to tend wounds he hadn’t inflicted.
The contrast between his size and the gentleness of his touch as he cleaned the rope burns made something twist painfully in her chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, dabbing carefully at the raw skin. “Fer the rope, and fer whatever else ye suffered at Norham. Nay woman should endure such treatment.”
“Then why keep me here?” The question came out softer than she’d intended. “If ye truly regret it—”
“Because yer faither has been making claims tae me lands through his new wife’s blood,” he said bluntly.
“Because his ambitions threaten me clan, and I need tae understand what role ye play in his schemes.” His grey eyes lifted to meet hers, and she saw genuine concern there beneath the determination.
“A MacKenzie lass in an English dungeon, with nay rescue attempt fer three months? That’s nay chance, Lady Moyra.
That’s strategy. And until I understand what Keith MacKenzie wants—and how ye fit intae it—ye’re more useful tae me here than anywhere else. ”
“So I’m a toll fer yer own purposes.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.
“Ye’re leverage,” he said simply. “Against a man who threatens everything me clan holds dear.” He finished with her wrists, then moved to examine the other visible bruises marking her arms. “But that daesnae mean ye’ll be mistreated.
I’ll have our healer, Brighde, prepare a poultice fer these.
And ye’ll have a proper bath, clean clothes, decent food.
Ye’ll nae be locked in a cell or treated like a common prisoner.
But ye cannae leave until me Council and I understand what’s at stake, no.
” He stood, moving to the door. “Dinnae fash, ye’ll be treated with the respect due yer station. I give ye me word on that.”
He opened the door and called for someone named Catriona. Moments later, a slender young woman with russet hair appeared, her grey eyes bright with curiosity as they landed on Moyra.
“Catriona, this is Lady Moyra MacKenzie. She’ll be staying with us fer a time.” Euan’s tone brooked no questions about the circumstances. “See that she has everything she needs—a bath, fresh clothes, food. And fetch Brighde tae tend her injuries.”
“Aye, me laird.” Catriona bobbed a curtsy, then moved to Moyra’s side with a warm smile. “Come, me lady. Let’s get ye cleaned up proper.”
Moyra stood on shaking legs, painfully aware of how filthy she must look compared to the neat maid. But before Catriona could lead her away, Euan’s voice stopped them both.
“Lady Moyra.”
She turned, meeting those eyes one more time.
“Welcome tae Dunvegan Castle. Whatever brought ye tae that dungeon, ye’re safe here. I swear it.”
The words should have sounded like a threat disguised as protection. Instead, they carried a note of sincerity that made her chest tighten with confusion. She had no response, so she simply nodded and let Catriona guide her from the room.
Behind her, she felt Euan MacLeod’s gaze burning into her back like a brand.
And despite everything—the captivity, the confusion, the uncertainty of her future—some traitorous part of her believed him.
Some foolish part of her wanted to trust those eyes.
Very badly indeed.