Chapter 4
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—”
The groaning stopped abruptly. Silence stretched, heavy and somehow ominous.
Moyra’s skin prickled with sudden unease. This was wrong. She should leave, should—
She turned and hurried back down the corridor. The groaning had stopped, replaced by an oppressive silence that made her pulse quicken. Her instincts screamed at her to return to her chamber, to forget what she’d heard.
She’d made it perhaps twenty paces where she heard footsteps behind her—heavy, purposeful, gaining ground.
“Going somewhere, lass?”
Moyra’s heart leaped into her throat. She spun around to find Euan MacLeod emerging from the shadows, his tall frame blocking the corridor. Those steel-grey eyes held no trace of the gentleness she’d seen earlier.
“I was just—” She took an instinctive step backward.
He matched it with one forward, closing the distance between them with predatory ease. “Just wandering my castle in the dead of night? Ending up at my office door by pure coincidence?”
Another step back. He followed.
“I heard a sound,” she said, retreating further. “Someone in pain—”
“And ye thought to investigate alone?” His voice was dangerously soft as he advanced. “In a castle ye dinnae ken, full of men who might nae share me restraint?”
Her back hit the cold stone wall. Euan closed the remaining distance in two strides, his hands catching her arms.
“I was trying to help—”
“By wandering the corridors and knocking on locked doors?” His eyes searched her face, looking for something she couldn’t name. “That’s me office ye were just at, Lady Moyra.”
Her stomach dropped. “I didnae ken that. I was following the sound—”
“A convenient sound that led ye straight tae where I keep information about our defenses, our patrols, our vulnerabilities.” He stepped closer, crowding her against the stone wall, and she felt the heat radiating from his large frame. “Dae ye ken how that looks?”
“It looks like I made a mistake in the dark!” She tried to pull free, but his hands held steady. “These corridors all look the same, and I was following a sound that seemed tae come from—”
“From where?” His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. “Because me office was locked and empty. So where exactly did this groaning come from?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn’t know. The sound had echoed through the stone passages, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. In her confusion and the darkness, she’d simply followed it until she’d reached a door with light beneath it.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, hating how weak it sounded. “The sound... it carried through the corridors. I thought it was coming from that direction, but I could have been wrong.”
“Aye, ye could have been.” Something flickered in his eyes—not quite belief, but not complete disbelief either. “Or ye could be lying tae cover why ye were really at me office door.”
The accusation stung worse than it should. “Ye think I’m spying fer me faither? The same man who sent me away fer me own protection? Who daesnae even ken where I am?” Her voice rose with indignation. “If he had kenned I was imprisoned, he would have come fer me. He would have—”
She stopped, the words catching in her throat as doubt crept in despite her conviction. Three months. Three months of scratches on a cell wall, and no rescue had come.
But that didn’t mean he hadn’t tried. It didn’t mean he didn’t care.
“Me faither loves me,” she said, though the words came out less certain than she’d intended. “Whatever ye think of him, whatever schemes ye believe he’s plotting—he wouldnae use me this way.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken doubts.
“I think ye’re a MacKenzie in a MacLeod stronghold.” His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking beneath the scar on his cheek. “I think yer faither has men in the woods outside these walls. And I think it’s mighty suspicious that ye just happened tae end up at me office door in the middle of the night.”
“Suspicious?” She laughed, the sound holding no humor. “Everything about this situation is suspicious, Laird MacLeod. Including why ye’d rescue a MacKenzie from an English dungeon only tae keep her locked up in yer own castle.”
“I told ye—”
“Aye, ye told me I’m nae a prisoner. That I’m under yer protection.” She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly despite the way he towered over her. “But protection and imprisonment look mighty similar when ye’re the one being kept against yer will.”
His hands loosened slightly on her arms, and she saw something shift in his expression. “Ye’re right. They dae.”
The admission surprised her enough that she stopped struggling.
“I dinnae ken how tae treat ye,” he continued, his voice rougher now. “Ye’re Keith MacKenzie’s daughter—me enemy’s blood. Ye’re a threat tae my clan’s safety, but also...” He trailed off, seeming to catch himself.
“But also what?” she asked quietly.
“But also someone who daesnae deserve tae be treated as yer faither treated ye,” he said instead.
The sincerity in his voice made her throat tighten. She’d expected more accusations, more suspicion. Not this admission of his own uncertainty.
“Then stop treating me like a spy,” she said. “I heard a sound. I followed it. I ended up at the wrong door. That’s all.”
He studied her face for a long moment, those storm-grey eyes searching hers. Finally, he released her arms and stepped back, giving her space to breathe.
“The sound ye heard likely came from the healer’s chambers,” he said. “They’re on the floor below, but these old stones channel noise upward through the corridors.”
Understanding dawned. “The groaning I heard—that was from yer wounded men?”
“Aye.” He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaustion suddenly visible in the lines around his eyes. “I was coming from checking on them when I saw ye at me office door.”
So he’d simply come upon her there and assumed the worst.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Fer being where I shouldnae have been. I truly was only trying tae help.”
“I ken that now.” He gestured down the corridor toward her chamber. “Come. Ye should be resting, nae wandering dark halls in yer shift.”
His eyes flicked briefly over her linen shift, and she saw heat flash through them before he looked away. The awareness between them crackled like lightning, dangerous and undeniable.
She moved past him, acutely conscious of the small space and the way her shoulder brushed his chest. He fell into step beside her, his presence somehow both threatening and protective.
“There are rules ye need tae follow while ye’re here,” he said as they walked. “Stay away from me office and the council chambers. If ye hear strange sounds at night, wake Catriona or call for a guard rather than investigating on yer own.”
“Because ye dinnae trust me.”
“Because I dinnae trust these situations nae tae put ye in danger.” He stopped outside her chamber door, turning to face her. “Whether that danger comes from crumbling stones, hostile forces, or misunderstandings that make us both look like fools.”
Despite everything, her mouth twitched. “Are ye calling yerself a fool, Laird MacLeod?”
“Try tae stay out of trouble, Lady Moyra. Fer both our sakes.”
For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them charged with everything they weren’t saying. Then Euan stepped back, deliberately putting space between them.
“Get some rest, lass. We’ll talk more on the morrow.”