Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Moyra woke to morning light streaming through her window and the distant sound of waves against stone. For a moment, she simply lay there, savoring the softness of the bed, the warmth of clean blankets, the absence of damp stone walls pressing in around her.
Dunvegan Castle. Euan MacLeod’s home. Her current prison, however gilded it might be.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. “Me lady?” Catriona’s cheerful voice filtered through the wood. “I’ve brought yer breakfast.”
“Come in.”
The maid entered bearing a tray laden with more food than Moyra had seen in months—fresh bread still warm from the ovens, butter and honey, cold meat, cheese, and a pot of what smelled like heaven. Real food. Not the thin broth and stale bread that had kept her alive at Norham.
Her stomach growled so loudly that Catriona laughed. “Eat what ye can, me lady. Brighde says ye need tae build yer strength back slowly, but there’s plenty more where this came from.”
Moyra tried to eat with dignity, but hunger won out. The bread practically melted on her tongue, and the butter—saints, when had butter tasted this good? She forced herself to slow down, to savor each bite instead of wolfing it down like an animal.
“The laird asked me tae tell ye he’d be by later,” Catriona said, moving to open the curtains wider. “He has some news tae discuss with ye.”
News. Moyra’s appetite dimmed slightly. What kind of news? A decision about her fate? Word from her father?
The thought of Keith MacKenzie made something twist in her chest. Three months she’d waited in that cell, convinced he’d come for her. Convinced that rescue was just a matter of time.
But no one had come. And the longer she’d waited, the harder it had become to maintain that hope.
She finished what she could of the breakfast, then let Catriona help her into a proper gown—nothing fancy, just a simple wool dress in deep green that brought out her eyes. Having clothes that were clean and whole felt like a luxury beyond measure.
“There now,” Catriona said, arranging Moyra’s hair into a simple braid. “Ye look much more yerself, me lady.”
Did she? Moyra studied her reflection in the looking glass. The hollow cheeks and shadows under her eyes remained, but at least she looked like a person again instead of a ghost.
The morning passed slowly. Moyra tried to rest as Brighde had ordered, applying the poultice to her wrists and ankles. The rope burns were healing, but they still ached—a constant reminder of her captivity.
Around midday, another knock came. But this time, the voice that followed made her pulse quicken.
“Moyra? It’s Euan. May I come in?”
She stood quickly, smoothing down her skirts. “Aye.”
The door opened, and there he was—all six feet of intimidating Highland warrior, somehow seeming to fill the entire room with his presence. His dark hair was still slightly damp, suggesting he’d just come from washing, and those storm-grey eyes found hers immediately.
Saints help her, but the man was devastatingly handsome when he wasn’t covered in blood and battle fury.
“I hope I’m nae disturbing yer rest,” he said, his deep voice sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine.
“Nae at all.” She gestured to the chairs by the fire. “I’ve been going mad with boredom, actually. Turns out months of imprisonment make one appreciate simple conversation.”
“Then I’m glad I came when I did. I have news.”
Her stomach tightened. “What kind of news?”
“The Council met this morning.” He settled into the chair across from her, his large frame somehow making the furniture look delicate. “We discussed what’s to be done with ye.”
“And?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
“We’re sending a letter tae yer father. Offering yer safe return in exchange fer his sworn oath tae abandon all claims tae MacLeod lands.”
The words took a moment to process. Her father. A letter. Her return.
She should feel relieved. Grateful. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To go home?
Except... where was home now? Her mother was dead. Her father had married a stranger. And he’d sent her away to the priory for safety, though she had never arrived.
“I see.” She folded her hands in her lap, hiding how they trembled. “And if he refuses?”
“Then we’ll discuss other options.” Euan’s gaze never left her face. “But I dinnae think it will come tae that. Whatever else yer faither may be, surely he wants his daughter back.”
“Thank ye,” she said finally. “Fer making a decision so swiftly. Fer nae holding me prisoner indefinitely when ye easily could have in this setting.”
“Ye’re nae a prisoner, Moyra.” His voice gentled. “Ye’re under me protection. There’s a difference.”
“Call it what ye may,” she met his eyes, “ but both situations involve me being unable tae leave.”
“Fair point.” His mouth curved in what might have been a smile. “But at least this imprisonment comes with decent food and soft beds.”
Despite everything, she felt her own lips twitch.
“Aye, the accommodations are significantly better than Norham. Though I must say—” she paused, letting her expression turn deliberately wistful.
“The only things I’ve truly missed, beside human contact, are seeing the stars again and tasting food that’s nae thin broth and stale bread. ”
“All of which ye now have access tae.”
“The food and people, certainly. But the stars?” She gestured toward the window. “I dinnae suppose yer protection extends tae allowing me out ontae the battlements at night?”
Those grey eyes studied her, and she could practically see him weighing the request against the risk. Finally, he shook his head. “Nae yet. But soon, perhaps. When we’ve settled things with yer faiher.”
Disappointment flickered through her, but she’d expected as much. She bit her lip, then decided another approach. “Could I send a letter? Tae my lady-in-waiting, Kirstin?”
His brow furrowed. “Yer lady-in-waiting?”
“She made it tae the priory that night—I saw her reach the gates before they took me.” The memory made Moyra’s chest tight. “She’s with child, and she risked everything tae stay with me, but I forced her to run and seek shelter. She’ll be sick with worry, nae kenning if I’m alive or dead.”
Euan was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Aye. Ye can write tae her.”
“Truly?”
“I’ll have Catriona bring ye parchment and ink.” He held up a hand before she could thank him. “But I’ll need to read it before it’s sent. I cannae have information about our defenses or numbers leaving these walls.”
It was more than fair. “Of course. I just want her tae ken I’m safe.”
“Then write what ye need tae ease her mind.” His voice softened slightly. “Just be careful what ye say about yer faither. We dinnae ken yet how he’ll respond tae our letter.”
The warning dampened her relief, but she nodded. “I understand—”
He stood, and she thought he might leave. Instead, he paused, looking down at her with something almost like approval in those grey eyes. “Ye’re loyal tae yer people. That’s a rare quality.”
She’d planted the seed. And something about the way Euan looked at her—like he actually cared about her comfort, her happiness—suggested that seed might take root.
Euan looked at her once more. “Moyra?”
“Aye?”
“Yer faither’s letter should arrive within a fortnight. Until then...” Those grey eyes held hers. “Try tae rest.”
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with the fire and her tumultuous thoughts.
The afternoon patrols took Euan away from the castle, riding the borders of MacLeod territory with a dozen of his best men. It was routine work—checking for signs of raiders, ensuring the clan’s defenses remained strong, showing force to any who might consider encroaching on their lands.
But his mind wasn’t on the patrol.
It was on a red-haired woman who’d talked of stars and stale bread, whose green eyes had held both hope and resignation when he’d told her about the letter to her father.
Ye’re getting soft. She’s Keith MacKenzie’s daughter. A means tae an end. Naething more.
“Me laird?” Niall rode up beside him, concern creasing his weathered face. “Ye’ve been quiet all afternoon. Something troubling ye?”
“Just thinking.”
“About the MacKenzie lass?”
Euan shot him a sharp look. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s kenned ye since ye were a lad.” Niall’s expression turned thoughtful. “She got under yer skin, didnae she?”
“She’s—” Euan stopped, searching for words. “She’s nae what I expected.”
“Few people are.” They rode in silence for a moment before Niall spoke again. “The Council made the right decision. Sending that letter, offering the trade—it’s strategic. Smart.”
“I ken that.”
“But ye’re worried about what happens if her faither refuses.”
More than worried. Euan was dreading it. Because if Keith MacKenzie valued his land claims more than his daughter’s freedom, it would break something in Moyra that three months of imprisonment hadn’t managed to touch.
“She still believes he’ll come fer her,” Euan said quietly. “Still has faith that he cares.”
“Maybe he daes.”
“Or maybe he sent her tae that dungeon deliberately. Used her as bait to create exactly thats situation—a MacKenzie in our castle, leverage he can manipulate.” Euan’s jaw tightened. “Either way, she’s caught in the middle of a game she didnae choose tae play.”
“None of us choose the games we’re born intae” Niall observed. “Especially nae lairds’ daughters.”
The truth of it settled over Euan like a weight. Moyra hadn’t asked to be Keith MacKenzie’s pawn any more than he’d asked to be scarred and broken at the Battle of Loch Eilein. They were both prisoners of their fathers’ choices, their clans’ histories, the endless cycle of Highland politics.
The difference was, he had power now. The ability to choose his own path, to make decisions that affected hundreds of lives.
Including hers.
“Come,” he said, turning his horse back toward the castle. “We should return. There’s still much tae be done.”
But as they rode, he couldn’t shake the image of Moyra standing in that window, looking out at the sea with longing in her eyes.
Longing for stars. For freedom. For a life that didn’t involve being locked away for men’s political games.
And saints help him, but he wanted to give her all of it.