Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The knock came just after sunset.
Moyra looked up from the letter she’d been writing to Kirstin—her third attempt, each one trying to strike the right balance between reassurance and truth. Catriona had already collected the first two drafts for Euan’s review.
“Come in.”
The door opened to reveal Euan himself, still in his day clothes but with his dark hair slightly windswept, as if he’d just come from the battlements. Those grey eyes found hers immediately.
“I thought ye might like some air,” he said without preamble. “And I did promise ye stars.”
He heart skipped. “Now?”
“Unless ye’d rather stay inside writing letters.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Though I should warn ye—the view from the ramparts is far superior to anything ye’ll see from yer window.”
She was on her feet before she’d fully thought it through, setting down her quill. “I’d like that very much.”
He produced a thick plaid from somewhere—wool of the color of midnight, soft and warm. “Ye’ll need this. The wind cuts sharp up there.”
She let him drape it around her shoulders, catching the scent of leather and pine that seemed to cling to everything he owned. Then he led her through corridors she’d never seen, up a narrow spiral staircase that made her calves burn, until finally they emerged onto Dunvegan’s highest rampart.
The stars were close enough to touch.
Moyra moved to the edge of the rampart, and stared up at a sky so vast it made her chest ache. Three months. Three endless months since she’d seen anything beyond stone walls and iron bars, and now the heavens spread above her like spilled diamonds on black velvet.
“Careful, lass.” Euan’s deep voice rumbled behind her, close enough that she felt the warmth radiating from his massive frame. “The wind up here can be treacherous.”
“I dinnae care.” The words came out breathless, wonder-struck. “I’d risk falling just to see this.”
She felt rather than saw his smile. “Then at least step back from the edge so I dinnae have tae explain tae Brighde why her patient went tumbling off me battlements.”
Moyra moved back slightly, but only because his hand had settled on her lower back—a touch so light she might have imagined it, yet it sent fire racing up her spine. Saints, but the man’s mere presence did dangerous things to her composure.
“There.” He pointed toward the northern sky, his arm extending past her shoulder. “See that cluster of stars? The one that looks like a ladle?”
She followed his direction, acutely aware of how close he stood, how his chest nearly pressed against her back. “Aye, the Big Dipper.”
“That’s right. Part of the Great Bear, which sailors use it tae find true north when the seas get rough.
” His voice dropped lower, taking on the cadence of someone sharing secrets.
“Me faither used tae bring me up here when I was a lad. Said a MacLeod should ken the stars as well as he kens his own lands.”
The mention of his father made something twist in her chest. She’d heard stories—how the old laird had been gravely wounded at Loch Eilein, how young Euan had been forced to watch and carry scars of his own. “Did he teach ye all the constellations?”
“Aye. Every last one.” He shifted, pointing to another section of sky. “That one there—the W shape? That’s Cassiopeia. A vain queen who thought herself more beautiful than the sea nymphs.”
“And what happened to her?” Moyra tilted her head back, following his gesture.
“The gods punished her pride. Bound her tae a chair in the heavens, forced tae circle the pole star fer all eternity.” His tone held dry amusement. “A cautionary tale about thinking too highly of yerself.”
She laughed, the sound surprising them both. “Are ye trying tae tell me something, Laird MacLeod?”
“Only that even queens cannae escape their fate.” But there was warmth in his voice now, something that made her pulse quicken. “Though I’ll admit, being trapped in the stars seems preferable tae some alternatives.”
Like dungeons. He didn’t say it, but the unspoken words hung between them.
Moyra turned to face him, and suddenly realized how close they were standing.
Close enough to see the exact way the starlight caught in his grey eyes, turning them silver.
Close enough to count the faint scars that marked his jaw and temple.
Close enough to feel the heat of him cutting through the Highland cold.
“Thank ye, Euan” she said quietly. “Fer bringing me up here. I ken it’s a risk.”
“Ye gave yer word ye wouldnae try tae escape.” His gaze held hers steadily. “I’m trusting that word means something.”
It did. Plus she had no desire to flee at that moment. Not when the stars spread above them like a blessing, and Euan MacLeod looked at her as if she were something precious rather than a pawn.
“Besides,” he continued, his mouth quirking, “I brought insurance.”
He produced a cloth-wrapped bundle from somewhere within his plaid, and the scent that wafted up made her stomach clench with sudden hunger. “Are those—”
“Oatcakes with honey. And a wee dram of whisky tae keep the cold at bay.” He settled onto a stone bench built into the rampart wall, gesturing for her to join him. “Cook made them special, though I cannae imagine why she’d go tae such trouble fer a MacKenzie.”
The teasing note in his voice made her smile despite herself.
She sat beside him—far enough for propriety but near enough to feel his warmth—and accepted the oatcake he offered.
The first bite was heaven. Warm, sweet, perfectly crisp on the edges.
She’d thought the breakfast bread was good, but this—
“Careful,” Euan murmured, amusement threading through his words. “Ye look ready tae devour me fingers along with the cake.”
Moyra realized she’d already finished half of it. Heat flooded her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I—three months of stale bread makes one forget table manners.”
“Dinnae apologize.” His expression gentled. “Eat as much as ye want. That’s why I brought them.”
She forced herself to slow down, to savor each bite. But it was difficult when they tasted so good. The honey was rich and golden, the oats perfectly toasted, and the hint of butter made everything melt on her tongue.
Euan handed her a small flask. “Here. Whisky helps.”
She took a careful sip, expecting the burn—but this was smooth, warming her from the inside out without the harsh bite of cheap spirits. “This is good whisky.”
“MacLeod whisky. We make it ourselves.” He took the flask back, his fingers brushing hers. “Consider it compensation fer the circumstance.”
She took another oatcake. “The circumstances could be far worse,” she admitted quietly.
“Aye.” His voice went rough.
Silence stretched between them, comfortable despite everything left unsaid. Above, the stars wheeled in their ancient patterns, and the sea whispered against the rocks far below.
“Thank ye,” she said finally. “Fer bringing me up here. Fer the oatcakes. Fer…” She gestured vaguely at the sky, at the night, at everything she couldn’t quite put into words.
“Fer treating ye like a person instead of a pawn?” His mouth quirked, but there was no humor in it.
“Aye.” She met his gaze. “Fer that.”
Euan watched Moyra devour another oatcake, trying desperately to ignore how the starlight turned her auburn hair to flame, how her green eyes sparkled with something that looked dangerously like happiness.
This had been a mistake. Bringing her up here, sharing this space that had always been his sanctuary, watching her come alive under the open sky—
All of it was a mistake he couldn’t bring himself to regret.
“Tell me something,” she said, licking honey from her fingers in a way that made his thoughts scatter. “Why did ye really bring me up here? It cannae just be about the stars.”
Because she looked so lost. Because she’d been caged fer three months and he couldn’t bear it another moment. Because watching her stare out that window like a bird with clipped wings made something in his chest crack open.
“Because ye asked,” he said simply. “Ye mentioned wanting tae see the stars. And I...” He paused, surprised by his own honesty. “I’ve spent enough time trapped inside stone walls. I wouldnae wish that on anyone.”
Her eyes softened. “I heard about what happened tae ye. Yer injuries from Loch Eilein. They kept ye inside fer a long time?”
“Aye.” His hand went unconsciously to his shoulder. “Months of healing. Learning tae walk with a limp, tae fight despite the scars.” He met her gaze. “The worst part wasnae the pain. It was the confinement. Being trapped when everything in me screamed tae run.”
“I ken that feeling,” she whispered.
Of course she did. Three months in a cell would teach anyone about confinement’s particular cruelty.
“The stars helped,” he continued, gesturing to the sky. “When I could finally leave my chambers, I’d come up here every night. Just tae breathe. Tae remember the world was bigger than four walls and pain.”
“And now ye share them with yer prisoners?” Her tone held gentle teasing.
“Only the ones with green eyes and a stubborn streak wider than the Highlands.” He reached for the flask, took another sip. “Though I’m starting tae think ye’re less prisoner and more...”
“More what?”
“More trouble than ye’re worth,” he finished, making his voice light.
She laughed—that same surprised sound from earlier, like she’d forgotten how. “I’ve been called worse things, Laird MacLeod.”
“Have ye now?” He shifted closer, drawn by some force he couldn’t name. “And who would those be?”
“Oh, English soldiers mostly. Sir Geoffrey had particularly creative insults.” Her smile turned sharp. “Though none of them could match me faither’s talent fer cutting words.”
The mention of Keith MacKenzie made his jaw clench. “What did he say tae ye? Before sending ye tae the priory?”
Her expression shuttered. “It daesnae matter now.”
“It daes if it hurt ye.”
For a long moment, she simply stared at him.
Then, slowly, she spoke. “He said I was a complication. That his marriage tae Ishbel meant my presence created... difficulties.” Her voice went flat.
“He said the priory would keep me safe. That it was temporary, just until certain political matters settled.”
“But ye dinnae believe that.”
“I wanted tae.” Her fingers twisted in the plaid. “I wanted tae believe he cared enough tae protect me. But three months is a long time tae wait fer a rescue that never comes.”
Euan was quiet for a moment, then gestured back toward the oatcakes. “Eat. Brighde will have me head if I return ye half-starved.”
The shift in topic was deliberate, and she was grateful for it. She reached for another oatcake, letting the honey sweetness chase away the bitterness of old memories.
“Tell me about the stars,” she said, tilting her head back. “Ye said yer faither taught ye. What else did he teach ye up here?”
His expression softened at the change of subject. “Everything worth kenning, according tae him. How tae read the weather. Where the trade winds blow. Which constellation leads home when ye’re lost at sea.”
“Were ye often lost at sea?”
“Only once.” A hint of humor crept into his voice. “I was barely six and thought I could sail tae the outer isles by meself. Made it about two miles afore me faither’s men hauled me back.”
Despite everything, she laughed. “What did he dae?”
“Brought me up here. Made me find north by the stars. Then told me I could sail anywhere I wanted—once I learned tae navigate properly.”
“Sounds like a wise man,” she said softly.
“He was.” Euan’s hand went to his shoulder unconsciously.
She saw the shadow cross his face and understood.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Fer what happened tae him. Tae ye both.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and something shifted in his expression. “Ye’ve nothing tae apologize fer. Ye weren’t even born when Loch Eilein happened.”
“Still. I’m sorry ye both suffered.”
“And I’m sorry fer what ye’ve suffered,” he said in return.
Her smile turned sad. “At least I’m alive, Euan.”
The sound of his name on her lips did something to his chest. No title, no formality—just his name, soft and almost intimate in the darkness.
“Ye should hate me,” he said. “Fer keeping ye here.”
“I should.” She studied his face, and he wondered what she saw there. Scars and shadows? Or something else? “But I dinnae. I cannae quite manage it.”
“Why nae?”
“Because—” She stopped, seeming to gather courage. “Because ye look at me differently. Like I’m a person. Nae a pawn, nae a problem, nae a tool tae be used. Just... me.”
The honesty of it stole his breath. He’d been trying so hard to maintain distance, to remember she was his enemy’s daughter, to think strategically about every interaction.
But right now, with starlight in her hair and honey on her lips, he couldn’t remember why any of that mattered.
“Ye are just ye,” he said roughly. “And that’s the problem.”
Her eyebrows rose. “How is that a problem?”
“Because it would be easier if ye were the enemy I expected,” he said instead. “Some spoiled laird’s daughter who needed tae be taught humility. Someone I could use without conscience.”
“But I’m nae.”
“Nay,” he agreed. “Ye’re nae.”