Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Moyra shouldn’t have been there.
The thought whispered through her mind even as her feet carried her down the darkened corridor toward Euan’s office, drawn by the thin line of lamplight bleeding beneath his door.
It was well past midnight—the castle had settled into that particular silence that came when even the guards grew drowsy at their posts.
She should have been in her chamber, safe behind locked doors, not prowling through MacLeod territory like some wayward spirit.
But sleep had proven impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her father’s letter—those cold, calculated words that had reduced her entire existence to an inconvenience.
The confusion of it all had driven her from her bed, seeking.
.. what? Answers? Distraction? Some proof that she could understand the man who held her fate in his scarred hands?
She pressed her ear to his office door. Silence. Perhaps he’d left the lamp burning and retired for the night. Perhaps she could slip inside, satisfy her curiosity about what kind of man he was when no one was watching, and return to her chamber with some answers.
The door opened silently beneath her hand—unlocked, as if he hadn’t considered someone might intrude on his private space.
Moyra stepped inside, her eyes immediately drawn to the desk illuminated by a single oil lamp.
Papers scattered across the dark wood surface, maps weighted at the corners with daggers, correspondence marked with various clan seals.
And there, half-hidden beneath a ledger, a bundle of letters tied with faded cord.
Instinct overrode caution. She lifted the bundle, surprised by how soft the parchment had become—worn thin by years and yearning hands.
The ink had faded to sepia, but the names remained clear: Calum, David, Archibald, Lachlann.
Strangers’ names in familiar handwriting—the kind that came from education, from caring enough to write well.
These were letters meant for someone’s eyes alone.
She was reading the first line—Braither, I hope this finds ye well—when a voice cut through the silence like a blade.
“Looking fer something specific, or just prying in general?”
Moyra spun, the letters nearly slipping from her startled grip.
Euan stood in the doorway, still fully dressed despite the late hour, his broad shoulders filling the frame.
Those eyes that had looked at her with such concern over dinner now held something harder, sharper—accusation mixed with something that looked dangerously like hurt.
“I—” Her voice caught. She’d been caught red-handed, literally holding his private correspondence. “I’m sorry. I couldnae sleep, and I saw the light—”
“So ye decided tae rifle through me personal letters?” He moved into the room, and despite his size, there was nothing clumsy about the way he closed the door behind him.
Nothing safe about the deliberate care with which he approached.
“Were ye hoping tae find something useful tae send tae yer faither? Some tidbit of information he could use against us?”
The accusation stung worse than it should have. “Nay! I wasnae—I would never—”
“Wouldn’t ye?” He stopped an arm’s length away. “Ye’re Keith MacKenzie’s daughter. Fer all I ken, this whole injured innocent act is exactly that—an act. Maybe ye’ve been playing me from the start, gathering information while I’ve been fool enough tae trust ye.”
“That’s nae fair!” The words burst out before she could stop them, hurt and anger mixing in her chest. “I’ve done naething but tell ye the truth since I arrived here. I’ve answered every question, followed every rule—”
“Except the one about staying out of places ye dinnae belong.” His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. “Me office. Me private papers. What exactly were ye hoping tae find, Moyra?”
Her gaze dropped to her hands. She was still holding the letters.
Shame crept through her chest, then bloomed hot across her skin.
He was right—she’d violated his privacy, crossed a line she had no business crossing.
But the accusation that she was spying for her father made something fierce and wounded rise in her throat.
“I wasnae looking fer anything.” She thrust the bundle toward him, meeting those eyes despite how they made her pulse race.
“I saw the light and thought... I dinnae ken what I thought. That maybe understanding ye better would help me understand why ye keep saying ye’re nae me enemy when everything about this situation suggests otherwise. ”
Something shifted in his expression—the hard edge softening just a fraction. He took the letters from her hands, his fingers brushing hers for a heartbeat.
“These are from the Covenant,” he said finally, his voice losing some of its sharp edge. “Five men who were once me sworn enemies before we became braithers.”
Moyra blinked, trying to process that. “Enemies? But I thought the Loch Eilein Covenant was formed tae prevent—”
“It was.” He moved past her to the desk, setting the bundle down with careful reverence.
“After the Battle of Loch Eilein, when we were all just lads barely six years old, it was decided the only way to prevent another bloodbath was tae raise us taegether. Five heirs from five different clans, trained side by side, bound by oath and shared trauma.” His hand went unconsciously to his scarred shoulder.
“We grew up taegether. Learned tae trust each other despite everything our families’ histories said we shouldn’t. ”
The vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard. This wasn’t the calculating politician or the commanding laird—this was just a man remembering something precious and painful all at once.
“Dae ye truly believe that?” she asked quietly, moving closer despite her better judgment. “That transformations like that—from distrust tae loyalty—are truly possible?”
Euan said nothing. His eyes went somewhere else—somewhere years away, full of battles and blood-brothers. When his gaze finally returned to her, she forgot how to breathe.
“Aye,” he said finally. “I dae. Because I experienced it. We all did.” He gestured to the letters.
“These men—Calum, David, Archibald, Lachlann—they’re closer tae me than blood.
We’ve saved each other’s lives more times than I can count.
Trust each other with things we’d never tell our own clans.
” His jaw tightened. “So aye, Moyra. I believe people can change. That enemies can become allies. That trust can be built even when everything says it shouldn’t be possible. ”
The words hung between them like a challenge and an offer all at once. Was he talking about his Covenant brothers? Or about something else entirely?
“Were ye going tae write to them?” She nodded toward the fresh parchment on his desk, the quill still wet with ink. “When I... interrupted?”
“Aye.” Some of the tension had left his shoulders, though wariness still lingered in his eyes. “They need tae ken what’s happening here. About yer faither’s letters, the threats, the—” He stopped, something almost like embarrassment crossing his scarred face.
“The what?” Moyra pressed, genuine curiosity overriding caution.
“The situation,” he finished, but the way he said it made heat creep up her neck.
“Ye mean me.” It wasn’t a question. “Ye were writing tae them about me.”
“Aye.” He held her gaze steadily. “They’re me braithers in all but blood. When something threatens our clans or affects our strategies, we counsel each other. And ye, lass, definitely qualify as a situation that needs counsel.”
Should she have been offended? Should she have bristled at being reduced tae a “situation” that required consultation with his fellow lairds? Something about the frank admission—the lack of pretense—made her lips twitch despite herself.
“A situation,” she repeated dryly. “How flattering.”
“Would ye prefer ‘complication’?” His mouth quirked. “Because that’s what me Council calls ye.”
“I can imagine.” She crossed her arms, suddenly aware of how thin her nightshift was, how improper this entire encounter had become. “Let me guess—they think I’m a spy. Or a curse. Or both.”
“They think ye’re Keith MacKenzie’s daughter in me castle, which makes ye either leverage or a liability, depending on who’s speaking.” He moved to the window, putting distance between them that felt both necessary and disappointing. “They’re nae wrong tae be wary.”
“But ye are writing tae yer braithers about the MacKenzie situation instead of simply solving it the way yer Council suggests?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.
He turned from the window, those grey eyes catching the lamplight. “I’m trying tae find a path that daesnae require ye tae sacrifice what’s left of yer autonomy fer me clan’s security. Me braithers... they ken me well enough tae offer counsel that goes beyond cold strategy.”
The admission hung between them—another crack in that armor she kept expecting to find impenetrable. Moyra found herself studying him, noting the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his scarred hand gripped the window frame as if anchoring himself.
“What were ye planning tae tell them?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “About me?”
“The truth.” He moved closer, and suddenly the air between them felt charged.
“That Keith MacKenzie abandoned his daughter. That I found her in a dungeon and brought her here because leaving her there was unthinkable. That me Council wants me tae marry her fer political advantage, and she quite reasonably told me tae go tae hell when I suggested it.”
Despite everything, Moyra felt her lips curve. “I didnae say ‘go tae hell.’”
“In so many words, ye did. Ye said ye’d rather die alone.”
“Aye, well.” She looked away, uncomfortable with the memory of her own fury. “Ye caught me at a bad moment. Being told yer father daesnae want ye tends tae make a lass... reactive.”
“Ye had every right tae yer anger.” He was closer now. “I should have found a better way to present the option. Made it clear it was a choice, nae a command.”
“Was it?” She met his eyes, saw him flinch at the question. “Because from where I stood, it sounded like ye werenae asking what I wanted.”
“Then I misspoke.” His jaw clenched. “Because despite what ye think of me, Moyra MacKenzie, I’ll nae force ye intae anything ye dinnae want. Even if it costs me me Council’s support. Even if it makes me look weak tae every other clan in the Highlands.”
The vehemence in his voice startled her. “Why?”
“Because I’ve spent me whole life being defined by what was done tae me at six years old.
” His hand went to his shoulder, that unconscious gesture she was beginning to recognize.
“By scars I didnae choose and a limp that reminds me every day that I survived when others didnae. I’ll nae inflict that same helplessness on another person.
I’ll nae be the sort of man who robs others of their will simply because honor demands more effort.
I’ll nae take yer choice from ye just because the alternative is harder. ”
His honesty knocked the air from her lungs. That wasn’t calculation. It was truth laid bare.
“So ye’re writing tae yer braithers,” she said slowly, “asking them tae help ye find another way. One that daesnae require forcing me intae marriage.”
“Aye.” Something that might have been relief crossed his features. “Even if they tell me I’m a fool fer letting honor complicate strategy.”
Moyra bit her lip, a thousand thoughts warring in her mind. She should mistrust all that—she should assume it was just another manipulation, another way to make her compliant. But the look in those eyes, the tension in his scarred frame...
He meant it. Every word.
“I should let ye write then,” she said finally, backing toward the door. “Before I interrupt any more of yer correspondence.”
“Moyra.” Her name stopped her mid-step. When she looked back, he was watching her with an intensity that made her pulse stutter. “Thank ye.”
“Fer what? Breaking intae yer office and rifling through yer private letters?”
His mouth quirked. “Fer listening. Fer nae assuming the worst of me even when ye have every reason tae.” He paused. “Fer giving me a chance tae explain meself.”
Heat crept up her neck at the unexpected honesty. “Ye’re welcome, I suppose. Though I still think ye should have better locks on yer doors if ye want tae keep intruders out.”
“Perhaps I dinnae want tae keep all intruders out.” The words were quiet, almost contemplative. “Perhaps some interruptions are worth the breach of protocol.”
The air between them felt suddenly charged with meaning she didn’t dare examine too closely. Moyra wrapped her arms around herself, acutely aware of her nightshift, the late hour, the impropriety of every moment she lingered.
“I’ll let ye write yer letter,” she said, reaching for the door.
“Aye.” His voice followed her into the corridor, rough and warm and entirely too appealing.
Moyra fled, her heart hammering against her ribs for reasons that had everything to do with the dangerous pull she felt toward a man who should have been her enemy but kept insisting he wasn’t.
She wondered what exactly Euan MacLeod would tell his brothers about the MacKenzie lass racing back to her chamber with flushed cheeks and entirely too many confusing feelings.
What she was beginning to feel toward him was much more complicated than their situation.
And that terrified her more than anything her father had done.