Chapter 15 #2
Either way, there was no turning back now.
The stables smelled of hay and horse and leather—familiar scents that made something in Moyra’s chest unknot slightly. She’d dressed quickly in the simplest gown she owned, one meant for riding, and braided her hair to keep it from tangling in the wind.
Now she stood in the doorway watching Euan move between stalls with the easy confidence of someone who’d been around horses since birth.
He’d changed too—traded his formal laird’s attire for worn leather breeches and a dark shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength of his frame despite the limp that marked his gait.
Saints, but he was handsome even doing something as mundane as checking saddle straps.
“Ye came.” He glanced up, and the smile that crossed his scarred face made her pulse stutter.
“I said I would.” She moved into the stables, trailing one hand along the stall doors as she passed. “Though I’m nae entirely certain this is wise.”
“Wisdom’s overrated.” He led a grey mare from her stall—the same horse Moyra had ridden when they’d fled Norham. “This is Mist. She’s gentle but spirited, and she already kens ye.”
Moyra stroked the mare’s velvet nose, feeling her warm breath against her palm. “Hello, Mist.” The greeting came out softer than intended. “Ready tae remember what freedom feels like?”
The horse nickered softly, and Moyra felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders. At least someone there trusted her completely.
“Euan!”
The sharp voice made them both turn. Niall strode into the stables, his weathered face creased with concern that bordered on alarm. “A word. Now. Please.”
Euan’s jaw tightened, but he handed Moyra the reins before following his friend to the far corner of the stables. Their voices dropped to urgent murmurs, but Moyra caught fragments despite the distance.
“—MacKenzie scouts—”
“—spotted near the western approach—”
“—too dangerous tae—”
Her stomach clenched. Her father’s men. Of course. She should have known leaving the castle would be impossible.
When Euan returned, his jaw was set, eyes blazing with the same determination she’d seen when he’d cut down English soldiers. No apology. No retreat.
“There’s been a complication,” he said, meeting her eyes steadily. “Niall’s men spotted scouts of yer faither’s near our western borders. They’re likely watching the castle, reporting our movements.”
“So we cannae ride.” Disappointment tasted bitter on her tongue.
“So we take a different path.” He moved to saddle his own horse—the massive black destrier that had carried him through battle. “There’s a northern route that hugs the cliffs. Hidden from the main approaches by rock formations. We’ll be unseen.”
“Euan—” Niall’s protest cut short when his laird turned those his eyes on him.
“I ken the risks. But I also ken the lass has spent months locked away, and she deserves tae breathe free air without constantly looking over her shoulder fer enemies.” His voice dropped, taking on the absolute authority that made men follow him into battle.
“Trust me judgment, Niall. Have I ever steered us wrong?”
They stared at each other. A thousand battles, a hundred arguments, twenty years of brotherhood passed in the silence. Niall broke first, his shoulders sagging in defeat.
“Ye’re as stubborn as a mule,” he muttered. “Always have been.”
“Aye.” Euan’s mouth quirked. “It’s part of me charm.”
“Charm’s nae the word I’d use.” But Niall’s expression had softened to resigned acceptance. “At least take swords. And if ye’re nae back by sunset, I’m coming after ye with every man we’ve got.”
“Fair enough.” Euan finished with his destrier’s saddle, then moved to help Moyra mount Mist.
His hands settled on her waist—large, warm, gentle despite the calluses that marked them. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and for one breathless moment she was suspended between earth and horse, caught in the strength of his grip and the heat of his grey eyes watching her face.
Then she was settled in the saddle, and he was stepping back, but the impression of his touch remained like brands against her skin.
“Ready?” His voice had gone rough, as if he’d felt that same jolt of awareness.
Moyra gathered the reins, forcing her racing pulse to steady. “Aye. Show me these hidden cliffs of yers, Laird MacLeod.”
The smile he gave her was pure mischief mixed with promise. “Hold tight, lass. The northern path isnae fer the faint of heart.”
He swung onto his destrier with the fluid grace of someone who’d been riding since childhood, the limp that marked his walk disappearing entirely once he was mounted. Together they moved toward the stable doors, hoofbeats echoing against stone as they emerged into moonlit darkness.
Behind them, Niall had the expression of a man who’d just watched his dearest friend ride toward salvation or disaster and couldn’t quite decide which.
Moyra leaned forward in her saddle, feeling Mist’s muscles bunch beneath her, and for the first time since leaving the Highlands months ago, she felt something almost like hope kindle in her chest.
Or maybe it was just the dangerous thrill of riding into the dawn with a man who made her pulse race every time they touched.
Either way, there was no turning back now.
The dawn—and Euan MacLeod—waited.