Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The horse stumbled, and Moyra’s breath caught.
Not from fear—the mare recovered quickly, sure-footed despite the treacherous path—but from the sheer impossible beauty spread before them.
The hidden northern route clung to cliffs so steep they seemed to defy reason, yet Euan guided his destrier along the narrow track with the confidence of someone who’d ridden it a thousand times.
Dawn painted the sea in shades of fire and gold, waves crashing against rocks far below with a violence that should terrify but instead made something wild and free unfurl in her chest. Salt wind whipped her braid loose, sending copper strands dancing around her face, and for the first time since leaving the Highlands months before, Moyra felt like she could breathe.
“Careful here.” Euan’s voice carried back to her, rough and warm despite the wind. “The path narrows.”
She urged Mist closer to his destrier, close enough to see the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his scarred hands held the reins with gentle confidence.
The path opened suddenly onto a small plateau—barely twenty feet across, sheltered by towering rock formations that blocked the worst of the wind. Below, the sea raged eternal. Above, the sky stretched endless and vast.
Euan dismounted first, his limp more pronounced after the hard ride but his movements still fluid as he moved to help her down.
Those large hands found her waist again, and Moyra’s pulse kicked as he lifted her from the saddle with that same effortless strength that made her feel delicate and protected all at once.
“Welcome tae me favorite place in all the Highlands.” He released her slowly, as if reluctant to break contact. “Few ken it exists. Fewer still can reach it.”
Moyra moved to the cliff’s edge, drawn by the raw power of waves battering stone. The drop was dizzying—hundreds of feet of sheer rock face before the churning sea below. One wrong step would mean death, swift and final.
She leaned forward slightly, drinking in the view.
“Careful, lass.” Euan’s voice held warning. “The edge is unstable in places.”
“I’m being careful.” She took another step, wanting to see the exact point where cliff met ocean. “I just want tae—”
The ground shifted.
Not dramatically—just a subtle give beneath her boot, stone crumbling where erosion had weakened the cliff face. But it was enough to send her balance tilting forward, momentum carrying her toward empty air and rocks that would shatter bones like glass.
A scream tore from her throat.
Then strong arms wrapped around her waist, yanking her backward with such force they both crashed to the solid ground several feet from the edge.
Euan’s body cushioned her fall, his chest pressed against her back, one arm banded across her ribs while the other hand splayed protectively over her stomach.
For several heartbeats, neither moved. Moyra’s pulse hammered against her ribs, adrenaline making her shake as the reality of how close she’d come to death crashed through her mind.
Beneath her, Euan’s chest rose and fell in harsh pants, his heart pounding so hard she could feel it through both their layers of clothing.
“Are ye hurt?” His voice came out ragged against her ear, breath warm on her neck. “Moyra, are ye hurt?”
“Nay.” The word came out breathless. “I’m—ye caught me. Ye caught me.”
His arms tightened fractionally, as if the thought of releasing her was physically painful. “Aye. I caught ye.”
She should move. Should put proper distance between them before this embrace turned into something neither of them could take back. But her body refused to cooperate, too busy trembling with the aftershocks of near-death to care about propriety.
And beneath the fear, beneath the shock, something else sparked to life.
Awareness of every point where their bodies touched.
The solid warmth of his chest against her back.
The careful strength in arms that could have crushed her but held her as if she were made of spun glass.
The way his thumb traced small, soothing circles against her ribs, probably unconscious but devastatingly intimate all the same.
“That’s twice now,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. “Twice ye’ve saved me life.”
“Why dae ye insist on giving me heart failure on me watch?” But there was no anger in his tone, only relief so profound it made her chest ache. “Can ye sit up? Let me see if ye’re injured.”
Moyra rolled carefully, bracing one hand on his chest as she shifted to face him.
The movement brought them impossibly closer—her legs tangled with his, her face mere inches from the scar that traced his jaw, close enough to count individual lashes framing those beautiful eyes that watched her with an intensity that stole what little breath she’d managed to recover.
“I’m fine.” She pressed her palm against his chest, feeling his heart still racing beneath muscle and bone. “Just shaken.”
“Just shaken,” he repeated flatly. His hands moved to her shoulders, running down her arms as if checking for breaks, then back up to cup her face with a gentleness that made tears prick behind her eyes. “Ye nearly went over that cliff, Moyra. If I’d been a second slower—”
“But ye weren’t.” She covered one of his hands with hers, anchoring him to the present instead of whatever terrible scenario was playing in his mind. “Ye saved me. Again.”
Something shifted in his expression—the concern giving way to something darker, more dangerous. His thumb traced her cheekbone, and she watched his gaze drop to her mouth before snapping back up to her eyes with visible effort.
“There’s something in yer hair.” His voice had gone rough, almost strained. “From the fall. Let me—”
His fingers moved to her temple, carefully working loose a piece of dried heather that had caught in the copper strands.
The simple gesture felt unbearably intimate—his touch gentle despite the calluses that marked his warrior’s hands, his focus absolute as he freed the small flower and held it up between them.
“Purple heather.” The corners of his mouth quirked. “Fer good fortune. I’d say we’ve used up today’s share already.”
Moyra found herself staring at the flower, then at the scarred fingers holding it, then finally at the face of the man beneath her.
This close, she could see the exact shade of grey in his eyes—like storm clouds over the sea, shot through with silver when the light hit just right.
Could count the faint scars that marked his temple and jaw, evidence of a lifetime spent fighting.
Could see the way his pupils dilated slightly as her gaze traveled from his eyes to his mouth and back again.
Saints help her, but she wanted to kiss him.
The realization struck with the force of certainty. Not because he’d saved her—though that certainly didn’t hurt. Not even because of the careful way he held her, as if she were precious rather than problematic.
But because in that moment, with death a heartbeat behind them and his arms keeping her safe, she saw past the laird and the warrior to the man beneath.
The one who brought her oatcakes under the stars.
Who admitted his own fears instead of hiding behind authority.
Who’d promised to find a path forward that didn’t require her sacrifice.
Who made her feel seen in ways she’d never expected from an enemy turned... what? Not friend. Not captor. Something else entirely that she couldn’t quite name.
His hand had moved from her hair to cup her jaw, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with devastating precision. “Moyra,” he breathed, and her name on his lips sounded like prayer and curse all at once. “We should—”
A sharp cry split the air—seabirds startled from their clifftop nests, wings beating against wind as they wheeled overhead in protest at the disturbance.
The sound shattered whatever spell had fallen over them. Moyra scrambled backward, suddenly, acutely aware of how they must look—tangled together on the ground, her skirts hiked up around her knees, his hands still reaching for her as if to pull her back.
“I should—” She stood too quickly, stumbling over her own feet. “The horses. I should check on Mist.”
“Aye.” Euan rose more slowly, his jaw tight with what looked like frustration and relief in equal measure. “The horses.”
The ride back to Dunvegan passed in charged silence, broken only by hoofbeats and the distant crash of waves. Moyra kept her gaze fixed firmly ahead, hyperaware of Euan riding beside her, the weight of his attention even when she refused to meet his eyes.
What had she been thinking? Nearly kissing Euan MacLeod on a clifftop like some lovesick fool. He was her—what? Captor seemed wrong now, but protector felt too intimate, too close to admitting the pull she felt toward him went far beyond gratitude for rescue.
By the time they reached the castle courtyard, mortification had settled like lead in her stomach. She dismounted before Euan could help her, mumbling something about needing to change, and fled toward the east tower without looking back.
Behind her, she heard Niall’s voice: “How did it go?”
Euan’s response was too quiet to hear, but something in the tone made her steps quicken.
Euan watched Moyra disappear into the castle, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
“That well, eh?” Niall’s dry observation made him turn.
“We nearly went over the cliff.” The words came out harsher than intended. “The ground gave way beneath her feet. If I hadn’t—”
“But ye did.” Niall gripped his shoulder, the gesture speaking of years of friendship. “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
Safe. Aye. Except for the part where he’d held her in his arms and wanted nothing more than to kiss her senseless despite every reason it would be a terrible idea.
“There’s been another letter.” Niall’s voice went grim. “From Keith MacKenzie. Arrived about an hour ago.”
Of course. The man seemed determined to flood Dunvegan with threats, each one more elaborate than the last. Euan had stopped reading them himself after the third, letting his Council sort through Keith’s increasingly desperate attempts at intimidation.
“What daes this one say?”
“The usual threats about involving the king, but with a novelty—he’s claiming we’re holding Moyra against her will, preventing her from returning home.
Says if she daesnae appear before the next gathering of lairds tae confirm she is staying of her own choice, he’ll have grounds tae petition fer her removal. ”
Euan’s hands clenched. “Meaning he wants tae force her tae publicly choose between returning tae him or admitting she’d rather stay with the enemy who supposedly kidnapped her.”
“Aye.” Niall’s expression was troubled. “It’s clever. Either way, he wins. If she says she wants to stay, he paints her as a traitor to her own clan. If she says she wants tae leave, we look like monsters fer keeping her.”
“And if we dinnae bring her tae the gathering at all?”
“Then he claims we’re afraid of what she’d say. That we’re keeping her isolated because the truth would expose our cruelty.”
Euan dragged a hand through his hair, exhaustion and frustration warring in his chest.
And through it all, Moyra remained caught in the middle—a pawn neither side would relinquish but neither truly protected.
Except she wasn’t just a pawn anymore. Not to him.
The realization settled over him like a weight and a benediction all at once. Somewhere between finding her in that dungeon and holding her on the clifftop, she’d become something else entirely. Something dangerous and precious and utterly terrifying.
“I need tae talk tae her.” He moved toward the castle, ignoring Niall’s knowing look. “About the letter. About what Keith’s demanding.”
“Or ye could let her rest first.” Niall’s voice followed him. “Given that she nearly died this morning and all.”
“Which is exactly why I need tae talk tae her now.” Euan paused at the entrance, glancing back at his friend. “Before Keith’s next scheme puts her in even more danger.”
He didn’t wait for a response, didn’t want to hear whatever wisdom Niall might offer about the foolishness of his growing attachment to Keith MacKenzie’s daughter. Some truths were better left unspoken until they couldn’t be ignored any longer.
Moyra was still shaking when Catriona found her.
“Me lady?” The maid’s voice came soft with concern. “Are ye all right? Ye look pale as a ghost.”
“I’m fine.” The lie tasted bitter. “Just tired from the ride.”
“The laird sent word.” Catriona moved to the wardrobe, pulling out a fresh gown. “He needs to speak with ye. Says it’s urgent.”
Of course he did. Because apparently the universe had decided today needed to be as complicated as possible.
“Tell him—” Moyra stopped, catching sight of herself in the mirror. Wild hair, flushed cheeks, eyes too bright with emotions she didn’t want to examine. She looked like a woman who’d nearly died and nearly kissed a man in the span of minutes. “Tell him I’ll be in his office in an hour.”
Catriona’s knowing smile made heat crawl up Moyra’s neck. “As ye wish, me lady.”
Alone again, Moyra sank onto her bed, pressing both hands to her racing heart.
She could still feel the imprint of Euan’s arms around her.
Could still see the way his eyes had darkened when he’d touched her hair.
Could still remember the devastating pull toward him that had nothing to do with gratitude and everything to do with the dangerous attraction she’d been trying desperately to ignore.
This was a disaster. She was supposed to be planning her escape, maintaining her distance, remembering he was a MacLeod and she was a MacKenzie and their families had been enemies for generations.
Instead, she was replaying the way his thumb had traced her cheekbone. The rough timbre of his voice when he’d said her name. The absolute certainty that if those birds hadn’t startled them, she would have kissed him and damn the consequences.
A knock at her door made her jump.
“It’s just me again, me lady.” Catriona’s voice held apology. “The laird says he cannae wait an hour. He’s coming up now.”
“What? Nay—I’m nae ready—”
But the door was already opening, and there stood Euan MacLeod, filling the frame with his broad shoulders and intense grey eyes and that scar that traced his jaw like a brand.
The same jaw she’d almost kissed not two hours past.
“We need tae talk,” he said, his voice rough and determined. “About yer faither. About what comes next.”
Moyra straightened her spine, trying to look composed despite her wild hair and racing pulse. “Then talk, Laird MacLeod. I’m listening.”
But as he stepped into her chamber and closed the door behind him, she couldn’t help wondering if either of them were ready fer whatever conversation was about tae happen.
Or if some words, once spoken, could never be taken back.