Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The door had barely closed behind Euan when the bells erupted.
Not the gentle chime that marked the changing of the guard or the call to meals, but the harsh, clanging alarm that meant only one thing: the castle was under threat.
Moyra’s blood turned to ice. Through her window, she could see movement in the courtyard—guards rushing to their posts, weapons being drawn, organized chaos that spoke of years of training snapping into place.
“Stay here.” Euan’s voice cut through her shock, already moving toward the door with that predator’s grace that made his limp disappear. “Lock the door behind me. Dinnae leave this chamber until I return.”
“What’s happening?” But she already knew. Could see it in the grim set of his jaw, the way his hand had gone instinctively to where his sword would hang.
“MacKenzie colors were spotted on our grounds. Chances are they’re approaching the walls.” His grey eyes held hers for one heartbeat. “Yer faither’s men. Stay here, Moyra. I mean it.”
Then he was gone, his heavy footfalls echoing down the corridor as he took the stairs three at a time.
Moyra moved to the window, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Below, the courtyard had transformed into controlled chaos.
Archers lined the battlements. Men-at-arms formed defensive positions at key points.
And through it all, she caught glimpses of Euan’s dark head as he moved between groups, issuing orders with the absolute authority of someone who’d trained for that his entire life.
Her father’s men. Here.
The thought made her stomach clench. Had Keith finally decided she was worth retrieving? Or was this something else—another scheme, another manipulation in the endless game he seemed determined to play?
The bells choked to silence, leaving only the hammer of her pulse in her ears.
Moyra gripped the window frame, her breath fogging the glass as she tracked the guards’ movements along the battlements.
No clash of steel. No screams. Just the terrible quiet of men waiting for violence that hadn’t yet arrived.
Whatever threat had triggered the alarm, it had been contained.
She should stay there. Should follow Euan’s orders and wait in her chamber like a good, obedient prisoner.
But the thought of remaining locked away while men prepared for violence because of her—because her very presence had made Dunvegan a target—made something fierce and restless coil in her chest.
To hell with it.
Moyra grabbed her shawl and headed for the door.
The great hall was a hive of controlled activity when Euan burst through the doors, his pulse still hammering from the sprint down from the east tower.
“Report.” The single word cut through the murmured conversations, and every head turned toward him.
Niall stepped forward, his weathered face grim. “MacKenzie scouts. Three of them, trying tae get close enough tae assess our defenses. They scattered when our patrol spotted them, but nae before one got within fifty yards of the south wall.”
“Fifty yards.” Euan’s jaw clenched. Too close. Far too close for comfort. “Did we capture any?”
“Nay. They studied the terrain too well—vanished intae the hills before we could give proper chase.” Niall moved to the table where a hastily drawn map lay spread. “But they left tracks heading northeast.”
Euan studied the map, his mind racing through possibilities. Scouts meant Keith was planning something. Assessing their defenses, counting their numbers, looking for weaknesses to exploit.
Or looking for proof that his daughter was truly there.
“Double the patrols,” he ordered, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. “I want men on the walls every hour, rotating in shifts so nay one gets tired enough tae miss movement. And send word tae our outlying villages—if MacKenzie men are spotted, I want tae ken about it immediately.”
“Done.” Fergus, his master-at-arms, nodded from across the hall. “But me laird, we need tae discuss the possibility that this wasnae just reconnaissance.”
“What dae ye mean?”
“I mean Keith MacKenzie might be testing our response. Seeing how quickly we mobilize, how many men we have available, whether we’re prepared fer a larger incursion.” Fergus’s blunt assessment made several councilors shift uncomfortably. “This could be the precursor tae something bigger.”
The words settled over the hall like a shroud. Around him, Euan saw his men processing the implications—more patrols meant fewer workers in the fields, heightened alert meant exhausted guards, preparation for war meant resources diverted from everything else that kept a clan functioning.
And at the center of it all: one red-haired woman whose father seemed determined to make her existence everyone’s problem.
“We prepare fer the worst and hope fer the best,” Euan said finally. “But I’ll nae have this clan caught unprepared because we underestimated MacKenzie’s ambitions.”
“What about the lass?” Malcolm’s voice came from near the hearth. “If her faither’s men are this close, perhaps it’s time tae reconsider—”
“Reconsider what?” The question came sharp, dangerous. “Sending her back tae a man who abandoned her? Using her as leverage in a game she never asked tae play?”
“Using her as the solution she represents.” Malcolm met his gaze steadily. “Marry her, Euan. Make it public, make it binding, and make it clear that any attack on this castle is an attack on Keith’s own daughter. Even he wouldnae be bold enough tae risk her life in whatever scheme he’s brewing.”
The logic was sound. Cold, calculated, and entirely too familiar. This was what his councilors had been saying since the day he’d brought Moyra through those gates—marry her and solve all their problems with one political alliance.
But every time he considered it, he remembered the fury in her eyes when he’d first suggested it. I’d rather die alone than marry ye. Those words had cut deeper than any blade.
“I’ll nae force the issue,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Nae while there are other options.”
“What other options?” Fergus’s frustration was palpable. “Keith’s made his position clear—he wants our lands and he daesnae want his daughter. We’re the ones stuck trying tae protect a woman whose own faither willnae claim her while he masses scouts at our borders!”
The accusation hung in the air, and Euan felt the weight of every eye in the hall. They weren’t wrong—Moyra’s presence there had complicated everything, made them a target in ways they hadn’t been before.
But saints help him, when he thought about sending her away, about forcing her into a marriage she’d made abundantly clear she didn’t want, something in his chest twisted painfully.
“The decision stands,” he said quietly. “We prepare our defenses. We increase patrols. We ready ourselves fer whatever Keith might attempt. But we dinnae use that lass as a pawn any more than her faither already has.”
“Even if it costs us everything?” Malcolm’s voice was gentle but relentless.
“It willnae.”
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire and the distant shouts of guards organizing on the walls. Euan could feel the weight of their doubt, their concern that sentiment was clouding his judgment.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe he was letting his growing feelings for Moyra MacKenzie interfere with the cold strategic thinking a laird needed.
But when he remembered the way she’d looked at him on that clifftop—the trust in her eyes before the ground had given way, the heat that had sparked between them when he’d caught her—he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Some things were worth more than strategy.
“Get those patrols organized,” he ordered, needing to move, to act, to do something other than stand here defending decisions he wasn’t entirely certain were wise. “I want hourly reports on any movement within five miles of our borders. And someone find—”
“Euan.”
The soft voice made him turn.
Moyra stood in the doorway, her copper hair slightly disheveled, green eyes wide as they took in the assembled men and the tension crackling through the hall like lightning before a storm.
“I thought I told ye tae stay in yer chamber,” he said, more sharply than he intended.
Her chin lifted. “Ye did. I chose nae tae listen.”
Despite everything—the threat outside his walls, the councilors watching this exchange with far too much interest, the absolute disaster this day had become—Euan felt his mouth twitch.
Saints, but the woman had a stubborn streak.
Moyra had expected many reactions when she entered the great hall. Anger, perhaps. Frustration that she’d disobeyed his direct order.
She hadn’t expected the flash of what looked almost like relief in his eyes before it disappeared behind his laird’s mask.
“Everyone out.” Euan’s voice carried absolute authority. “Now. We’ll continue this discussion later.”
The hall emptied with surprising speed, though Moyra caught more than one curious glance thrown her way. Niall paused at the door, exchanging some silent communication with Euan before nodding and closing the heavy oak panels behind him.
Leaving them alone in the cavernous space.
“Ye shouldnae be here,” Euan said, but the heat had left his voice, replaced by bone-deep weariness. “It’s nae safe with yer faither’s men prowling our borders.”
“Is all of this me fault?” The question burst out before she could stop it, raw and desperate. “The scouts, the threats, the danger tae yer clan—is it because of me?”
He crossed the distance between them in three strides, his hands coming up as if to grip her shoulders before he caught himself.
“Nay. This is because yer faither is an ambitious bastard who’d sacrifice anything and anyone tae get what he wants.
Ye’re as much a victim of his schemes as the rest of us. ”
“But if I weren’t here—”
“Then Keith would find another excuse tae make trouble. He wants our lands, Moyra. Has wanted them since the moment he married Ishbel fer her weak claim that gave him some legal standing.” His jaw clenched. “Ye’re nae the cause of this. Ye’re just the tool he chose tae use.”
The words should have been reassuring. Instead, they made her feel like exactly what she’d been trying not to be—a piece on someone else’s chess board, moved around according to strategies she couldn’t control.
“I heard what yer councilor said,” she admitted quietly. “About marriage solving everything. About how I’m the solution if only ye’d—”
“Dinnae.” The word came out harsh. “I’ll nae have ye feeling like ye owe me that. Like it’s yer responsibility tae fix what yer faither broke.”
“But it would help, wouldn’t it?” She met his gaze steadily despite how her heart hammered. “If we married, he’d have nay grounds tae attack. Any assault on Dunvegan would be an assault on his own daughter.”
“Aye, it would help.” His hands had found her shoulders now, warm and solid and anchoring. “But I’ll nae have ye bound tae me out of guilt or duty or some misguided sense that ye owe me protection in exchange fer keeping ye safe.”
The intensity in his grey eyes made her breath catch.
“Then what would ye have from me?” The question came out softer than she’d intended, almost intimate in the empty hall.
His thumb traced her collarbone through the fabric of her gown—a touch so light she might have imagined it if not for the way it sent fire racing along her nerves. “I’d have ye safe. Free tae choose yer own path without anyone—including me—making those choices fer ye.”
“And if me path led back tae ye?” Her pulse thundered in her ears. “What then?”
Something flickered in his expression—hope mixed with fear and want and a dozen other emotions she couldn’t name. His hand moved from her shoulder to cup her jaw, thumb tracing her cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
“Then I’d count meself the luckiest bastard in all the Highlands,” he said roughly. “But only if ye came tae me freely. Only if—”
A sharp knock at the door made them both jump.
“Me laird.” Niall’s voice carried urgency even through the heavy oak. “We’ve got movement on the western ridge. Ye need to see this.”
Euan’s hands dropped from her face, and Moyra felt the loss. He turned toward the door, then back to her, conflict written across his scarred features.
“I have to—”
“Go,” she said, trying to ignore how her voice shook. “I understand.”
“Stay in the castle. Please, Moyra. I cannae focus on securing our defenses if I’m worried about ye wandering intae danger.”
Then he was striding toward the door, that commander’s authority settling over him like a cloak. But before he disappeared into the corridor, he paused, glancing back with an expression that made her chest tight.
“We’ll finish this conversation,” he promised. “Soon.”
Then he was gone, and Moyra stood alone in the great hall, her shoulder still warm from his touch, her heart still racing from words that had almost been spoken.
Outside, she heard the sounds of the castle mobilizing again—more shouts, more running feet, the organized chaos of men preparing for potential violence.
Because of her father. Because she existed. Because loving her—if that’s what Euan was beginning to feel—came with a price measured in blood and steel.
She moved to the window, watching guards stream toward the western wall where Niall had reported movement. Somewhere out there in the gathering dusk, her father’s men watched and waited, planning whatever scheme Keith MacKenzie had devised next.
And there she stood, caught between two forces neither of which truly wanted her but both of which seemed determined to use her anyway.
The only difference was that one of those forces made her pulse race and her breath catch and her carefully constructed walls crumble with every gentle touch.
The other had left her in an English dungeon to rot.
The choice should be simple.
So why did it terrify her more than any threat on the horizon?
Moyra pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching Euan’s tall form directing men with confident gestures, and tried to ignore the voice in her head that whispered she was already far more involved than was wise.
That perhaps the real danger wasn’t the MacKenzie scouts prowling outside the walls.
Perhaps the real danger was the MacLeod laird who’d somehow gotten past every defense she’d built around her battered heart.
And unlike her father’s threats, that danger couldn’t be solved with swords and strategy and doubled patrols.
That danger required something far more terrifying: trust.
The question was whether she was brave enough—or foolish enough—to take that risk.