Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The storm hit just after midnight, wind howling through Dunvegan’s corridors like the souls of ancient warriors seeking vengeance.
Euan barely noticed.
He stood on the battlements despite the rain lashing his face, watching the woods where his men had spent the morning securing the perimeter.
Three separate patrols. Double guards at every approach.
And still, two of Keith MacKenzie’s scouts had managed to get within a hundred yards of the outer wall before his archers had driven them back into the darkness.
Too close. Far too bloody close.
“Me laird.” Niall appeared at his elbow, water streaming from his hair. “Ye need tae come inside. Ye’ve been out here fer hours.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye’re soaked through and half-frozen. And standing out here in a storm willnae stop Keith’s men from trying again.”
Euan knew his friend was right. The patrols were set, the guards doubled, every precaution taken. But leaving the walls felt like abandoning his post, like admitting he couldn’t protect what was his.
Like admitting Moyra MacKenzie had gotten under his skin in ways that made rational thought impossible.
“Five more minutes,” he said, his gaze fixed on the trees barely visible through sheets of rain.
Niall sighed but didn’t argue, settling against the battlements beside him in easy silence. They stood together watching the storm rage, two men who’d survived through much worse than bad weather.
Finally, when Euan’s fingers had gone numb and his shirt clung like ice to his back, he turned toward the stairs. “All right. Ye’ve made yer point.”
“About bloody time.” Niall followed him down, their boots splashing through puddles that had formed on the stone steps.
The castle was quiet at that hour, most of its inhabitants asleep despite the storm’s fury.
Euan made his way through familiar corridors, his mind already cataloging the tasks of the following day.
More patrols. Increased vigilance. Perhaps sending word to his Covenant brothers about Keith’s escalating boldness.
He was passing the library when he noticed the door standing ajar, warm lamplight spilling into the darkened hallway.
Euan stopped mid-step.
No one used the library anymore. Not since his mother had died.
She was the only person who’d truly appreciated the many volumes she’d collected over a lifetime.
The space had become a shrine of sorts, preserved exactly as she’d left it—books carefully shelved, her favorite chair by the window, the reading lamp she’d insisted on keeping lit even during the day because she claimed it made the words dance better.
But someone was in there now.
He moved closer, silent despite his size, and what he saw through the gap made his breath catch.
Moyra stood balanced precariously on a wooden stool, one hand braced against the highest shelf while she reached for a leather-bound volume just beyond her fingertips.
She’d changed from her day dress into a simple nightshift covered by a thick robe, her copper hair loose and tumbling past her shoulders in waves that caught the lamplight and turned it to flame.
She was magnificent. And about to break her neck.
The stool wobbled as she stretched higher, and Euan watched in horror as one of its legs shifted on the uneven floor. She was going to fall. Any second now.
He moved.
“What exactly are ye daeing?”
Moyra’s startled yelp echoed through the library as the stool betrayed her completely.
One moment she’d been reaching for Historia Naturalis, convinced the ancient text might contain information about Highland healing herbs. The next, the world tilted sideways and she was falling, arms windmilling uselessly as gravity took hold.
Strong arms caught her mid-plummet, sweeping her up against a solid chest with such casual strength it stole what little breath she’d managed to gasp. Her fingers clutched at wet fabric—why was it wet?—and she found herself cradled against Euan MacLeod’s broad form like some damsel from a ballad.
Again.
“Saints preserve me,” she breathed, her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. “Dae ye make a habit of appearing out of nowhere tae give women heart failure?”
“Only when they’re trying tae kill themselves on unstable furniture.” His voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her side in ways that made her entirely too aware of every point where their bodies touched. “What were ye thinking? That stool’s been wobbly since before I was born.”
“I was thinking I wanted tae read that book.” Her words came out faster than intended, tumbling over each other in her haste to fill the charged silence.
“I’ve been in here fer hours—have ye seen this collection?
It’s remarkable, truly remarkable. There are volumes here I’ve only heard about in references and I got so caught up I didnae realize how late it had gotten and then I saw that one up there and I thought just one more, I’ll just read one more before I return tae me chamber but I couldnae reach it and the stool was right there so I thought—”
“Moyra.” His arms tightened fractionally, and she felt the rumble of her name in his chest before she heard it. “Breathe.”
She did, pulling in air that tasted of leather and pine and rain, and only then realized how close his face was to hers. Close enough to see water droplets caught in his dark hair. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him despite his soaked clothing.
Close enough to notice the way his grey eyes had darkened as they traced her face, lingering on her mouth before snapping back up with visible effort.
“Ye’re wet,” she managed, her voice gone breathless and strange.
“Aye. I was on the battlements.” His jaw clenched, and she watched a muscle jump beneath the scar on his cheek. “Checking the patrols.”
“In the storm?”
“In the storm.” He still hadn’t put her down, still held her against his chest with arms that should have tired by now but showed no sign of strain. “Someone has tae make sure yer faither’s men dinnae get any closer than they already have.”
The reminder of why he’d been standing in the rain—because of her, because her very presence here had made his clan a target—made guilt twist through her stomach. “Ye should put me down. Ye’re soaked through and probably freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye’re shivering.” She could feel the fine tremor running through his frame, so subtle she’d have missed it if not pressed against him. “And I’m getting wet—I mean from ye. From yer clothes being wet. Because of the rain. I should—”
“Moyra.” There was amusement in his voice now, warm and rough. “Stop talking.”
She did, biting her lip hard enough to hurt.
Being held in Euan MacLeod’s arms was doing terrible things to her ability to form coherent thoughts.
The solid warmth of him. The careful strength in hands that could break but chose to cradle.
The way he looked at her like she was precious rather than problematic.
Like he wanted to kiss her as badly as she wanted to be kissed.
Saints help her.
“I should go,” she said, the words coming out in a rush as panic and attraction warred in her chest. “It’s late and ye need tae change and I’ve already kept ye from yer rest and honestly I dinnae even need that book, I was just curious but it can wait until tomorrow or never really, I dinnae need tae read it at all, there are plenty of other books down here and I should really return tae me chamber now before anyone sees us like this and gets the wrong idea or maybe the right idea but either way it’s very improper and—”
Euan’s mouth curved in what might have been a smile if not for the heat blazing in his eyes. “Are ye finished?”
“Aye. Nay. I dinnae ken.” She squirmed slightly, trying to indicate he should put her down without actually saying the words because some traitorous part of her didn’t want him to let go. Ever. “I’m going now.”
“Are ye?”
“Aye. Definitely. Right now. If ye’d just—”
He set her on her feet with the same careful strength he’d used to catch her, his hands lingering on her waist for one heartbeat longer than strictly necessary before dropping away. The loss of contact felt like cold water after sun.
Moyra took a step back, then another, putting what she hoped was proper distance between them. “Thank ye. Fer catching me. Again. I really need tae stop requiring rescue from ye.”
“I dinnae mind.” His voice had gone rough, and she watched his hands clench at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for her again.
“Next time I’ll try tae arrange me near-death experiences more privately.” The words came out sharper than intended, defensive armor against whatever this was that crackled between them like lightning before a storm.
His mouth quirked. “I’d appreciate it.”
They stared at each other across three feet of charged air, and Moyra’s pulse hammered so hard she could feel it in her fingertips.
This was dangerous. Everything about him was dangerous—the way he made her feel safe and seen, the casual displays of strength that should terrify but instead made heat pool low in her belly, the absolute certainty in his grey eyes that said he wanted her despite every reason they should remain apart.
She had to leave. Immediately. Before she did something monumentally stupid like closing that distance and finding out if his mouth was as warm as it looked.
“I’m going tae me chamber now,” she announced, pleased when her voice came out steady. “Ye should change intae dry clothes afore ye catch yer death.”
Her eyes traced over his soaked shirt again, clinging to the broad planes of his chest, water still dripping from his dark hair.
The storm outside had clearly been merciless, and he’d stood in it for hours checking patrols instead of seeking shelter.
Because of her father’s threats. Because of the danger her presence had brought to his walls.
“Aye.” But he didn’t move, just watched her with that intensity that made her skin prickle with awareness.
“Right then. Good night, Laird MacLeod.”
“Euan.” The correction was quiet but firm. “When we’re alone, it’s Euan.”
The intimacy of it—the implication that they had an ‘alone’ that was different from how they were with others—made her chest tight. “Good night, Euan.”
She turned and fled before courage failed her completely, her feet silent on cold stone as she practically ran from the library. Behind her, she felt his gaze burning into her back like a brand, and it took every ounce of self-control not to look back.
Euan stood frozen in the empty library, his hands still tingling from the phantom weight of Moyra in his arms and tried to remember how to breathe normally.
Saints above.
He’d caught women before. Rescued maidens from falls and protected innocents from harm—it was part of being laird, part of the duty that came with command. But none of those encounters had left him feeling like he’d been struck by lightning, every nerve ending alive and burning with want.
The way she’d looked at him. The breathless rush of words that said she’d been as affected as he had. The brief press of her soft body against his chest, curves fitting against him in ways that made his blood run hot despite the cold rain still clinging to his skin.
He was in trouble. Deep, dangerous trouble that had nothing to do with MacKenzie scouts and everything to do with green eyes and copper hair and a stubborn streak as wide as the Highlands.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, dragging both hands through his wet hair.
He should have put her down immediately. Should have stepped back and maintained proper distance instead of holding her close enough to count her rapid heartbeats, to feel the way her breath caught when their eyes met.
Should have done a hundred things differently.
But saints help him, he wouldn’t change a single moment.
The book she’d been reaching for still sat on its high shelf, mocking him with its inaccessibility. Historia Naturalis. A favorite of his mother’s.
Moyra had been looking for information on Highland herbs.
The realization made something warm unfurl in his chest. She wasn’t just reading to pass time—she was trying to learn, to understand. To be useful rather than simply existing as the beautiful problem his Council kept insisting she was.
Euan moved to the shelf, reaching the book easily despite the wobbly stool’s defeat of Moyra’s shorter reach. The leather was soft under his fingers, worn smooth by constant handling. He should return it to its place.
Instead, he found himself carrying it toward the library door, already imagining the look on Moyra’s face when he presented it to her tomorrow.
If he could manage to string two words together around her without his carefully maintained control shattering completely.
The storm still raged outside, wind howling through corridors like a living thing. Euan made his way toward his chambers, his wet clothes clinging uncomfortably but his mind replaying the moment he’d caught her on an endless loop.
The way she’d felt in his arms. The scent of lavender that clung to her hair. The rapid flutter of her pulse against his palm when he’d cradled her closer than strictly necessary.
The absolute terror that had lanced through him when he’d seen her falling, that split second where he’d thought he might be too late to catch her.
He couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep pulling her back from danger while simultaneously becoming the most dangerous thing in her world. She needed safety, stability, the freedom to choose her own path without his growing feelings complicating everything.
But as he stripped off his sodden clothes and tried to warm himself by his chamber’s fire, all Euan could think about was the way Moyra had looked at him in that library—like she was fighting the same losing battle against attraction that he’d been waging since the moment he’d found her in Norham’s dungeon.
Like maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to lose that battle too.
The thought should terrify him.
Instead, it kindled something dangerously close to hope.