Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The morning sun streaming through her window felt like a mockery.
Moyra sat at the small table in her chamber, pushing porridge around her bowl without appetite while Catriona bustled about, tidying things that didn’t need tidying.
The maid’s usual cheerful chatter had taken on a somber quality, and Moyra found herself bracing for whatever news had cast such a pall over the castle.
“Three men,” Catriona said finally, her voice barely above a whisper as she folded the same blanket for the third time. “Lost in last night’s raid. Good men, all of them. Married, with bairns waiting at home.”
The spoon slipped from Moyra’s fingers, clattering against the bowl. “What?”
“The MacKenzie scouts that got close to the walls—they weren’t just scouts.” Catriona’s grey eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Some broke through while our men were dealing with the others. There was fighting in the lower courtyard. Brief, but bloody.”
Moyra’s throat closed. Three men. Dead. Because her father’s forces had been prowling the castle grounds, looking for... what? Proof she was there? A way to extract her? Intelligence they could use against the MacLeods?
It didn’t matter why. They were dead, and it was her fault.
“And there’ve been more letters,” Catriona continued, her voice gaining strength as if grateful to have something practical to report. “Arrived with the dawn. The laird’s been in his office since first light, reading them with his Council.”
Of course there had been more letters. Her father seemed determined to flood Dunvegan with threats, each one escalating the danger, tightening the noose around everyone here.
Around her.
“The wives,” Moyra managed, her voice rough. “The children. Has anyone—”
“The laird’s seeing to them personally. Making sure they’re provided fer, that they want fer naething.” Catriona’s expression softened slightly. “He takes care of his own, our laird daes. Always has.”
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made guilt twist deeper into Moyra’s gut. Euan taking care of the families of men who’d died protecting a castle that had become a target because of her presence.
She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her untouched breakfast. “I need some air.”
“Me lady, are ye certain? The laird gave orders that—”
“I’ll stay within the courtyard.” The lie came easily, necessary. “Just a few moments tae clear me head.”
Catriona looked uncertain but nodded, returning to her tidying. Moyra moved toward the door with forced casualness, as if this were just another morning stroll rather than a decision that had crystallized with brutal clarity the moment she’d learned about those three dead men.
She had to leave.
Not to go back to her father—never that.
But away from there, away from Dunvegan and the MacLeods who kept dying because Keith MacKenzie’s daughter existed within their walls.
She’d figure out where later. Find a convent willing to take her, perhaps.
Disappear into obscurity where her presence couldn’t be weaponized against innocent people.
The corridors bustled with morning activity—servants hauling linens, guards trading posts, life continuing as if three men hadn’t died in the dark.
Moyra’s throat tightened with each face she passed, each person who knew she was the reason for last night’s blood.
She kept her head down, her pace steady but not rushed, aiming for the small side gate near the kitchens.
She’d noticed it during her wanderings—used for deliveries, frequently unmanned when the day’s work began in earnest.
Her escape route.
The morning air hit her face like a blessing when she slipped through the gate, cool and clean and tasting of freedom. Behind her, Dunvegan’s stones rose massive and imposing. Ahead lay the tree line, dark pines that could swallow her completely if she just kept moving.
Moyra ran.
Her slippers were inadequate for the terrain, but she didn’t care. Loose stones bit through thin soles. Low branches caught at her hair and cloak. None of it mattered compared to the desperate need to put distance between herself and the castle where men kept dying because of her.
The trees closed ranks around her. Shadows pressed in.
Her lungs burned, each breath a harsh rasp that surely carried for miles.
Her heartbeat filled her skull—too loud, too fast—obliterating the crack of branches underfoot, the whisper of leaves, the last echoes of Dunvegan disappearing into silence.
She’d made it perhaps a quarter mile when the first shadow moved.
Moyra froze, her heart lurching. Just a deer, she told herself. Or a bird taking flight. Nothing to—
Three men stepped from behind the pines, their MacKenzie plaids unmistakable even in the dappled morning light. Scouts. Her father’s men, the same ones who’d gotten close enough to the castle the night before to kill three MacLeods.
And now they’d found exactly what they’d been looking for.
“Well, well.” The largest one grinned, showing teeth gone black at the edges. “Laird MacKenzie said his daughter might try something foolish. Looks like he was right.”
Terror locked Moyra’s legs. She should run, scream. Anything except stand there like a rabbit before wolves.
But her body had forgotten how to move.
“Come along now, lass.” A second man moved to flank her, his hand already reaching for the rope at his belt. “Yer Da wants ye home. Says it’s time ye stopped playing at being a MacLeod’s whore.”
The crude words broke through her paralysis. Moyra spun and ran, branches whipping her face as she crashed blindly through underbrush. Behind her, she heard laughter and heavy footsteps—men who now knew these woods, who didn’t need to fear twisted ankles or dead-end ravines.
A hand caught her cloak. She jerked forward, the fabric tearing with a sound like a scream. Kept running. Another hand snagged her braid, yanking so hard her neck wrenched and stars exploded across her vision.
“Feisty little thing.” Hot breath against her ear made her stomach heave. “That’ll make this more interesting.”
Moyra twisted, her elbow connecting with something soft. The man cursed and loosened his grip just enough for her to wrench free. She stumbled forward three steps before strong arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her clear off the ground despite her kicks and clawing fingers.
“Enough!” The third man’s voice cut through her screams. “Laird MacKenzie wants her alive and undamaged. Bind her wrists and let’s—”
The arrow took him through the throat.
One moment he was speaking. The next, he stood swaying with a shaft protruding from his neck, blood bubbling around the fletching. He toppled backward, dead before he hit the ground.
Chaos erupted.
The man holding Moyra shoved her away hard enough that she crashed into a tree trunk, bark scraping her palms raw. Through her dazed vision, she saw him draw his sword just as a massive figure exploded from the tree line.
Euan.
He moved like violence given form—his blade singing through the air to meet the MacKenzie scout’s desperate parry with enough force to drive the man back three steps. No limp now. No visible injury. Just lethal precision honed by years of training and absolute fury blazing in those storm-grey eyes.
The second scout rushed into him from the side.
Euan spun, his sword deflecting the attack while his free hand shot out to grip the man’s wrist, twisting with brutal efficiency.
Bone cracked. The scout screamed, his weapon falling from useless fingers before Euan’s blade opened his throat in one smooth motion.
Two men down in as many heartbeats.
The remaining MacKenzie—the one who’d held Moyra—backed away, his face gone grey with terror. “The laird said—we were just following orders—”
“Then tell yer laird,” Euan’s voice came rough as gravel, “that the next man who touches what’s mine will die slower.”
The scout ran.
Euan let him go, his attention already swinging to Moyra where she’d collapsed against the tree. In three strides, he crossed the distance, his hands finding her shoulders with a grip just shy of painful.
“Are ye hurt?” His eyes raked over her—checking for blood, for injuries, for proof that he’d been too late. “Did they—”
“Nay.” The word came out shaky, her entire body trembling with adrenaline crash. “They didn’t have time tae—ye came before—”
His arms went around her then, crushing her against his chest with a fierceness that stole what little breath she’d managed to recover.
She felt his heart hammering against her cheek, felt the fine tremor running through his massive frame, felt the careful way his scarred hand cradled the back of her head as if she might shatter.
“Dinnae ever dae that again.” The words vibrated through his chest, rough with something that might have been fear. “Dinnae ever run from me like that.”
“I wasn’t running from ye.” Her voice muffled against his shirt. “I was trying tae protect yer clan. Three men died last night because of me, because me faither—”
“Three men died because Keith MacKenzie sent killers tae me walls.” Euan pulled back just enough to grip her chin, forcing her to meet his blazing gaze. “Ye dinnae get tae take responsibility fer his choices. Ye dinnae get tae sacrifice yerself tae solve problems he created.”
“But if I hadn’t been here—”
“If ye hadn’t been here, those men would have died attacking us fer some other reason Keith manufactured.
” His thumb traced her jaw with devastating gentleness despite the fury still burning in his eyes.
“He wants our lands. He wants his marriage tae Ishbel tae mean something. Ye’re just the excuse he’s using this time. ”
“I can’t stay.” The words burst out before she could stop them, raw and desperate. “I can’t keep being the reason yer people suffer. The reason ye have tae stand in the rain checking patrols, the reason men die protecting walls that are only targets because I’m inside them.”