Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
The door to the private chamber slammed shut behind Moyra, and she finally allowed herself to collapse against the stone wall.
Her legs trembled. Her hands shook so violently she had to clutch them together to stop the tremors. The adrenaline that had carried her through the forest, through the attack, through Euan’s fury-filled rescue, drained away all at once, leaving her hollow and shaking.
“The laird will be along shortly,” Catriona had said after she followed her. Her eyes were soft with concern. “He wanted ye settled first, away from the courtyard gossip. Rest, me lady. Ye’ve had a terrible fright.”
Now Moyra stood alone, staring at her scraped palms. Blood had dried in the creases, mixed with dirt and bits of bark from when she’d caught herself against that tree. The wounds weren’t deep, but they burned like fire.
She moved to the basin of water Catriona had left by the hearth, wincing as she tried to clean the worst of the dirt away. Her torn dress hung loose at the shoulder where one of the scouts had grabbed her. Her hair had come completely free of its braid, tangling wild around her face.
She looked like exactly what she was—a woman who’d barely escaped capture by her father’s men.
The door opened without warning.
Euan filled the frame, his massive shoulders nearly brushing the stone archway.
He’d cleaned the blood from his sword, but his shirt still bore spatters of it—dark stains against dark fabric that spoke of violence used in her defense.
His eyes swept over her with laser focus, cataloging every visible injury, every tear in her clothing, every sign of the attack.
“Ye’re hurt.” Not a question. He crossed the chamber in three strides, his hands already reaching for her before conscious thought seemed to catch up. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.” The protest came automatic, even as her body betrayed her with fresh trembling.
“Ye’re nae fine.” His jaw clenched, that muscle jumping beneath his scar. “Sit. Please, Moyra. Let me help ye.”
The gentleness in his voice—so at odds with the fury still blazing in his eyes—made her throat tight. She sank onto the bench near the hearth, too exhausted to argue further.
Euan knelt before her, and the sight of that massive Highland warrior on his knees at her feet made something twist painfully in her chest. He gathered fresh supplies from the cabinet with controlled efficiency—clean water, linen strips, a jar of something that smelled sharp and medicinal.
“Let me see yer hands.” His voice had gone rough, barely controlled.
Moyra extended her scraped palms, trying not to flinch as he examined them with careful precision. His scarred fingers traced the edges of each wound, so gentle despite their size, despite the violence those same hands had just dealt to her attackers.
“This will sting,” he warned, dampening a cloth with the sharp-smelling liquid.
It did more than sting—it blazed through her raw skin like molten iron. Moyra bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, refusing to cry out despite how tears burned behind her eyes.
Euan’s jaw tightened further. “Breathe through it, lass. Just a moment more.”
She focused on his face instead of the pain—the concentration furrowing his brow, the way his scarred hands worked with such surprising gentleness, the absolute care in every movement as he cleaned dirt from her wounds.
“There.” He set aside the cloth, reaching for clean linen to bind the worst of the scrapes. “The rest should heal clean if ye keep them dry.”
“Thank ye.” Her voice came out hoarse. “Fer everything. Fer following me, fer—”
“Dinnae.” The word came sharp. His grey eyes lifted to hers, blazing with emotion he wasn’t quite managing to contain. “Dinnae thank me fer daeing what I should have prevented in the first place.”
“Ye’re nae responsible fer me foolish choices.” She shifted on the bench, and the movement made him wince—subtle, quickly hidden, but unmistakable. “Euan, yer shoulder.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s nae fine. I saw it when ye came through those trees.” Worry replaced exhaustion, sharp and sudden. “Did they—did one of them manage tae—”
“Nae from them.” He stood abruptly, moving toward the window with that slight favor to his left side that confirmed her suspicion. “Just an old injury acting up. The cold, the rain, the—”
“Let me see.”
“Moyra—”
“Ye just spent the last quarter hour tending me wounds.” She stood despite her shaking legs, crossing to where he’d retreated. “The least ye can dae is let me return the favor.”
His jaw clenched so hard she could see the muscle jumping. “It’s naething ye need tae concern yerself with.”
“It’s clearly something, given how ye’re holding yerself.
” She moved closer, and he backed up a step—actually retreated from her, as if proximity was dangerous.
“What are ye afraid of? That I’ll faint at the sight of blood?
I’ve just been attacked by me faither’s men, Euan.
I think I can handle whatever’s under that shirt. ”
There was vulnerability in his eyes. It was the same look she’d seen when he’d spoken about Loch Eilein, about being defined by scars he hadn’t chosen.
Understanding crashed through her. “It’s the scar, isn’t it? From the battle. Ye dinnae want me tae see it.”
“It’s nae—” He stopped, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “It’s nae something most people find pleasant tae look at.”
“I’m nae most people.” She closed the remaining distance, her voice gentle despite the fire in her chest. “And ye’ve seen me at me worst—filthy from a dungeon, scraped and bleeding, terrified and shaking. If ye can tend me wounds without flinching, I can certainly dae the same fer ye.”
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Then slowly—so slowly it made her chest ache—Euan reached for the hem of his shirt.
Euan had spent years learning to hide the damage.
Shirts chosen carefully to disguise the way his right shoulder sat slightly higher than his left. Movements practiced until the limp became background noise rather than obvious impairment. A lifetime of ensuring no one saw weakness, no vulnerability that enemies could exploit.
But standing before Moyra MacKenzie, watching her green eyes track the careful way he peeled fabric away from skin, he felt every defense crumbling.
The scar was worse than most expected. Not a clean slice that had healed neatly, but a brutal tear that had taken months to close—jagged tissue that ran from collarbone to shoulder blade, thick and raised and utterly disfiguring. The kind of wound that should have killed a six-year-old boy.
That had killed the child he’d been and left something harder in his place.
Moyra’s breath caught, but not with the revulsion he’d braced for. Her fingers lifted, hovering just above the scarred flesh as if asking permission.
“May I?” Her voice came soft, almost reverent.
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
Her touch was featherlight—tracing the ridge of scar tissue with gentle precision, following the path the blade had taken through muscle and bone. He felt her pause where the wound twisted deepest, where surgeons had worried he’d lose all mobility if they cut wrong.
“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly. “Now, I mean. After all these years?”
“Sometimes.” The admission came easier than expected. “Cold weather. Overexertion. Stress.” His mouth quirked without humor. “Rescuing stubborn women from forests tends tae aggravate it.”
“I’m sorry.” Her fingers stilled. “This is me fault. If I hadn’t run—”
“Nay.” He caught her wrist—gently, but firmly enough to stop that line of thinking. “Ye didnae cause this, Moyra. A hired blade at Loch Eilein caused it. Me faither’s enemies caused it. This wound has nothing tae dae with ye.”
“But the pain today—”
“Is worth it.” He met her gaze steadily, willing her to understand. “I’d take a thousand pains like this if it meant keeping ye safe. I’d tear open every old wound and make new ones besides if it meant those bastards never got their hands on ye.”
The guilt in her expression gave way to something softer, more dangerous. Her free hand lifted to trace the scar again, and this time there was no hesitation in her touch.
“I dinnae care about scars,” she said quietly. “I’ve got me own, even if they dinnae show on skin. Three months in a dungeon leaves marks, Euan. The kind that make a person understand how wounds shape us without defining us.”
Her fingers moved higher, tracing the smaller scars that marked his shoulder and neck—evidence of a lifetime spent fighting.
Each touch sent fire racing along his nerves, made his pulse hammer in ways that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the woman standing close enough to count his heartbeats.
“These scars,” she continued, her voice going rough, “they tell me ye’re someone who survived. Who fought through things that should have broken ye and came out stronger. That’s nae something tae hide, Euan MacLeod. That’s something tae be proud of.”
“Moyra—” Her name came out strangled.
“I mean it.” She stepped closer, closing the last breath of distance between them.
Her hand moved from his shoulder to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the scar that marked his face.
“When I look at ye, I dinnae see damage. I see strength. I see someone who understands what it means tae survive despite everything trying tae break ye.”
The air between them crackled with tension sharp enough to cut. Euan’s hands moved without conscious thought—one finding her waist, the other cupping the back of her head, fingers tangling in copper strands that caught firelight and turned it to flame.
“Ye should step back,” he managed, though his hands made no move to release her. “I’m nae—I cannae be what ye need, lass.”
“Ye’re exactly what I need.” Her eyes blazed with certainty that stole his breath. “Scars and all.”
She rose on her toes, closing the distance between their mouths with agonizing slowness, giving him every chance to pull away.
He didn’t.
The first brush of Euan’s lips against hers was gentle—almost tentative, as if he feared she might shatter. Moyra made a soft sound in her throat, pressing closer, and felt his control fracture.
His mouth opened over hers, no longer gentle but consuming—a desperate claiming that spoke of months of denial, of attraction fought and resisted until resistance became impossible.
His hand tightened in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and Moyra’s world narrowed to the heat of him, the taste of whisky and something darker, the solid strength of his body pressed against hers.
She’d never been kissed before. Her father had paraded through their hall, hoping to make advantageous matches, but she’d always managed to avoid their advances.
Nothing could have prepared her for what came—nothing like the way Euan’s mouth moved over hers with devastating precision, coaxing responses she hadn’t known she was capable of giving.
His scarred hand moved from her waist to cup her jaw, thumb stroking her cheekbone with such tenderness it made her chest ache even as his kiss turned more demanding.
She felt the contrast—brutal strength held in check by iron will, passion leashed but barely, the fine tremor in his frame that said he wanted more but wouldn’t take it.
Moyra’s hands found his bare chest, tracing over muscle and scar tissue and heated skin. She felt his heart hammering beneath her palm, felt the sharp inhale when her fingers traced the edge of that terrible scar, felt the way he shuddered as if her touch undid him.
“Moyra.” Her name came out rough against her mouth, half prayer and half curse. “We should—I cannae—”
“Dinnae stop.” She kissed the words against his lips, then his jaw, then the scar that traced his neck. “Please dinnae stop.”
He groaned—a sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest—and claimed her mouth again with renewed intensity.
His hands mapped her body through layers of fabric, exploring curves with careful reverence even as his kiss turned hungry, almost desperate.
She felt him walking her backward until her spine met the stone wall, felt the full length of his body pressed against hers in ways that made her entire being scream for more.
That was dangerous. Everything about it was impossibly dangerous—kissing a man who should be her enemy, wanting someone whose clan had feuded with hers for generations, feeling safe in arms that could break her as easily as protect her.
But she didn’t want to stop.
Euan’s mouth left hers to trace her jaw, her throat, the sensitive place behind her ear that made her gasp and arch against him. His breath came harsh and fast against her skin, his hands trembling slightly as they framed her face, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
“Ye’re so beautiful,” he breathed against her throat. “So bloody beautiful it makes me forget every reason this is a terrible idea.”
“Maybe it’s nae such a terrible idea.” Her fingers traced the strong line of his spine, feeling muscles shift beneath scarred skin. “Maybe—”
A sharp knock at the door made them both freeze.
“Me laird?” Niall’s voice came through the wood once again, apologetic but urgent. “The Council’s demanding an audience. They’ve heard about the attack, about Lady Moyra’s attempt tae leave. They want answers.”
Reality crashed back like cold water. Moyra felt Euan tense against her, felt the moment his laird’s mask slammed back into place even as his hands lingered on her face.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he called back, his voice steady despite how his chest still heaved against hers.
“Aye, me laird.”
Footsteps retreated. Silence fell, broken only by their harsh breathing and the crackle of the dying fire.
Slowly—reluctantly—Euan stepped back, putting proper distance between them. His grey eyes blazed with emotions she couldn’t fully read, his mouth slightly swollen from their kisses, his chest still bare and marked with the evidence of a lifetime spent fighting.
“I need tae—” He gestured vaguely toward his discarded shirt. “The Council. They’ll want explanations.”
“What will ye tell them?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
“The truth.” He pulled the shirt over his head, wincing slightly as fabric caught on his injured shoulder. “That ye’re under me protection. That anyone who questions that answers tae me personally.”
“Even when it costs ye the Council’s support?”
“Even then.” He moved to the door, then paused with his hand on the latch. When he looked back, something fierce and possessive blazed in his eyes. “That kiss changed naething about what I promised ye, Moyra. But it changed everything about what I’m willing tae fight fer.”
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with the ghost of his touch burning against her skin and the taste of him still on her lips.
Moyra sank onto the bench and tried to process what had just happened.
She’d kissed Euan MacLeod.