Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The wooden sword whistled past Moyra’s ear with enough force to make her duck.
“Nae like that, Tavish!” She caught the boy’s wrist before he could take another wild swing, redirecting his momentum with practiced efficiency. “Ye’re trying tae impress the lasses at the Fire Fair, nae behead them. Control the blade, dinnae let it control ye.”
Around her, a dozen young clansmen struggled through the training drill she’d been demonstrating for the past hour.
Five days had passed since her nightmare in the garden, five days of relative peace that had lulled Dunvegan into cautious optimism.
The MacKenzie scouts had retreated after Euan’s brutal message, and the castle had thrown itself into preparations for the upcoming Fire Fair with renewed vigor.
Moyra had found herself swept up in the festivities despite her initial hesitation.
Helping Catriona arrange garlands in the great hall.
Assisting the kitchen staff with preparations for the feast. And now—somehow—teaching a group of eager boys the sword techniques she’d absorbed from years of watching men train and a few lessons from Euan.
“Like this, me lady?” Young Charlie—barely fourteen and all gangly limbs—attempted the parry she’d demonstrated. His form was terrible, shoulders hunched and weight distributed wrong, but his enthusiasm made her smile despite the disaster waiting to happen.
“Better. But drop yer shoulder and—Tavish, what did I just say about control?”
Too late. Tavish’s overenthusiastic swing connected with Charlie’s practice sword, sending both boys stumbling into each other in a tangle of limbs and wooden weapons.
Moyra lunged forward to steady them, but her foot caught on Tavish’s dropped blade.
The world tilted sideways as she pitched toward the hard-packed earth.
Strong hands caught her waist, hauling her upright with casual strength that made her pulse stutter.
“Careful, lass.” Euan’s voice rumbled against her back, warm and amused. “Ye’re supposed tae be teaching them, nae joining them on the ground.”
Her cheeks burned as she steadied herself, hyperaware of how his large hands lingered on her waist, how the solid warmth of his chest pressed against her spine.
Around them, the boys had gone silent, their young faces torn between embarrassment at causing the mishap and fascination at their laird’s sudden appearance.
“I had it under control,” Moyra managed, stepping out of his grip before her body could betray how much she wanted to lean into his touch instead.
“Did ye now?” His mouth quirked as he surveyed the chaotic training ground—boys scattered like seeds, practice weapons abandoned mid-drill, one lad nursing a bruised shin. “This is yer idea of control?”
“They’re enthusiastic.” She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed by the laughter dancing in his eyes. “That’s worth more than perfect form.”
“Enthusiasm that breaks bones is nae worth much at all.” He moved past her to where young Tavish stood frozen, the boy’s face gone pale at his laird’s scrutiny. But Euan’s voice gentled as he addressed the terrified youth. “Show me yer stance, lad.”
Moyra watched Euan’s broad hands adjust Tavish’s grip, watched those scarred fingers guide the boy’s posture with unexpected gentleness.
The other boys crowded closer, hungry for their laird’s attention.
His deep voice cut through the chaos, transforming the scattered drill into something purposeful within heartbeats.
She found herself transfixed by the sight of him teaching—the way his scarred shoulder flexed as he demonstrated a parry, how his mouth curved when one of the boys finally got the movement right, the absolute authority in every gesture tempered by genuine care for these young warriors-in-training.
Watching Euan MacLeod be good with children was doing dangerous things to her resolve.
“Lady Moyra?” Charlie’s tentative voice pulled her from thoughts that had grown entirely too warm. “The laird’s asking if ye’d demonstrate the counterattack ye showed us earlier.”
Her gaze snapped to Euan, finding amusement and challenge in equal measure written across his scarred features. He knew exactly where her thoughts had wandered, the bastard. The slight quirk of his mouth said as much.
“Aye.” She moved to the center of the training ground, acutely aware of how his eyes tracked her every step. “Charlie, take yer position. Tavish, watch his footwork this time instead of trying tae knock his head off.”
The boys laughed, tension easing as they arranged themselves to watch. Moyra faced Charlie, wooden sword held in the ready position. The boy mirrored her stance with endearing seriousness.
“The key,” she said, pitching her voice to carry, “is anticipation. Ye need tae read yer opponent’s body before they move. Watch—”
She lunged. Charlie blocked, exactly as she’d taught him, and she flowed into the counterattack—a sweeping arc that would have disarmed him if not for Euan’s sudden intervention.
His practice sword met hers with a crack that vibrated up her arms, stopping her strike dead. “Too slow,” he said, his voice dropping to that whisky-rough timbre that made her stomach clench. “Yer opponent would have recovered and struck before ye completed that move.”
“Then show me the correct form.” The challenge came automatic, sparked by the heat blazing in his eyes and the way his body had moved between her and Charlie with predatory grace.
Something dangerous flickered across his expression. “Charlie, step back. Lady Moyra needs a proper opponent.”
The boys scrambled to clear space. Their excited whispers filled the sudden tension. Moyra gripped her practice sword tighter, heart hammering as Euan circled her with the focused intensity of a wolf sizing up prey.
“Ready, lass?” His mouth curved in a smile that was all challenge.
She attacked.
Euan had known teaching Moyra MacKenzie proper sword work would be a terrible idea.
He simply hadn’t anticipated how terrible.
She moved like water—fluid and adaptable, compensating for lack of strength with speed and cunning that suggested a natural talent he couldn’t help but admire.
Her hair had come loose from its braid during the earlier chaos, falling around her face in waves that caught morning light and turned it to flame.
Her green eyes blazed with concentration as she pressed her attack, forcing him to actually focus rather than simply go through the motions.
Beautiful. Deadly in ways that had nothing to do with the wooden blade in her hands.
He parried her strike, redirecting her momentum with just enough force to throw her off balance. She recovered instantly, pivoting to avoid his counter with grace that made something low in his gut tighten. Around them, the boys had gone silent, transfixed by the display.
“Yer footwork’s improved,” he observed, blocking another strike. “Been practicing?”
“Watching ye train yer men.” She ducked under his swing, her hair brushing his arm and leaving fire in its wake. “I’m a quick study.”
“Aye but watching isnae the same as daeing.” He advanced, forcing her back three steps. “Ye’re telegraphing yer moves. Any experienced fighter would read them before ye struck.”
“Then stop talking and show me how tae fix it.” Her breath came faster now, cheeks flushed from exertion.
Saints preserve him.
Euan circled behind her in one smooth motion, his chest pressing against her back as his hands found her arms. The contact sent electricity arcing between them—he felt her sharp inhale, felt the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers.
“Like this.” He guided her through the proper form, conscious of every point where their bodies touched.
“Ye dinnae announce yer intention. Ye keep yer weight balanced, ready tae shift in any direction. And ye watch yer opponent’s center—” His hand moved to her waist, feeling her stomach muscles clench beneath his palm.
“This is where their movement originates. Read it, and ye’ll ken what’s coming afore they dae. ”
“That’s cheating.” Her voice came out breathless, and he felt the tremor that ran through her frame.
“That’s surviving.” He stepped back before temptation to pull her closer became overwhelming. “Again. Try that strike, but this time—”
She spun and attacked in one fluid motion. Her unexpected speed caught him off-guard. He blocked barely in time, her blade skimming past his guard close enough that he felt the whisper of wood through air.
Pride sparked through his chest. “Better. Much better.”
“Ye’re nae the only one who can surprise people, Laird MacLeod.” The challenge in her eyes made his blood heat in ways that had nothing to do with combat.
Strike. Block. Strike again—faster now, harder, until his control cracked like ice under spring thaw.
Her teeth caught her lip. Her body flowed with unconscious grace.
And saints, that fierce determination in her expression—the promise she’d never yield, never surrender—was destroying him one heartbeat at a time.
He’d created a monster. A beautiful, stubborn, utterly captivating monster who made him forget every reason he should maintain distance.
“Enough.” He lowered his sword, breathing harder than the simple drill warranted. “Ye’ve learned well, lass. The boys are lucky tae have ye teaching them.”
“Even when I nearly get them killed?” Her mouth quirked, echoing his earlier teasing.
“Especially then. Builds character.” He turned to the watching boys, who’d been following the exchange like spectators at a tournament.
“All right, lads. Pair up and practice what Lady Moyra showed ye earlier. And fer the love of all that’s holy, dinnae take each other’s heads off.
We need ye in one piece fer the Fire Fair. ”
The boys scattered to their drills, their chatter rising as they dissected every moment of the demonstration. Euan found himself alone with Moyra at the center of the training ground.
“Thank ye fer nae making me look foolish in front of them.”
“Ye could never look foolish. Reckless, perhaps. Overly enthusiastic. But never foolish.”
Moyra’s breath caught, her lips parting slightly, and Euan felt his control slip another dangerous notch.
This close, he could see the exact shade of green in her eyes, could count the faint freckles dusting her nose, could remember with perfect clarity how she’d tasted when he’d kissed her five days before.
How she’d melted against him like she belonged there.
He should leave. Stride away and focus on preparations both in the castle as well as in the village for the Fire Fair. Instead, his thumb traced her jawline once, a fleeting touch that made her breath catch.
“This conversation isnae finished,” he promised. “Ye and I—we need tae talk. Properly. About what happens next.”
Then he was striding toward the eastern gates, his heart still hammering from more than just exertion, leaving Moyra standing in the training ground with fire in her hair and questions in her eyes.