Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Fire Fair exploded around Moyra like a living thing.
The sky was darkening, torches blazing against it, flames whipping in the wind. Music poured out from all directions—fiddles and drums, people singing songs she’d never heard. Everything smelled like roasted meat and pastries and smoke. It made her hungry all over again.
She’d never seen anything like it.
The villagers had transformed the meadow into something special. Stalls lined the field with bright fabric stretched overhead, dancers circled the bonfire, and children ran shrieking and laughing through the crowds. Even the air felt different—alive with energy that made her heart beat faster.
“Careful, lass.” Euan’s voice rumbled beside her, warm with amusement. “Close yer mouth before ye swallow a moth.”
Moyra snapped her jaw shut, heat flooding her cheeks.
But when she looked up at him, his eyes held nothing but gentle teasing.
He’d dressed for the occasion—a fresh shirt, dark leather breeches that made her pulse stutter, his hair tied back to keep it from his scarred face.
The firelight caught on the strong lines of his jaw, the exact curve of his mouth, and she had to force herself to look away before she did something foolish.
Like rise on her toes and kiss him again.
“I’ve never been tae a Fire Fair,” she admitted, trying to redirect her thoughts. “Me faither said they were—” She stopped, not wanting to ruin the night with Keith MacKenzie’s opinions.
“Barbaric?” Euan supplied, his mouth quirking. “Pagan? Beneath the dignity of proper Highland nobility?”
“All of the above.” She let him guide her deeper into the fair, his large hand warm at the small of her back. “He preferred formal gatherings. Controlled events where everyone knew their place.”
“This is the opposite of controlled.” He gestured to the chaos around them—a juggler tossing flaming torches while a crowd cheered, two men engaged in what looked like a friendly wrestling match, women dancing with abandon that would scandalize any formal gathering.
“But that’s the point. One night where rank daesnae matter.
Where a laird can laugh with his crofters and everyone’s equal under the fire’s light. ”
The philosophy behind made her smile. This was what leadership should look like—not her father’s cold manipulation, but genuine connection with the people he protected.
“Come.” Euan’s hand found hers, his scarred fingers threading through her smaller ones. “Let me show ye what ye’ve been missing.”
He pulled her toward a stall where an older woman stood behind rows of wooden bows and quivers bristling with arrows. An archery contest, from the look of the targets set up fifty paces away.
“Fancy trying yer hand?” The challenge in his eyes made her spine straighten.
“I’ve never shot a bow in me life.”
“Then it’s past time ye learned.” He selected one of the smaller bows, testing its draw before handing it to her. “Every Highlander should ken how tae shoot.”
Moyra took the weapon, surprised by its weight. The wood was smooth beneath her fingers, warm from the fire’s heat. She notched an arrow the way she’d seen done, drawing back the string—
“Nae like that.” Euan moved behind her, his chest pressing against her back as his hands covered hers. “Ye’ll shoot yer own foot off with that stance.”
His breath ghosted across her neck as he adjusted her grip, sending fire racing down her spine. She felt the solid warmth of him surrounding her, the careful strength in hands that guided rather than controlled, the way his voice dropped to that rough whisper that made her stomach clench.
“Like this.” He moved her arms slightly, positioning the bow. “Feet wider. Weight balanced. And dinnae hold yer breath—let it flow out as ye release.”
Moyra tried to focus on his instructions rather than how his body felt pressed against hers. The bow. The target. Anything except the heat pooling low in her belly or the way her pulse hammered in places it absolutely shouldn’t.
“Ready?” His lips brushed her ear, probably by accident but it felt deliberate enough to make her shiver.
She released.
The arrow wobbled through the air, barely making it halfway to the target before dropping into the grass with an anticlimactic thud. Around them, a few spectators chuckled.
Euan’s chest rumbled against her back. “Well. At least ye hit the ground.”
“Ye’re supposed tae be teaching me, nae mocking me.” But she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her mouth.
“I can dae both.” He handed her another arrow, stepping back just enough to give her space. “Try again. This time, remember what I showed ye.”
She did better on the second attempt—the arrow at least reached the target, though it bounced off the outer edge rather than sticking. The third shot actually embedded itself in the wood, albeit nowhere near the center.
“Progress.” Euan’s approval made her heart skip a beat. “A few more years of practice and ye might actually hit what ye’re aiming fer.”
“A few years?” She lowered the bow, turning to face him. “I think I deserve more credit than that.”
“Dae ye now?” His mouth curved in that dangerous way that made her forget how to breathe properly. “What sort of credit did ye have in mind?”
The air between them crackled with tension that had nothing to do with archery. Moyra opened her mouth to respond—to say what, she had no idea—when a burst of laughter from a nearby stall broke the moment.
“Come.” Euan took the bow from her hands, returning it to the weathered woman with a nod of thanks. “There’s more tae see. Unless ye want tae keep embarrassing yerself with that bow.”
“I was improving!”
“Aye, from terrible tae merely bad. Quite the achievement.” But his eyes danced with warmth that took any sting from the words.
He guided her toward another stall where wooden practice swords and a mock combat ring were. Young men and women were already engaged in friendly duels, their laughter rising above the clash of wood on wood.
“Fancy a rematch?” Euan’s challenge was clear. “See if ye’ve learned anything from this morning’s lesson?”
Moyra eyed the practice swords, then him, weighing her chances. He’d go easy on her—she knew that now, had seen the way he tempered his strength when they’d sparred earlier. But pride made her lift her chin.
“Ye’re going tae regret asking that.”
“We’ll see.” He selected two swords, tossing one to her with casual confidence.
They faced each other in the ring, and Moyra felt the crowd’s attention shift to them.
The laird and the MacKenzie woman—it would make for good gossip tomorrow.
But right now, with firelight dancing across Euan’s scarred features and that competitive gleam in his eyes, she didn’t care about propriety.
She attacked first.
Their blades met with a crack that vibrated up her arms. Euan blocked easily, as she’d expected, but she flowed into the counter he’d taught her—sweeping low, forcing him to adjust his stance. His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.
“Someone’s been paying attention.”
“I told ye—I’m a quick study.” She pressed the advantage, testing his defenses with the combinations she’d memorized from watching him train.
They moved through the ring in a dance that was half combat, half dance. Every time their blades connected, every time he had to actually work to block her strikes, she felt that same thrill she’d experienced this morning. The knowledge that she could surprise him.
He caught her blade in a lock, their faces suddenly inches apart. “Ye’re getting cocky, lass.”
“Is that a problem?” Her breath came faster now, from exertion and proximity in equal measure.
“Nay.” His voice dropped to that rough timbre that made her knees weak. “I like ye cocky.”
The air between them turned molten. Moyra was acutely aware of how close they stood, how the firelight caught in his eyes and turned them silver, how his chest rose and fell with controlled breathing that suggested he felt this pull as strongly as she did.
She should step back. Should remember they had an audience, that half the village was probably watching their display and drawing conclusions she couldn’t afford them to draw.
Instead, she held his gaze and smiled. “Then ye’re going tae love what comes next.”
She twisted, breaking the lock with a move she’d seen Niall use against him once. Euan stumbled back a step—actually stumbled—surprise flickering across his features before dissolving into something that looked dangerously close to pride.
“Well played.” He lowered his sword, conceding the point. “Very well played.”
The crowd around them erupted in cheers and laughter.
Heat crawled up Moyra’s neck when she realized how many people had been watching them.
Half the fair had seen their little sparring match.
But then Euan’s hand found hers, his fingers threading through hers right there in front of everyone, and she found she didn’t care as much.
“Come.” He pulled her from the ring, ignoring the knowing looks and whispered comments. “Before ye get any more dangerous ideas.”
They wandered through the fair together, his hand never leaving hers, and Moyra felt something shift in her chest. This wasn’t her captor showing her around his territory.
This was... something else. Something that made her pulse race and her stomach flutter and her carefully constructed walls crumble a little more with each shared smile.
“Hungry?” Euan gestured toward the food stalls lining the meadow’s edge. “Ye need tae try the fair’s offerings. Consider it cultural education.”
The scents hit her first—roasted chestnuts crackling over open flames, honeyed pastries glistening in the firelight, spiced meats that made her mouth water despite the nerves still jangling through her system.
“I dinnae even ken where tae start.” She stared at all the food, not sure where to start. After months of thin gruel and stale bread, having choices felt strange.