Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Ye want me tae decide me entire future in a week?”
Moyra’s voice came out sharper than she’d intended, but Euan’s proposition had stripped away any pretense of calm. They stood in the corridor outside her chamber, close enough that she could see the muscle ticking in his jaw, far enough that propriety remained barely intact.
“I want ye tae have time tae think clearly,” Euan said, his eyes holding hers with uncomfortable intensity. “Without yer faither’s threats hanging over yer head. Without me Council breathing down me neck. Just ye, deciding what ye actually want.”
“And if what I want is tae leave?” The question tasted bitter on her tongue. “If I decide marriage—tae anyone—isnae what I need right now?”
“Then I’ll find a way tae get ye out safely.” No hesitation. Just that absolute certainty that made her chest ache. “Somewhere yer faither cannae reach ye. Somewhere ye can build whatever life ye choose without anyone trying tae use ye as a pawn.”
The promise should have filled her with relief. Instead, it made something twist painfully beneath her ribs. The thought of leaving Dunvegan—of leaving him—felt wrong in ways she couldn’t quite understand.
“But ye think marriage would be better.” Not a question.
“Aye.” Euan stepped closer, and the air between them crackled with tension.
“A marriage between us would solve everything, Moyra. It would give ye protection that goes beyond me word. It would neutralize yer faither’s claims. It would unite our clans instead of keeping them at each other’s throats. ”
“How practical.” She wrapped her arms around herself, hating how defensive she sounded. “A political solution wrapped up in vows.”
“Nae just political.” His voice roughened. “That’s nae what I—” He stopped, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “Is the thought of marrying me really so terrible?”
The vulnerability in his question caught her off guard. This wasn’t the commanding laird or the skilled warrior. This was just a man asking if she could stomach the idea of binding herself to him.
“I didnae say that.”
“Ye didnae have tae.” He moved closer still, crowding her against the door in ways that made her pulse race. “Every time I mention marriage, ye look like I’ve suggested throwing ye back in that dungeon.”
“That’s nae fair—”
“Then tell me why.” His hands found the door on either side of her head, caging her in without quite touching. “Tell me what’s so horrible about the idea of being me wife.”
Heat crawled up her neck. “It’s nae about ye specifically—”
“Isnae it?” Those grey eyes searched her face, and she saw hurt flickering beneath the intensity. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels personal. It feels like ye’d rather risk whatever uncertain future awaits ye than bind yerself tae me.”
“That’s nae—” She stopped, frustration mixing with something far more dangerous. “Ye’re twisting me words.”
“I’m trying tae understand them.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Would it really be so horrible, Moyra? Being married tae me? Staying here at Dunvegan, where ye’re safe and—”
“Ye’re just nae what I want.” The words burst out before wisdom could stop them.
Silence crashed between them like a physical thing. Euan went very still.
“What? Because I seem tae recall ye returning me kiss.” His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And unless I’m very much mistaken, ye seemed rather enthusiastic about it.”
Heat flooded her face. “That was different. That was—”
“That was what, Moyra?” He shifted, his body nearly pressing against hers now. “A moment of weakness? A mistake ye regret?”
“I dinnae regret it. But that daesnae mean—”
“Daesnae mean what? That ye’re attracted tae me?” His hand moved from the door to cup her jaw, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “Because I think ye are. I think ye’re lying tae both of us right now, and I want tae ken why.”
“Euan—”
“What is yer type, then?” The challenge in his voice made her spine straighten. “Describe him fer me. This perfect man who’s everything I’m nae.”
She should step back. Should duck under his arm and escape into her chamber before this conversation destroyed what little sense she had left. Instead, she met his gaze and felt something reckless take hold.
“I prefer men who are...” She paused, watching his jaw clench. “Who are less... overwhelming. Less intense. Men who dinnae fill every room they enter or make me forget how tae breathe properly when they stand too close.”
“That sounds miserable.”
“It sounds safe.” Her voice wavered despite her best efforts. “It sounds like nae constantly feeling off-balance and confused and—”
“And what?” His thumb traced her lower lip now, making coherent thought impossible. “Attracted? Because that’s what this is, lass. This thing between us that ye keep trying tae deny.”
“I’m nae denying anything. I’m simply saying—”
“Ye’re saying I’m nae yer type while looking at me like ye want tae devour me whole.” His voice went rough, almost harsh. “Ye’re lying, Moyra MacKenzie. And we both ken it.”
The accusation snapped something in her chest. “Fine. Ye want the truth?”
“Aye. I dae.”
“The truth is ye terrify me.” The words came out in a rush, too honest to take back. “Ye make me feel things I dinnae want tae feel. Ye make me imagine a future I cannae afford tae hope fer. And ye stand there asking me tae marry ye like it’s simple when nothing about this is simple!”
His eyes darkened. “Moyra—”
“I’m nae finished.” She pressed her palms against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath her hands. “Ye want tae ken me type? Me type is a man who daesnae make me question everything I thought I knew about meself. Who daesnae make me want things I cannae have. Who daesnae—”
Euan’s mouth crashed against hers, swallowing whatever else she’d been about to say.
For one heartbeat, Moyra froze. Then something inside her broke completely, and she was kissing him back with a desperation that bordered on violence. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as her mind screamed that this proved his point entirely.
His large hands found her waist, lifting her until her back pressed against the door and her legs wrapped instinctively around his hips.
The position brought them flush together, and the heat radiating from his body made coherent thought impossible.
She felt every hard plane of muscle, every controlled breath, every barely restrained tremor that said he wanted this as badly as she did.
“Still nae yer type?” The question came rough against her mouth.
“Shut up.” She kissed him again, harder this time, trying to erase the smug satisfaction from his voice.
It worked. His control cracked further, one hand moving from her waist to tangle in her hair while the other gripped her thigh hard enough to leave marks. She felt him shudder when her teeth caught his lower lip, heard the groan he couldn’t quite suppress when she rolled her hips against his.
That was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid—that overwhelming need that made everything else fade to background noise.
“Moyra.” Her name came out strangled. “We need tae—”
“Dinnae stop.” She traced kisses along his jaw, down his throat, feeling his pulse hammer beneath her lips. “Please dinnae stop.”
Euan’s grip tightened, his body going rigid with barely controlled restraint. “If we dinnae stop now, I willnae be able tae—”
“Good.” She found his mouth again, kissing him with a desperation that bordered on madness.
He made a sound low in his throat—half surrender, half warning—before his mouth opened over hers completely. The kiss turned consuming, all pretense of gentleness abandoned as he claimed her with a thoroughness that made her entire being sing.
Her back hit the door with enough force to rattle it in its frame.
Euan’s body pressed against hers, pinning her there with a delicious weight that made her arch into him.
One of his hands slid from her hair down her spine, tracing every curve with possessive precision.
The other moved to her breast, thumb circling through layers of fabric until she gasped into his mouth.
“Still think I’m nae yer type?” He sounded smug, smiling against her lips.
“Ye’re the worst.” But her hands betrayed her, already fumbling with the laces of his shirt. “Absolutely insufferable.”
“Aye.” His mouth traced her throat, teeth grazing skin that made her whimper. “But ye want me anyway.”
She did. She wanted him with a desperation that terrified her. Wanted his hands on her skin, wanted to feel the heat of him without barriers, wanted to lose herself in this overwhelming need until nothing else mattered.
Her fingers finally found the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward with impatient hands. She felt his stomach muscles clench beneath her touch, heard his sharp inhale as her palms traced scarred skin.
Then his hand caught her wrist, stopping her progress with gentle firmness.
“Nay.” The word came out rough but absolute. “Nae that.”
Moyra pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, confusion and hurt warring in her chest. “Euan—”
“Anything else.” His thumb traced circles on her captured wrist, as if to soften the rejection. “But nae that. Nae yet.”
The vulnerability in his voice made her chest ache. This was about the scars—about the damage he still carried from a battle fought when he was barely more than a child. About wounds that had never fully healed, both physical and otherwise.
“I dinnae care about scars,” she said quietly. “I’ve told ye that.”
“I ken.” His forehead pressed against hers, and she felt the fine tremor running through his large frame. “But I dae. And I’m nae—I cannae—”
Understanding crashed through her. This wasn’t rejection. This was self-preservation. The same instinct that made her want to run when emotions got too intense, that made her deny an attraction she couldn’t afford to acknowledge.
“All right.” She released his shirt, her hands moving to cup his face instead. “Then we stop here.”