Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The blade stopped an inch from Moyra’s throat.
“Dead,” Calum MacKinnon announced cheerfully, withdrawing his practice sword with a flourish. “Again.”
Moyra lowered her own wooden blade, frustration mixing with grudging respect.
They’d been sparring for the better part of an hour in the training yard, and the man was relentless.
Worse, he made it look effortless—all easy grace and that sun-bright grin that probably made half the Highland lasses swoon.
“Ye’re too focused on strength,” he continued, circling her like a hawk sizing up prey. “Ye need tae think like water—find the gaps, flow around defenses instead of battering against them.”
“Easy fer ye tae say,” Moyra shot back, adjusting her grip. “Ye’ve probably been wielding a sword since ye could walk.”
“Since I was four, actually.” His sea-blue eyes danced with mischief. “And I’ll have ye ken I was terrible at it. Kept stabbing meself in the foot.”
Despite herself, Moyra laughed. The sound felt good—natural in ways it hadn’t since that disastrous morning with Euan. Seven hours had passed since the Covenant brothers’ arrival, seven hours of careful avoidance and conversations that never quite addressed what had happened between them.
“Again,” Calum commanded, but his tone gentled. “And this time, remember—anticipate me center, just like Euan taught ye.”
The mention of Euan made something twist in her chest. She’d watched him training earlier, the way his scarred shoulder flexed as he moved, the absolute authority in every gesture.
Then he’d caught her staring and his expression had shuttered completely, that laird’s mask slamming into place before he’d turned away.
“Moyra?” Calum’s voice pulled her back. “Where’d ye go just then?”
“Naewhere.” She raised her blade. “Ready when ye are.”
They engaged again, wood cracking against wood as they moved through the forms. Moyra tried to apply his lesson—reading his body, anticipating rather than reacting. When she actually managed to slip past his guard and tap his ribs, Calum’s delighted laugh rang across the yard.
“There! That’s what I’m talking about!” He caught her hand, spinning her in an impromptu victory dance that made her stumble. “Ye’re a natural, lass. Give it a few months and ye’ll be giving Euan himself trouble.”
The casual contact—his hand warm around hers, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating from him—should have felt wrong. Instead, it felt easy. Uncomplicated. Nothing like the charged tension that crackled whenever Euan so much as looked at her.
“I dinnae think anyone gives Euan MacLeod trouble,” she said wryly.
“Oh, I think ye give him plenty.” Calum’s grin turned knowing. “The question is whether ye mean tae.”
Before she could respond, David MacDonald called from across the yard. “Calum! Stop monopolizing the lady. Some of us would like tae eat before nightfall.”
“Right!” Calum released her hand, though his eyes still sparkled with mischief. “Lunch awaits. I’m sure the food’s better than me company.”
“That’s nae saying much,” Archibald MacRae rumbled as they approached the long table set up in the courtyard. The massive warrior had claimed one end, his scarred hands already reaching for bread. “Yer company’s only tolerable in small doses.”
“Says the man who once went six days without speaking tae anyone,” Calum shot back, pulling out a chair for Moyra with exaggerated courtesy. “Brooding beside a loch like some tragic hero.”
“I was thinking.”
“Ye were sulking.”
“There’s a difference.”
Moyra settled into the chair, grateful for the easy banter that required nothing from her except occasional laughter. Platters of roasted meats, fresh bread, and autumn fruits covered the table—more food than she’d seen in months. Her stomach growled appreciatively.
“Here.” Calum passed her a plate already loaded with the best cuts. “Ye need tae eat more.
Their laughter washed over her, warm and inclusive. These men—these warriors who’d survived childhood trauma together and forged brotherhood from enemy blood—they made her feel welcome in ways the rest of the MacLeod clan never quite had. As if her presence was wanted rather than tolerated.
“Where is Euan?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Where d’ye think?” Calum gestured toward the battlements where a tall figure stood silhouetted against the sky. “Brooding. It’s what he daes best.”
“Second best,” David corrected. “His best skill is actually making everyone around him feel guilty fer having fun.”
“That’s nae true.” But Moyra’s protest lacked conviction. Euan had been avoiding her since his brothers had arrived, throwing himself into patrols and training with single-minded intensity that spoke of a man running from something.
Running from her.
“Ignore them,” Calum said, leaning closer. “They’re just bitter because Euan’s always been the responsible one while the rest of us caused chaos.”
“Caused chaos?” Archibald’s eyebrows climbed. “Ye set fire tae the MacRae stables when ye were twelve.”
“It was an accident!”
“Ye were trying tae impress a lass.”
“Which makes it completely justified.” Calum turned back to Moyra, his expression turning sly. “Speaking of which, have I mentioned how lovely ye look today? That green brings out yer eyes.”
She laughed and swatted his arm. “Ye’re shameless.”
Euan’s hands clenched on the stone parapet hard enough to hurt.
From his vantage point, he could see everything—the easy way Moyra laughed at Calum’s jokes, the way she leaned into his space as if they’d known each other for years instead of hours. Something dark and vicious coiled in his chest, sharp enough to steal breath.
Jealousy. Raw and unfiltered and utterly unreasonable.
She’d made her position clear that morning after they’d—after he’d—Saints, he couldn’t even think about it without heat flooding his face and fury tightening his gut.
She’d woken up regretting everything, had practically fled from his presence, and now she was down there letting Calum MacKinnon flirt with her like she’d never gasped Euan’s name in the darkness.
“Ye’re going tae break that stone if ye grip any harder.” Niall’s voice came from behind him, dry and knowing. “Or possibly yer own hand.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye’re about three seconds from storming down there and daeing something ye’ll regret.” His friend moved to stand beside him, following his gaze to the courtyard below. “Such as murdering yer oldest friend fer the crime of making the lass smile.”
“I’m nae going tae murder anyone.”
“Nay?” Niall’s tone suggested he didn’t believe that for a second. “Because the look on yer face says otherwise. Ye ken Calum’s just being Calum. He flirts with everything that moves. It daesnae mean anything.”
“I ken that.” But knowing and accepting were two different things. Especially when Moyra laughed again—that genuine sound of delight that made something in his chest crack open.
“Then why are ye up here instead of down there?” Niall asked quietly. “Why are ye letting him have all her attention when ye clearly want it fer yerself?”
Because she’d made it clear she didn’t want his attention. Because every time he got close, she pulled away like he burned her. Because that morning had proven that whatever connection he’d felt between them had been one-sided delusion.
“She’s free tae spend time with whoever she chooses,” Euan said, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
“Aye. And ye’re free tae be a miserable bastard about it.” Niall shook his head. “But I’m telling ye if ye keep this up, ye’re going tae lose her. Nae tae Calum necessarily, but tae yer own stubborn pride.”
Before Euan could respond, Calum’s laugh rang out again, followed by Moyra’s delighted shriek as he evidently said something particularly outrageous. Euan watched her swat his arm, watched Calum catch her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles with exaggerated gallantry.
Something inside him snapped.
He was moving before conscious thought caught up, taking the stairs three at a time. By the time he reached the courtyard, his pulse hammered and his vision had narrowed to a single point—Moyra’s hand still held in Calum’s, their heads bent close together.
“Moyra.” Her name came out harsh. “A word. Now.”
She looked up, startled, and something flickered across her face—guilt? Defiance? He couldn’t read it through the red haze clouding his judgment.
“We’re in the middle of lunch,” she said carefully.
“It cannae wait.”
“But—”
“Now.” He bit out the word like a command, ignoring the way his brothers had gone silent, ignoring everything except the need to get her away from Calum’s easy charm before he did something spectacularly stupid.
Moyra’s eyes narrowed. “Ye dinnae get tae order me about like—”
“Please.” The word tasted like ash but he forced it out anyway. “I need tae speak with ye. In private.”
For a long moment, she simply stared at him. Then slowly—reluctantly—she stood. “Fine. But this better be important.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak, just turned and strode toward the small herb garden behind the kitchens where they’d have privacy. Behind him, he heard her footsteps, heard her muttering that suggested she was as angry as he felt.
Good. Let her be angry. At least anger was honest.
Moyra barely cleared the garden gate before Euan rounded on her, his grey eyes blazing with something that looked dangerously like fury.
“What exactly dae ye think ye’re daeing?” he demanded.
“Having lunch?” She crossed her arms, matching his anger with her own. “Is that suddenly forbidden?”
“That’s nae what I mean and ye ken it.” He moved closer, crowding her against the stone wall in ways that made her pulse race. “Ye’re playing games, Moyra. Dangerous games.”
“Games?” Indignation flared hot in her chest. “I was enjoying the company of yer friends. Friends who, I might add, have been kinder tae me than yer clan’s been in—”
“Kinder?” The word came out harsh. “Is that what we’re calling Calum’s flirting? Kind?”
Understanding crashed through her fury. “Ye’re jealous.”
“I’m nae—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “Ye’re under me protection. Under me roof. That means ye follow certain rules.”
“Rules.” Her laugh held no humor. “And what rules would those be, exactly? The ones where I cannae speak tae other men? Where I have tae sit quietly and pretend I dinnae exist unless ye deign tae acknowledge me?”
“That’s nae what I said.”
“Then what are ye saying?” She pushed away from the wall, getting right in his face despite how he towered over her. “Because it sounds an awful lot like ye want tae control who I spend time with. Like ye think ye have some claim on me just because I—”
She stopped, heat flooding her face.
Euan’s eyes darkened. “Just because ye what, Moyra? Finish that sentence.”
“Ye ken what.” Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “This morning. When I woke up and everything felt wrong and I panicked. That’s what this is about, isnae it? Ye’re angry because I—”
“I’m angry because ye looked at me like I’d hurt ye. Like what we’d shared was something tae regret instead of—” He cut himself off, turning away with visible effort. “And now ye’re down there laughing with Calum like I dinnae even exist.”
“Euan—”
“Ye’re right. I dinnae have rules about who ye speak tae.” He faced her again, and the devastation in his eyes made her breath catch. “But watching ye with him, watching him touch ye, watching ye give him the smiles that were mine—Saints, Moyra, it’s killing me.”
Before she could respond and tell him that the smiles were easy because they meant nothing, that Calum’s flirting felt safe precisely because it stirred none of the overwhelming feelings Euan did—a horn blast shattered the moment.
Euan’s entire body went rigid, warrior instincts snapping into place. “Stay here.”
“Like hell.” She followed him as he strode back toward the courtyard, where chaos had already erupted.
People streamed through the gates—villagers, from the look of them, their faces soot-stained and terrified. Women clutched children. Men supported wounded companions. And over everything hung the acrid smell of smoke.
“What’s happening?” Moyra grabbed a passing servant.
The girl’s eyes were wide with shock. “Attack on the western village. Fire. They used fire.”
Ice flooded Moyra’s veins. She fought through the crush of bodies until she spotted Euan, commanding the center of the maelstrom. His brothers had already closed ranks beside him, their jovial masks replaced by the hard focus of warriors who’d seen it all before.
“Get these people inside,” Euan commanded, his voice carrying absolute authority. “Brighde, I need ye checking fer injuries. Niall, organize a scouting party, I want tae ken if more attacks are coming. Calum, David, Archibald—with me. We ride in ten minutes.”
“Me laird!” A man stumbled forward, his clothes still smoldering. “They came from nowhere. Set the granary ablaze and were gone before we could mount a defense. We lost—” His voice broke. “We lost so many.”
Euan’s face went grey. Moyra watched something crack in his expression—the absolute devastation of a leader who’d failed to protect his people. His hands clenched at his sides, and for one terrible moment, she thought he might crumble under the weight of it.
Then his spine locked straight as a blade. His jaw turned to granite. When he spoke again, his voice could have shattered stone.
“Ye did what ye could,” he told the villager firmly. “Now let us dae the rest. Brighde will see tae yer wounds. Catriona, make sure everyone has food and water. And someone find quarters fer—”
“I’ll help.” Moyra’s voice cut through his orders. “Tell me what needs daeing.”
Their eyes met, and in that charged moment, their earlier argument vanished. This wasn’t about jealousy or complicated feelings. This was about people suffering, about a village burning while they’d been arguing over nothing.
“Help Brighde with the wounded,” Euan said quietly. Then louder, addressing everyone: “We dinnae abandon our own. Ye’re safe here, all of ye. And I swear by everything I hold sacred that the bastards responsible will answer fer this.”
The promise rang across the courtyard like a bell. Moyra watched him transform from the man who’d been jealous and hurt to the laird his people needed—commanding, certain, devastating in his absolute authority.
That was why she couldn’t hate him despite everything. That was why her foolish heart kept betraying her better judgment.
Because Euan MacLeod, scarred and brooding and impossible, was exactly the kind of man worth loving.