Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Three days passed in a blur of frantic preparation.
Moyra found the first note tucked beneath her breakfast plate on the morning after the council meeting.
The refugees in the east wing need blankets. Cook says we’re low on grain. And ye need tae eat more than half a bannock fer breakfast.
No signature. Just Euan’s bold, efficient script that somehow managed to convey impatience even on parchment.
She smiled despite herself, reaching for the quill Catriona had left on the table. On the back of his note, she scrawled a response.
The refugees have blankets—I saw tae it yesterday. The grain situation is handled. And I’ll eat a full bannock when ye stop skipping meals entirely tae brood on battlements.
She left it on his desk in the war room, weighted down with a stone, and went about her day organizing supplies, checking on wounded warriors, doing everything possible to keep her mind off the approaching invasion.
By evening, another note appeared—this time tucked into the medical supplies she’d been cataloging.
I dinnae brood. I strategize. There’s a difference. Also, the sentries report ye were on the walls after dark. Nae safe.
Moyra’s lips curved. She grabbed a scrap of parchment.
Brooding and strategizing look remarkably similar from where I’m standing. And I was checking sight lines fer archers—someone needs tae think practically. Also, ye have ink on yer jaw. Left side.
She left it wedged in his armor stand, knowing he’d find it when he dressed for patrol.
The game escalated over the next two days.
Euan’s notes started appearing in increasingly creative locations—tucked into her medical bag, slipped between clean linens, even once folded into the butter dish at breakfast. His messages remained practical but gained an edge of something warmer.
The council meeting ran late because ye were right about the grain shipments. Malcolm says ye have a head fer logistics. He’s nae wrong.
Brighde mentioned ye’ve been working yerself tae exhaustion. Rest. That’s nae a suggestion.
Found yer doodle on the battle plans. A stag? Really? Me strategizing deserves better than woodland creatures.
That last one made Moyra laugh aloud. She’d sketched a small Highland stag in the corner of his maps—antlers proud, stance noble—because watching Euan pore over defense strategies with furrowed brow had reminded her of exactly that. Regal and stubborn and entirely too serious.
Her response came swift.
The stag represents noble leadership and unwavering determination. Also stubbornness. Mostly stubbornness. If ye’d prefer, I can draw a hedgehog instead—prickly exterior, soft inside.
She left it on his pillow, knowing he wouldn’t find it until he finally collapsed into bed near midnight.
His reply appeared the next morning in her herb basket.
I’m nae soft. And if I find a hedgehog on me battle plans, there will be consequences. Also—the east tower guard rotation ye suggested actually works better. Dinnae let it go tae yer head.
Moyra’s chest warmed. That was practically a declaration of affection from Euan MacLeod—admitting she’d been right about something tactical.
She crafted her response carefully, adding a tiny sketch of a hedgehog wearing a crown at the bottom.
Too late. Me head is insufferably swollen with pride. I expect ye’ll just have tae endure me gloating. PS—What consequences? I’m terrified.
She wasn’t terrified. She was delighted.
By the fourth day, their notes had become the bright spots in increasingly tense preparations.
Euan’s messages grew longer, more personal. Less commander, more man.
The Covenant braithers’ full forces arrived this morning. Calum asks after ye constantly. I told him tae stop flirting with me wife or I’ll put him on latrine duty.
Ye were singing in the great hall today while organizing supplies. I could hear it from the battlements. Ye have a lovely voice. Sing more often.
I found yer sketch of me as a hedgehog. It’s nae inaccurate. Though the crown is excessive. Also, yer consequences are as follows: the next time I catch ye working past midnight, I’m carrying ye tae bed meself. Fair warning.
That last one made heat crawl up Moyra’s neck. She tucked it into her bodice, close to her heart, before responding.
Calum is charming but entirely too aware of it. Ye’ve naething tae worry about—I prefer me men brooding and battle-scarred. The crown stays. And regarding consequences: promises, promises, husband.
She left it tucked into his sword belt.
His response came faster than expected—a single line scrawled on parchment that still smelled of leather and steel.
Careful what ye wish fer, wife. I keep me promises.
The words sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine.
The fifth day brought grimmer news—scouts reporting increased MacKenzie activity, ships gathering in waters beyond the horizon. War was coming, perhaps sooner than expected.
But even with tension being higher than ever, Moyra found Euan’s note tucked into her morning tea.
Whatever happens in the coming days, ken this: ye were right tae trust me. I’ll keep ye safe, Moyra. I swear it on everything I am.
The sudden seriousness made her throat tight. She held the parchment, reading his words over and over, feeling the weight of his promise settle over her shoulders like a cloak.
Her response took longer to craft. She tried several versions—joking deflections, casual acknowledgments—before finally writing what she actually felt.
I dae trust ye. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone. Whatever comes, we face it taegether. That’s what marriage means, aye? Also, ye still have ink on yer jaw. It’s become permanent, I think. Very distinguished.
She left it on his desk, weighted with the stone he always used—their stone now, she supposed. The anchor for their secret correspondence.
When she returned hours later to collect medical supplies, she found his response waiting in the exact same spot.
Taegether. I like the sound of that. And the ink is nae permanent—ye just keep distracting me before I can wash properly. Speaking of which: taenight. Our chambers. Nay excuses about refugees or supplies or anything else. I want time with me wife before the world falls apart.
The demand made her smile despite the fear coiling in her gut.
Outside, preparations continued. Warriors were drilling.
Supplies were being stored. Defenses were strengthened against the coming assault.
But there, in their private game of notes and promises, she and Euan managed to carve out something just for them.
It was the one thing that kept them going in those challenging times.
She picked up the quill, her response simple and direct.
Taenight. I’ll be there. Try nae tae brood too much before then.
His final note of the day appeared an hour later, tucked into her sleeve while she worked—she hadn’t even seen him approach.
Nay brooding. Just counting the hours until I have ye tae meself. Also: I may have lied about the hedgehog. The drawing is perfect. Dinnae tell anyone I admitted that.
Moyra pressed the parchment to her chest, warmth blooming despite everything else. Five days of notes and teasing and slowly falling for a man who left her messages in secret places and admitted—grudgingly—that her sketches were perfect.
Five days of building something worth fighting for.
She tucked all his notes into a small wooden box she kept hidden beneath their bed—every scrap of parchment, every scrawled message, every piece of evidence that Euan MacLeod was far softer than his hedgehog exterior suggested.
And tonight, she’d tell him exactly that.
Assuming he didn’t brood himself into exhaustion first.