|c.3|

The clang of steel rang through the crisp morning air, echoing across the wide expanse of the MacLeod training yard. Finlay MacLeod swung his claymore with precision, the sword a seamless extension of his arm. Every strike, every pivot of his body, was fluid and practiced, like a deadly dance honed by years of experience. His dark hair clung to his damp brow, and the sheen of sweat glistened on his sun-bronzed skin, evidence of hours spent under the unforgiving Highland sun.

He had been out here since dawn, pushing himself harder than usual. His muscles burned, and his hands ached from gripping the hilt of his blade, but he welcomed the pain. It distracted him, however briefly, from the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Moira had not called for him last night.

The thought gnawed at him, each repetition of it in his mind sharper than the last. She had visited him so often, her voice a siren’s whisper in his blood, drawing him to her under the cover of darkness. Yet last night, the silence had been deafening. He had lain awake, straining to hear even the faintest hint of her call, but it never came. Why?

Finlay gritted his teeth and swung his sword harder, channeling his restless energy into each strike. His blade met the wooden dummy with a satisfying crack, splitting it in two. For a moment, the physical exertion dulled the ache in his chest, and he allowed himself a ragged breath of relief.

The yard began to fill as other clansmen arrived to train, their banter breaking the solitude. Some sparred in pairs, their laughter and curses filling the air, while younger boys practiced with wooden swords, their movements awkward but earnest. Slowly, the camaraderie of his people began to chip away at Finlay's dark mood.

Then Ailsa appeared.

The men parted like waves for her, their heads turning as she sauntered across the yard. Her golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, and her emerald gown clung to her figure in all the right places. Whispers of admiration followed her as she approached Finlay, a sweet smile painted on her lips.

“Good morn, Finlay,” she greeted, her voice warm and melodic.

Finlay wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his jaw tightening. “Ailsa,” he said, forcing a polite nod.

“I thought ye might like to join me for breakfast,” she said, her eyes glinting with hope. “I made it myself, just for ye.”

Every muscle in Finlay’s body tensed. He wanted to refuse, to retreat back to the solace of training, but he could feel the weight of the clansmen’s stares. If he declined, his father would hear of it, and there would be hell to pay. With a resigned sigh, he nodded. “Aye, I’ll join ye.”

Ailsa’s face lit up, and she grasped his arm eagerly. “Wonderful! Ye’ll see, Finlay. I’ve made a spread fit for a laird.”

The clansmen exchanged amused glances, a few of them stifling chuckles as Finlay flushed crimson. Gritting his teeth, he allowed her to lead him toward the keep.

---

The great hall was alive with the scent of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and the sweet tang of honey. Ailsa led Finlay to a table laden with food, the golden glow of the morning sun streaming through the high windows.

“Sit,” she insisted, pushing him into a chair with surprising determination.

Before he could protest, she began piling his plate with food. “Would ye like maple or honey for yer bread?”

“Maple,” he muttered, his stomach growling despite himself.

Ailsa set the plate in front of him and perched across the table, her chin resting in her hand as she watched him expectantly. Finlay hesitated, then took a bite. The flavors exploded on his tongue, rich and savory, and a low moan escaped his lips.

“Good?” she asked, grinning.

“Aye,” he admitted begrudgingly, his appetite overtaking his irritation.

As he ate, Ailsa peppered him with questions about his day and his duties. He answered curtly, hoping to keep the conversation brief, but her persistence wore at his patience.

“What about yer... personal life?” she asked, her tone lilting with mischief.

Finlay frowned. “What d’ye mean by that?”

“Well, it’s no secret that the men aren’t expected to be... untouched when they marry,” she said with a sly smile.

He choked on his food, grabbing his cup of milk to wash it down. “Ailsa!” he sputtered, his cheeks flaming. “It’s no’ proper to speak like that.”

She laughed, her blue eyes sparkling. “Och, Finlay, we’re practically married. How I speak to my man is no one’s concern.”

Her boldness left him flustered, and he quickly excused himself, fleeing the table under the guise of his duties. Ailsa’s laughter followed him, ringing with a self-satisfied air.

---

By afternoon, Finlay had completed his responsibilities as laird and returned to the training yard. The sun was high, casting long shadows as the boys practiced under his watchful eye.

Ailsa appeared again, this time carrying a tray of food and drink. She approached with a smile, and though Finlay’s first instinct was to send her away, his hunger and the memory of her cooking won out. He accepted the meal with a gruff “thank ye” and dismissed the boys for a break.

As they walked away from the prying eyes of the clansmen, Ailsa broached the topic of training women. Finlay’s reaction was immediate and visceral. “Why would ye even suggest such a thing?” he demanded, his voice low but tense.

Ailsa fidgeted, her courage faltering under his scrutiny. “I just thought... if the women could defend themselves, it might make them feel safer.”

Finlay’s eyes narrowed. “Do ye think I canna protect my clan? That my men aren’t enough?”

“Nay, that’s no’ what I meant!” she stammered. “I only—”

“Enough,” he interrupted, his tone sharp. “We’ll speak of this later.”

Ailsa looked crestfallen but nodded, retreating toward the keep. Finlay watched her go, his irritation giving way to guilt. He turned back to the yard, but then he felt it—a whisper in his blood, soft and insistent.

Moira.

Her voice was a caress, pulling him toward the dark embrace of the Sgàil Woods. His body reacted instinctively, his heart pounding with anticipation. Without a second thought, he dropped his meal and sprinted toward the trees, leaving a confused and heartbroken Ailsa behind.

---

In the heart of the Sgàil Woods, Moira waited, her black cloak billowing around her. The ring on her finger glinted in the dappled light, its magic shielding her from the sun’s harsh rays. When Finlay appeared, his broad frame moving with purpose, her breath hitched.

“Finlay,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need.

He closed the distance between them in an instant, his strong arms pulling her against him. “Moira,” he breathed, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was as hungry as it was desperate.

“I missed ye,” she murmured, her hands tangling in his hair.

“And I ye,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion.

Their passion ignited like dry tinder, and they sank to the forest floor, their bodies entwined. Finlay’s hands roamed her curves, his touch both reverent and possessive.

“Say my name,” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

“Finlay,” she gasped, arching beneath him.

He claimed her with an urgency that spoke of nights spent yearning, their movements a rhythm of raw, unbridled desire. Every moan, every whispered plea, echoed through the woods, drowning out the rest of the world.

When they finally collapsed together, their breaths mingling in the stillness, Finlay cradled her against his chest. “I’ll never let ye go,” he vowed, his voice steady with conviction.

Moira’s heart clenched, the weight of her secret pressing down on her. “And I’ll never stop loving ye,” she whispered, burying her face in his neck.

From the shadows, Ailsa watched, her heart breaking and her resolve hardening. This dark seductress would not win—not while she still had breath.