Page 39 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize

Clan first,he reminded himself through gritted teeth.Always clan first.Yet holding her gaze felt like forcing himself to breathe through water—each moment stealing more from him, as each second tested his resolve.

His eyes remained fixed on a point past her shoulder. "Yer presence at Castle MacCraith has come to an end."

"I'm well aware, me laird." Her voice matched his for coldness, though he caught the slight tremor.

"I've made arrangements fer yer return tae yer clan." The formal address felt like speaking around broken glass in his throat. "As laird, it's me duty tae ensure ye reach yer family safely."

"I require nay escort?—"

"What ye require is irrelevant." His tone cut sharp as winter ice. "Ye are me guest until ye depart these lands. Ye'll accept me protection."

She flinched almost imperceptibly. Good. Distance. Duty.

"It's a long journey. We shall take the western route through Glen Arach. The main road..." He paused, choosing words carefully. "Is nae secure."

"When ye say 'we,' dae ye mean yerself and guards, or?—"

"Meself." The word dropped between them like stone. "Just meself. Additional men would draw attention."

Her fingers twisted in her skirts—the first crack in her composure. "Alone?"

"Ye think me unequal tae the task?" His voice shifted dangerously low. "I've escorted other valuable political allies, Lady MacAlpin."

That landed—her spine straightened, eyes flashing briefly before that damnable dignity reasserted itself.

"Of course, me laird. I meant nay offense."

"None taken." He moved to her window, addressing his next words to the glass rather than her reflection. "Pack light. Ye'll ride yer horse, and I'll take mine. We leave before the household rises."

Silence stretched between them.

"Is that all... me laird?"

The formal address from her lips wounded worse than any blade. He turned back, forcing himself to meet her gaze. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to drink in her beauty, and her spirit. Then he shut his heart again.

"Clean breaks serve best, Lady Isolde."

The courtyard buzzed with early morning activity. Ciaran watched a stable boy fasten saddlebags to Isolde's mare while one of his men held steady the reins of his own stallion.

"Two days' provisions," he ordered, voice clipped. "Water skins filled three times over."

"Aye, me laird," the man nodded, securing the leather straps.

"So this is it." Finlay emerged from the shadows, still fastening his sword belt. "Ye're truly just taking her back?"

"Aye. Isnae that what duty requires of me?" Ciaran checked his stirrup lengths, avoiding his friend's gaze.

"Me friend, I ken ye better than tae care about the council's orders." Finlay stepped closer, lowering his voice. "D'ye remember how many of their opinions ye've gone against and been proven right? Especially when ye feel like?—"

"Enough!" Ciaran spun to face him, eyes blazing. "Ye are overstepping.”

Finlay raised his hands. "Ciaran?—"

"I am laird, nae ye," Ciaran cut sharply. A finger jabbed at his chest. "Me. Me, Finlay. I bear the burden. I bear the responsibilities. Even if me heart breaks while I dae me duties." He stepped closer, voice dropping dangerously low. "If I hear one more word of this, I shall send ye to scout our furthest border fer two weeks or until ye learn tae speak tae yer laird with the correct tone."

The silence stretched taut between them. Finlay's jaw worked, but he dipped his head. "As ye wish, me laird."

"Ready the guards," Ciaran commanded, turning back to his horse. "Six men tae the border. Nay more."