Page 1 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER ONE

"Faither, may I be excused?" Isolde set down her spoon. "I fear I'm nae feeling quite meself tonight."

Isolde glanced at her sisters seated across the long oak table. A moment before, the dining hall echoed with the scrape of spoons against bowls. Now Isolde caught her sister's eye and tilted her head slightly toward the door. Rhona nodded, understanding immediately.

Laird Alistair MacAlpin looked up from his simple meal, concern etching his weathered face. "Aye, lass. Get some rest."

The few servants that remained at MacAlpin Castle cleared dishes in silence, their footsteps echoing in the half-empty hall. As she slipped out of her chair, a wave of sadness to flood through Isolde. She remembered when those tables had groaned with food and the hall had bustled with clansmen.

How quickly fortunes could change in the Highlands—one poor harvest, one failed alliance, one enemy too many.

Their once-proud clan now clung to their lands by mere threads of ancient loyalty, their wealth as scattered as the autumn leaves.

What her father wouldn't trade for just one strong son to inherit rather than five daughters, no matter how clever they might be.

"I shall look after her," Rhona announced, already rising.

"She was complaining of a headache earlier. "

Isolde’s other sister Aileen, the youngest at sixteen, fidgeted in her seat. "May I also?—"

"Go on then," their father waved a hand, "all of ye. These old bones need peace and quiet."

The three sisters hurried from the hall, maintaining decorum until they rounded the corner. Then they broke into a run, skirts gathered in their hands, stifling giggles as they raced up the winding staircase to the east tower.

"Quickly!" Isolde burst through the chamber door. Her mother's midnight blue velvet with the silver thread gown was already laid across her bed.

Rhona locked the door behind them. "Ye're mad, ye ken that? Completely daft tae dae this."

"Stop scolding like some old woman and help me," Isolde was already tugging at her dinner dress. "I cannae miss this chance tae see him."

Aileen bounced on her toes while helping her sister with the undershirt. "What if Da discovers ye're gone?"

"He willnae if ye two dinnae mess this up. And make sure Lorna and Isla are sworn to silence." Isolde stepped into the blue gown, its style a decade old but the fabric still rich and lustrous. "Rhona, the laces!"

Rhona pulled the dress tight, snatching Isolde’s waist. "Ye've been obsessed with Laird MacCraith since ye first laid eyes on him, when he visited Da."

"Wouldnae ye be?" Isolde's cheeks flushed. "The way he carries himself, he's like a warrior king from the old stories."

"He's older than ye," Aileen whispered, eyes wide.

"And they say his clan's council would never let him marry outside powerful alliances," Rhona added.

"I'm nae proposing marriage," Isolde snapped. Her face softened at her sister's hurt expression, and she squeezed her arm affectionately. "I just want tae see him again. Tae be in the same room, even if just once more."

Rhona worked on Isolde's hair with precision, twisting the dark ginger locks into an elegant arrangement. "A laird's unwed daughter, unescorted, at another laird's masquerade... ye'll be ruined if recognized."

Isolde raised one finger, then reached for a silver mask inlaid with tiny sapphires—another relic from their mother's chest. "Nay one will ken me with this."

She fastened it and turned to look at her reflection. The mask transformed her, lending mystery to her blue eyes and high cheekbones.

"Oh my. Ye look like royalty," Aileen breathed.

"Is the secret passage still clear?" Isolde gathered a dark cloak.

"Aye," Rhona nodded. "I checked yesterday. The old hunting path beyond is overgrown but passable."

Isolde embraced her sisters fiercely. "If anyone asks?—"

"Ye're ill with a fever and sleeping," Rhona finished. "We ken."

"I'll be back before dawn," Isolde promised, slipping a small dagger into her boot.

Aileen pressed something into her hand. She looked down and saw it was a small silver charm. "Fer luck. 'Twas Maither's."

Isolde's throat tightened. She kissed her youngest sister. "I'll be careful, mo chridhe ."

Rhona opened the window to the narrow ledge beyond. "If ye're caught by our clan enemies on the road?—"

"I'll gut them meself," Isolde grinned fiercely, but when she saw her sisters’ worried expressions, she added, “I promise tae be careful and come home soon.”

Not wasting another second, she slipped through the window and disappeared into the shadows, her heart pounding with the thrill of forbidden adventure and the thought of seeing Laird Ciaran MacCraith.

Castle Murray, The Masquerade Ball

The moment Isolde entered the crowded room, her eyes were drawn to him as if by magic. Her breath caught in her throat.

Laird Ciaran MacCraith. The mere sight of him sent a rush of heat through her body, settling low in her belly.

Sweet heavens, even from across the room his presence steals my breath.

Isolde pressed herself into the shadows, her back against a stone column, her heart hammering against her ribs like a war drum.

Torches blazed from every wall, bathing the great hall in golden light. Music swirled around masked dancers who spun like autumn leaves in a whirlwind, but Isolde didn’t notice. Her eyes were fixed on him.

Laird Ciaran MacCraith stood head and shoulders above most of the men in the room. His dark hair was pulled back from a face half-covered by a black mask. He moved with the confidence of a man who commanded respect without asking.

A circle of admirers surrounded him—daughters from clans powerful enough for their ambitious lairds to hover like hawks, their eyes gleaming with the hope their daughter would be the one to capture the dashing Ciaran McCraith's attention.

Isolde's fingers tightened on her goblet, taken from a passing servant's tray as her attention remained fixed on Laird Ciaran. Two years. Two long years since that day he'd arrived at their castle.

She'd been on the gallery above the great hall when he strode in with his men, his deep voice washing over her like the finest Highland whisky—rough with the brogue of his people yet smooth with the refinement of a learned man.

She'd pressed herself behind a pillar, stretching her neck to observe him as he awaited her father.

What would ye think if ye kent I've been dreaming of ye fer two long years?

And tonight, attending this masquerade, would add to her collection of secret memories. To drink him in with her eyes, to hear his laugh echo across the chamber would be enough.

Knowing the impossibility of their clans' alliance, she sought no introduction, expected no acknowledgment. She'd remain a shadow at the edge of his world, content merely to exist in the same space, to breathe the same air, if only for those stolen hours.

She watched him lead a blonde woman to the dance floor. His movements were fluid, controlled. Even in dance, he moved like a warrior.

Just one glimpse of ye was all I wanted.

For over an hour, Isolde watched hawk-eyed from the shadows. She studied his hands as they clasped those of noblewomen, imagining how they might feel against her own skin—rough from the dueling, yet gentle in their guidance across the dance floor.

When he laughed at something a lass said, Isolde's eyes traced the strong column of his throat to the slight dimple that appeared on his left cheek.

She sipped sweet wine, letting it linger on her tongue, wondering if his kiss would be as intoxicating.

When his path brought him near where she stood, she pressed deeper into the shadows, turning away but watching him through lowered lashes. Her breath caught as he passed close enough that she could detect a whiff of leather and his cologne.

The evening wore on. Candles burned lower in their sconces. The musicians played faster, more passionate reels that sent couples spinning in dizzying circles. Isolde watched, imagining Ciaran McCraith's arm around her waist, guiding her through those same steps, his breath warm against her hair.

Dinnae be a fool, Isolde. Men like him dinnae notice women from fallen clans. Ye ' ve had enough daydreaming.

The midnight bell would soon toll, and she would have to return before dawn exposed her deception. She set down her goblet, preparing to leave.

That was when the music changed.

A slow, haunting melody rose from the musicians' corner. Dancers separated, seeking new partners. In that moment of shifting alliances, Laird Ciaran MacCraith turned.

Across the crowded hall, through the sea of masks and finery, his gaze locked directly with hers.

Isolde froze. The room stilled around them, the music fading to a distant hum until the only thing she could hear was her own thundering heart. She should look away—flee—but she was trapped in the intensity of his stare.

And then?—

Is he walking toward me?

Yes. Yes, he was.

Laird Ciaran MacCraith was moving toward her, cutting through the crowd with purpose, his eyes never leaving hers.

Panic surged through Isolde's veins. She wasn't prepared for this—not for him to notice her, certainly not for him to approach.

Run. I must run.

She turned sharply, skirts swirling around her ankles, but her foot caught on the edge of a tapestry. The world tilted. She threw out her hands as she stumbled forward?—

Strong hands captured her waist, steadying her with impossible gentleness despite their firm grip. Heat blazed through the fabric of her gown where his fingers pressed. The scent of leather and rare Florentine ambergris enveloped her, dizzyingly close.

Isolde's body arched backward into the curve of his hold, her spine making a perfect bow. She lifted her gaze and was immediately sucked into eyes so dark, they seemed to drink the torchlight around them rather than reflect it—eyes that studied her face with surprising intensity.