Page 11 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

His expression hardened, the playfulness vanishing as quickly as morning mist under a harsh sun. "While ye stand here trading barbs, the families of me fallen men prepare tae bury their dead."

The words hung between them, sharp as a blade. He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous timbre.

"Three good men, one barely a man, lie dead in the ground because of whatever secret ye're keeping, lass. Their blood is on MacCraith soil because someone wants ye badly enough tae kill fer it."

He watched her face pale, satisfaction and regret warring within him at her reaction. As laird, his first duty was to his clan—to their protection and survival. Her mystery threatened both.

"I never meant fer anyone tae lose their life," she whispered, her earlier defiance faltering. Her eyes met his with a flicker of genuine remorse. "If I'd known the cost..."

"Yet here we stand," he cut her off. "And still ye keep yer secrets."

"I regret what has happened, but if ye just let me return tae me clan… surely a laird has more important duties than entertaining unwilling guests," she said, her voice smaller now.

"Since ye ken so much about a laird's life, then ye ken the best time fer clan business is early morning or late at night." He held her gaze steadily, his eyes cold. "Fer solving threats tae me people. And right now, lass, ye're the biggest threat within these walls."

He turned toward the door. "Come." The word was not an invitation but a command. "We ride tae the village. Perhaps seeing the widows and children of the men who died protecting ye will loosen yer tongue."

He wouldn't give her the chance to refuse. Today she would ride with him, close enough that he could ensure she wouldn't attempt another escape. Close enough that he might finally unravel the mystery of who she was—and why her secret was worth the lives of his clansmen.

The path to the stables was walked in stony silence. Ciaran felt Isolde's resentment radiating from her in waves, but he would not be moved by it. Three men dead. Families grieving. A clan looking to their laird for protection and answers. Her comfort was far down his list of concerns.

At the stables, his stallion waited, already saddled as he'd ordered before dawn. Mormaer was a massive beast, coal-black and battle-trained. The horse pawed at the ground impatiently, sensing his master's tension.

"Where's me horse?" Isolde's words cut through the morning air. There was suspicion in her voice, but also a hint of uncertainty he hadn't heard before.

"There isn't one." He kept his tone flat, leaving no room for debate. "Ye'll ride with me."

"I most certainly willnae." The defiance was back, her spine straightening.

Ciaran turned to her, his expression unyielding.

"I've buried enough men this month, lass.

I'll not add more because ye managed tae slip away again.

" He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

"I've nay doubt ye'd try tae escape the moment ye have the chance.

The forest is crawling with whoever killed me men tae get tae ye.

I'll nae have ye riding alone tae yer death—or worse, leading our enemies back tae me gates. "

He saw the color drain from her face at the mention of enemies. Good. Let her understand the gravity of the situation.

"I'm an excellent rider," she protested, though with less conviction. "I hardly need?—"

"It's nae yer riding skill I doubt, but yer destination." His tone brooked no argument, yet he found himself softening despite his resolve. "This isn't a negotiation, Isolde."

Around them, stable hands and guards carefully avoided looking in their direction, sensing the tension between their laird and the mysterious woman.

What Isolde couldn't see were the dozen armed men already positioned strategically along their intended route to the village.

Finlay had handpicked the most skilled warriors of clan MacCraith.

Men who could blend with the landscape while maintaining a protective circle around their laird and his guest.

He watched conflict play across her face.

Pride warred with uncertainty. Or fear, perhaps.

Or simple practicality. When she finally agreed with a clipped "Fine," he felt an unexpected surge of relief.

He'd been prepared to physically put her on the horse, if necessary, but was glad it hadn't come to that.

A stable boy brought forward a mounting block, but Ciaran waved him away with a sharp gesture.

He placed his hands at her waist, lifting her to the saddle with ease.

As usual, touching her sent an unwelcome heat coursing through him.

Her waist was so small he could nearly span it with his hands, yet there was nothing fragile about her spirit.

He mounted behind her in one fluid motion, his body instantly aware of the intimate proximity.

As he reached around to take the reins, the scent of roses from her hair filled his senses.

Every subtle movement of the horse pressed her closer against him, her back to his chest, and Ciaran had to do everything in his power to maintain control.

"Keep yer back straight," he instructed, his tone clipped. "Mormaer responds tae the slightest pressure."

As they rode through the castle gates, he could feel the tension in her shoulders, the rigidity of her spine where it pressed against him. She was holding herself as far forward as possible, creating what little distance she could within the confines of their shared saddle.

The road beyond the castle dipped sharply downward toward the village. Isolde swayed slightly at the sudden decline.

"Relax," he murmured near her ear, his voice softer despite himself. "I willnae let ye fall."

"I didnae think ye would," she replied, the words carrying a meaning beyond their simple ride. He heard it, and so did she. Neither of them spoke only of horseback riding.

The road steepened, and he tightened his arm around her waist instinctively, drawing her more securely against him.

He felt her breath catch, felt the slight tremor that ran through her body at his touch.

His thighs framed hers, and he was grateful for the layers of clothing between them that concealed the effect her proximity had on him.

"Ye're too tense," he said, his mouth close to her ear. "Why will ye nae understand ye're safe with me?"

Trust had never been something he'd needed to ask for. As laird, it was given freely by his people. But from her, he found himself wanting it with an intensity that unsettled him.

She exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing by degrees. "Better," he approved as she finally yielded, her body relaxing back against his as they continued their descent.

The weight of her against his chest felt right somehow, as though she belonged there. Ciaran fought to push the thought aside. He was laird of Clan MacCraith, duty-bound to make a politically advantageous match, not to be enthralled by a copper-haired lass with wit as sharp as her tongue.

His men had died protecting her. His clan looked to him for leadership, not reckless entanglements with mysterious women.

Yet as they rode, his arm secure around her waist, Ciaran found his resolve weakening.

Even as his mind remained focused on the threat she represented, his body betrayed him with each breath, each subtle shift of her weight against him.

Somewhere in the forest surrounding them, his men watched, ready to defend them with their lives. Somewhere in the village ahead, widows mourned husbands who would never return.

And here, trapped between duty and desire, Ciaran MacCraith rode with a woman who represented both threat and temptation; a mystery he was determined to solve before she cost him more than he was willing to pay.