Page 12 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER SEVEN

T he village of Craigmhor spread before them, nestled in the valley below Castle MacCraith.

Unlike the struggling hamlets around her father's lands, this settlement thrived with activity.

Stone cottages with neat thatched roofs lined cobbled streets.

Smoke rose from the blacksmith's forge, the rhythmic ping of hammer on metal carrying through the morning air.

As they rode down the main thoroughfare, Isolde couldn't help but notice how different this was from the last time she'd visited a village. No hollow-cheeked children, no desperate eyes. Instead, the people moved with purpose, their clothing worn but whole, their baskets full from the market.

"MacCraith! Hail the laird!" came a call from a barrel-chested man outside the tavern.

Heads turned at the greeting, and Isolde found herself the object of curious stares as clansmen realized their laird rode with an unknown woman before him. Yet there was no disdain in their gazes, only respect for Ciaran and curiosity about her.

"Good day, Ronan," Ciaran called back, his chest rumbling against her back as he spoke. "The roof holds against the storm?"

"Aye, thanks tae the new thatch ye provided."

This pattern repeated as they continued—Ciaran greeting his people by name, inquiring after specific concerns, the clan members responding with a mix of deference and genuine warmth.

A woman thrust a small basket of fresh bread toward them, which Ciaran accepted with thanks.

A group of bairns ran alongside their horse for a stretch, laughing as the laird tossed them each a small coin.

These weren't subjects cowering before their master. These were people who respected—perhaps even loved—their laird. Isolde thought of her father, once beloved by his clan in the same way, now rarely leaving the castle.

Ciaran guided the stallion to a halt before a shop with a polished wooden sign bearing a needle and thread. Unlike the humble cottages around it, this establishment boasted glass windows through which fine fabrics could be glimpsed.

"Mistress Kenna makes the finest gowns in three counties," Ciaran said, dismounting in one fluid motion before reaching up to help her down.

His hands lingered at her waist a moment longer than necessary after her feet touched the ground. He towered over her, his face leaning forward as their faces stood mere inches apart.

"I want tae buy ye a dress or two so ye willnae have tae wear me sister's old clothes." He said this while fighting the urge to brush a stray copper strand from her cheek.

"Just something of ye own until ye leave, lass."

Pride flared hot in Isolde's chest, and she took a step backward. "I have clothes of me own, Laird MacCraith. Lots of clothes. I dinnae need yer charity. I need ye tae let me go home."

The sharpness in her tone surprised him. There was pride in her reaction—a rawness that spoke of deeper wounds.

Ciaran looked down at her, his expression softening. "I mean nay injury tae yer pride, lass. Ye can take them with ye when ye leave, or they'll be here if ye come visiting again." His voice dropped lower. "But I'd like tae indulge ye, just this once."

She turned away sharply, but not before he caught the sudden shimmer in her eyes. The reaction puzzled him—such a simple offer to bring such emotion.

When she faced him again, her expression had hardened with determination. "If I told ye me clan," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "would ye stop this madness and let me go home?"

His heart quickened at her words. Finally—the answer he'd been seeking since she had arrived. With that information, he would begin immediately to find possible ways to form an alliance with her clan.

"Aye," he said, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice. "This very minute, I or one of me most trusted men will take ye tae yer clan and family. Just tell me, lass."

She opened her mouth. "I am—" she began, then stopped, frustration darkening her features. "I cannae," she groaned, turning abruptly and marching toward the dressmaker's shop. "Just know that someday, ye'll regret nae simply letting me go when ye had the chance."

Ciaran watched her retreating back, torn between disappointment and renewed curiosity. What could possibly make her so reluctant to name her clan? What secret could be worth such determined silence?

Whatever it was, he was more determined than ever to discover it—and to understand the mystery that was Isolde.

Despite herself, Isolde was not surprised at the tears that stung her eyes. When had anyone last wanted to indulge her? Her father, consumed by grief and their clan's decline, hardly noticed what his daughters wore anymore.

For years, she'd mended and altered, making do with what remained of their finery, taking her mother's dresses in to fit her own more slender frame.

The thought of new gowns—made for her, not handed down or altered—struck a chord of longing so deep she nearly gasped with it.

"Ye dinnae have tae accept," Ciaran said, long strides catching up to Isolde easily.

Isolde stopped at the entrance, composing herself before facing him again. "Thank ye. That's very... kind."

Something shifted in his expression as he studied her face. Had he noticed her tears? The thought mortified her.

"Let's go inside," he said simply, offering his arm.

She took it, grateful he'd chosen not to comment on her momentary weakness.

As they entered the shop, the bell above the door announcing their arrival, Isolde allowed herself to imagine, just for today, what life might be like if circumstances were different—if she were truly the woman on the arm of the MacCraith laird, rather than his reluctant guest with too many secrets between them.

A plump woman with graying hair hurried from the back room. Her eyes widened at the sight of Ciaran, hands fluttering to her hair.

"Laird MacCraith!" she exclaimed. "What an unexpected pleasure! It's been an age since ye graced me humble shop."

"Mistress Kenna," Ciaran greeted her with a slight smile. "I trust ye've been well?"

"Well enough, me laird." Her curious gaze shifted to Isolde, eyes traveling from her borrowed riding habit to her copper hair. "And who might this lovely lass be?"

"A guest of Castle MacCraith," Ciaran replied smoothly, offering no further explanation. "She's in need of some gowns."

Mistress Kenna's eyes sparkled with interest. "It's been too long since we've had a lady to dress at the castle. I still send Lady Sorcha her gowns, of course—three just last month fer the MacKenzie summer festivals. She always writes such lovely notes of thanks."

"I require four gowns fer me guest," Ciaran said, his hand resting lightly at the small of Isolde's back. "Fer different occasions. Spare nay expenses fer the lady."

"Of course, me laird!" Mistress Kenna looked as though Hogmanay had arrived early.

"I have business tae attend tae," Ciaran told Isolde, his voice lowering slightly. "I'll return shortly. Choose whatever pleases ye."

Before she could protest, he was gone, the bell tinkling cheerfully as the door closed behind him.

"Now then," Mistress Kenna said, producing a measuring cord from her pocket, "let's take yer measurements, dearie."

Isolde stood patiently as the woman worked, calling out numbers to a young apprentice who appeared from the back room to note them down.

"Ye're nae from Clan MacCraith, are ye?" Mistress Kenna asked, measuring Isolde's waist. "I ken most of our clan families, and I've never seen such lovely copper hair among them."

"Nae," Isolde replied cautiously, "I'm nae."

"The laird has many admirers, ye ken," the seamstress continued, moving to measure Isolde's hips.

"Lasses from every clan in the Highlands have set their caps fer him.

Even some English noblewomen when he traveled tae Edinburgh last spring.

" She tutted. "But he’s never brought a lass tae me shop before.

Nae once in all the years since he became laird. "

Isolde felt heat rise in her cheeks. "We're nae—he's merely being courteous."

"Of course, dearie," Mistress Kenna replied, in a tone that suggested she believed no such thing. "Arms out now. That's it."

As the seamstress prattled on about the laird's many supposed conquests, Isolde tried to appear disinterested. Yet each mention of a woman who had caught Ciaran's attention sent an unwelcome pang through her chest.

"I need me chalk," Mistress Kenna announced, bustling toward the back room. "Look at the fabrics on the table, dearie. The blue wool would suit yer coloring beautifully."

Left alone, Isolde wandered through the shop, fingers trailing over bolts of fabric finer than anything she'd touched in years.

In the corner stood a dress form draped with a gown that stole her breath—cream silk overlaid with delicate lace, tiny pearls scattered like dew drops across the bodice.

It was the kind of gown that belonged in tales her mother once told, of fairy courts and enchanted princesses.

Without thinking, she reached out to touch the sleeve. The silk felt cool and smooth beneath her fingertips.

"Beautiful, isnae it?" Mistress Kenna's voice startled her. The woman's shrewd eyes noted Isolde's fascination. "It's a display piece. The latest cut from France. But..." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "It may size ye. Would ye like tae try it on?"

"Oh, I couldnae?—"

"Nonsense! It would be a crime nae to see such a gown on a lass who could dae it justice." She was already unfastening the back of Isolde's riding habit. "Come, behind the screen. Let's see how it looks."

Before Isolde could protest further, she found herself being guided behind a painted screen in the corner of the shop. The riding habit fell away, and the cool silk of the light gown settled over her skin like water.

"There now," Mistress Kenna said, fastening the tiny pearl buttons that ran down the back. "Let's have a look at ye."

She led Isolde to a tall looking glass—a luxury Isolde had never encountered.

The woman she saw staring back was a stranger—regal, ethereal, like something from another time. The gown's fitted bodice emphasized her slender waist before flowing into a skirt that seemed to float around her. The cream silk made her skin glow, her hair a vivid flame against the pale fabric.

"We'd need tae take it in here," Mistress Kenna said, pinning the fabric at Isolde's waist, "and let out the bust a wee bit. But my, my—" She stepped back, admiring her work. "Ye're perfection, lass."

For the first time in years, Isolde felt like the lady she was born to be. A Highland lady worthy of fine things, of admiration, of...

The bell above the door chimed. In the mirror, she saw Ciaran enter, freezing mid-step as his eyes found her. The expression that crossed his face stole her breath—pride, yes, but something darker, hungrier, that made her pulse quicken with pleasure.

"Well now," Mistress Kenna said with a knowing smile, "I believe the laird approves."

"Indeed," Ciaran said, his voice deeper than usual. His eyes never left her, moving slowly from the delicate pearls at her neckline to the way the silk draped over her hips. "Ye look..."

He seemed to search for words, the intensity of his gaze making Isolde acutely aware of how the gown's fitted bodice revealed more than the high-necked riding habit had. Heat crept up her neck, spreading across her cheeks.

She cleared her throat, turning away from his dark eyes before her face betrayed more than she wished to reveal. "Mistress Kenna, would ye help me remove this? It's nae appropriate fer me tae be wearing a gown I can scarcely afford tae pay fer."

The dressmaker looked between them, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Of course, dearie. Though if ye ask me, it seems a shame tae take it off when it suits ye so well."

When Isolde emerged from behind the dressing screen, back in her riding habit, she found Ciaran waiting alone in the shop's front room, the dressmaker having disappeared discreetly into the back.

He gestured to a small bench by the window. "Sit with me a moment. The village will still be there when we're done."

After a moment's hesitation, she joined him, careful to maintain a proper distance between them.

"In all our conversations," he said, "I see a strong sense of duty and family, but I dinnae hear ye speak of yerself. What makes ye happy, Isolde? What brings ye joy?"

The unexpected question left her momentarily speechless. When had anyone last asked about her happiness?

"Books," she admitted finally. "I've always loved tae read. Me maither taught me letters when I was barely old enough tae hold a quill." A small smile softened her features at the memory. "She believed daughters should be educated, nae just sons."

"A wise woman," Ciaran observed.

"She was." Isolde looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. "When she passed, many things changed. Me faither... he's never been the same."

Ciaran remained silent, giving her space to continue if she wished.

"I was fifteen," she said softly. "Suddenly responsible fer me younger sisters, fer the household. The servants began to leave when the money grew scarce."

"Yet ye managed."

She looked up, surprised by the admiration in his voice.

"Aye. I did what needed daeing. I learned tae keep ledgers, tae stretch provisions, tae mend what couldn't be replaced." Her voice grew stronger. "I taught me sisters what Maither had taught me—that circumstances may change, but who we are daesn't have tae."

"And who are ye, Isolde?" he asked, his dark eyes searching hers.

The air between them seemed to still, charged with something neither could name.

"I am me maither's daughter," she said finally. "Too stubborn tae surrender tae fate and too proud tae accept pity."

"Is that what ye think this is?" He gestured to the cream gown still displayed on the form. "Pity?"

"What else would ye call it?"

"What about recognition," he said simply. "Have ye thought that perhaps I see ye as a woman who deserves fine things, not because she needs them, but because they complement what's already there."

Isolde felt heat rise in her cheeks at his words. "Ye have a silver tongue, Laird MacCraith."

"Ciaran," he corrected gently. "And I speak only truth. Ye've carried burdens few women of yer station could bear yet maintained yer dignity throughout. That deserves recognition, not pity."

Something shifted between them in that moment—a door opening to understanding that neither had anticipated. For the first time since coming to Castle MacCraith, Isolde felt truly seen, not as a mystery to solve or a responsibility to bear, but as herself.

And in Ciaran's eyes, she saw not only of the most powerful lairds of the Highlands, but a man capable of unexpected kindness and insight.