Page 14 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER NINE

C iaran circled the training yard, sword in hand, his focus sharp despite the sleepless night. The image of Isolde in that firelit robe had haunted him until dawn—a distraction he could ill afford.

"Yer left guard is weak," Finlay remarked, swinging his blade in a quick arc.

Ciaran parried just in time, the dulled training swords connecting with a sharp blow. "Me guard is fine."

"Aye." Finlay pressed his advantage, forcing Ciaran back several steps.

With a sudden surge, Ciaran twisted his blade, disarming his friend with a move he'd perfected years ago. "See? I'm perfectly meself."

Finlay retrieved his sword, shaking out his stinging hand. "Ye've been in an odd mood all morn."

When Ciaran did not respond, Finlay smirked. "It's the lass, isn't it? Are ye developing feelings fer her?" Finlay asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Of course nae!" Ciaran replied with unnecessary vehemence. "I know me duties as a laird. Any alliance must benefit the clan."

"Heaven smile on ye and make her the daughter of a laird with enough wealth and power tae match yer standing," Finlay said, only half-joking.

Ciaran allowed himself a small smile. "That would be convenient."

"The council will ask questions eventually," Finlay warned.

"And that is why I need tae learn who she is," Ciaran replied.

"And how dae ye plan tae discover that? She's been quite determined tae keep her secrets."

Ciaran thought of the cream silk gown, of how Isolde's eyes had lit up at the sight of it in the dressmaker's shop. "Everyone reveals themselves in time, when given the right opportunity."

"Ye're up tae something," Finlay observed, narrowing his eyes. "That's why ye're in a better mood today."

"Perhaps." Ciaran sheathed his sword and reached for his water skin. "Taenight I am preparing a surprise fer Lady Isolde." Ciaran's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "And perhaps, with her guard lowered by a pleasant evening, she'll finally reveal who she is."

"Or," Finlay countered, "she'll enchant ye further, and ye'll forget tae ask."

Ciaran laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Have a little faith, Fin. I haven't forgotten who I am, nor me responsibilities tae our clan."

But as they made their way back towards the castle, Ciaran couldn't deny the truth. Laird or not, he was falling for the mysterious woman who'd stumbled into his life.

And that night, he intended to discover if there was any chance for them beyond those stolen moments at Castle MacCraith.

Near the castle keep, a young page hurried toward them, his expression anxious. "Me laird! The council awaits ye in the great hall. They say it's urgent."

Ciaran and Finlay exchanged glances. "Has Murray been busy, then?" Ciaran muttered.

"It seems so." Finlay fell into step beside him.

The great hall fell silent as Ciaran entered.

Five stern-faced men sat at the long oak table—his council of elders, men who had served his father and now served him.

At the head sat Old Fergus, whose grandfather had been advisor to Ciaran's great-grandfather.

Beside him, Murray's distinctive red beard stood out like a flame.

"Me lords," Ciaran greeted them, taking his place at the table's center. "Tae what dae I owe this unexpected gathering?"

Old Fergus cleared his throat. "Troubling reports have reached us, me laird, of armed men on our borders. Sightings of strangers skulking about the forest. And—" his gaze sharpened, "word of a young woman you've been harboring in secret."

"I wasn't aware that a laird needed permission tae offer hospitality," Ciaran replied evenly.

"When that hospitality threatens the clan, it becomes the council's concern," countered Angus, the youngest of the council members but no less formidable.

"How exactly daes me guest threaten the clan?" Ciaran kept his voice steady despite the anger building in his chest.

"These armed men have been sighted near our borders.

Men who appeared the very night ye brought her here," Murray said bluntly.

"They grow in number with each passing day.

Me huntsmen reported fifteen of them along the eastern ridge yesterday while tracking deer.

Fifteen armed men, Laird Ciaran! That's nay coincidence. "

"I'm well aware of these incursions, Murray," Ciaran replied coolly. "Me border patrols have the clan secured. In addition, we've doubled the guards and sent scouts tae track their movements."

He leaned forward. "What ye've observed merely confirms what me captains reported tae me at dawn. The question is nae whether these men exist, but that we must trap them once and fer all."

"Who is she?" Old Fergus asked, his rheumy eyes fixed on Ciaran's face. "Why daes she attract dubious characters like those men? What dae they want from her? From which clan daes she hail? "

The questions hung in the air. Ciaran hesitated, weighing his options. The truth would reveal his own ignorance—that he'd sheltered a woman whose identity remained a mystery. A lie would only delay the inevitable.

"I dinnae ken," he admitted finally. "She refuses tae say."

Murmurs broke out around the table. "Ye mean tae tell us," Angus said incredulously, "that ye've invited danger tae our doorstep fer a woman who won't even name her clan?"

"I know her name is Isolde," Ciaran said defensively. "I know she's of noble birth. And I know she was attacked on the edge of MacCraith land, where two other clans intersect with ours. That makes her me responsibility."

"Responsibility?" Old Fergus's eyebrows rose. "Or infatuation?"

Ciaran felt heat rise in his neck. "Watch yerself, old man."

"With respect, me laird," Laird Murray interjected, "we’ve all heard how bonny she is. The council's concern is that ye might be blinded tae the danger she brings."

"The MacCraith has never shrunk from danger," Ciaran replied coldly. "Nor abandoned those in need. Nor let emotion affect duty."

"Indeed, me laird. The MacCraith has always acted with the clan's welfare foremost," Old Fergus countered. "If these men seek the girl, perhaps returning her tae them would secure our peace."

Ciaran's fist hit the table with enough force to rattle the goblets. "We are nae in the habit of handing over women tae armed men! What kind of clan would that make us?"

Silence fell again, broken only by Fergus's labored breathing.

"Time," Ciaran said finally. "Give me time. I believe I can learn her identity this very evening. Once I know which clan she belongs tae, we can better assess the threat—and decide the proper course."

The council members exchanged glances.

"One night," Old Fergus agreed reluctantly. "But if ye cannot discover who she is by morning, the council will vote on what's tae be done with her. And me laird—" his voice softened slightly, "fer both her sake and yers, I hope she's worth the danger she's brought tae our door."

As the council members filed out, Finlay approached Ciaran's side. "Well handled," he murmured. "Though now ye have but hours tae accomplish what ye haven't managed in days."

Ciaran stared out the window, where dark clouds gathered on the horizon like an omen. "Then me plan fer tonight cannae fail." He turned to his friend, determination hardening his features.

But as he strode from the hall, Ciaran thought about how that night was his last chance. He intended to discover if there was any chance for them before his council tore that chance away forever.

Morning light filtered through the window, waking Isolde from fitful dreams. Memories of the previous night flooded back—Ciaran standing in her doorway, his eyes widening as he realized what the firelight revealed through her wet robe. Heat rushed to her face at the recollection.

When Elspeth arrived with breakfast, Isolde feigned illness.

"Please tell the laird I'm indisposed this morning."

"Are ye truly ill, lass?" Elspeth asked, her weathered hand cool against Isolde's forehead.

"Just... tired," Isolde replied, avoiding the woman's knowing eyes.

For hours, she remained in her chamber, alternating between pacing and staring out the window at the activities in the courtyard below. Once, she spotted Ciaran crossing toward the stables, his broad shoulders squared beneath his dark cloak. Her heart quickened traitorously at the sight.

A knock at midday preceded Elspeth's return, this time with a tray of food and a concerned expression.

"The laird asked me tae check if ye're truly unwell," she said, setting down the tray. "He seemed... concerned. So, I made ye some broth."

Isolde sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "I'm well enough in body."

Elspeth sat beside her, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight. "But nae in spirit?"

"The laird affects me in ways I dinnae understand," Isolde admitted, the words escaping before she could reconsider. "He stirs unfamiliar emotions in me. I've never felt so..." She gestured helplessly, unable to articulate the storm of emotions that Ciaran stirred within her.

"Ye're a woman of age tae fall in love," Elspeth said gently. "But nae all attractions are true love. Ye must give everything it's time tae bloom. But our laird is a good lad. I've seen him change since ye got here."

"I'm nae his type," Isolde said, thinking of the vast gulf between a MacCraith laird and the daughter of a failing clan.

Elspeth's eyes widened slightly. "Nae his type? Lass, have ye looked in a mirror?"

Isolde realized the misunderstanding—Elspeth thought she meant by looks, not status. "I only meant?—"

"The laird has a mind of his own, dear," Elspeth interrupted with a pat to her gnarled hand. "Always has."

Standing, the older woman moved to stoke the fire. "There's tae be a small gathering taenight. Naething grand, but the laird asked that ye join them early."

Panic flared in Isolde's chest. ""I feel unsure still. What if?—"

"Nonsense. A hot bath first tae calm yer nerves." Elspeth was already moving toward the door. "I'll have the water brought up."