Page 15 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

Despite her unease, Isolde soon found herself soaking in scented water, Elspeth's efficient hands washing her hair. The woman's chatter provided a welcome distraction from thoughts of Ciaran and the upcoming evening.

When she finally emerged from behind the dressing screen, wrapped in a clean shift, she stopped short. Laid out on the bed was the cream silk gown from the dressmaker's shop—the one she'd tried on, the one that had made Ciaran speechless.

"How did this—" she began, reaching out to touch the delicate pearls adorning the bodice.

Elspeth smiled, a rare look of girlish excitement lighting her face. "The laird had it delivered taeday. Fer tonight's gathering."

"But it must have cost a small fortune," Isolde protested weakly, even as her fingers traced the exquisite embroidery.

"Apparently the laird paid fer it. He must have wanted ye tae have it."

Elspeth winked, gathering up the bath linens. "I'll send the lass tae dae yer hair."

Isolde stood before the looking glass, hardly recognizing the woman who stared back. The cream silk gown fit her perfectly, as though created for her alone rather than altered.

Its neckline, edged with pearls, framed her collarbone, while the fitted bodice gave way to a skirt that seemed to float with each movement. Elspeth’s hair had been arranged in an intricate style, with soft curls framing her face and pearl pins catching the candlelight.

"The laird will be speechless," Elspeth remarked, adjusting one final curl.

"Where exactly is this gathering?" Isolde asked, nervous energy making it difficult to stand still.

"The laird said he'd come escort ye himself."

As if summoned by the words, a knock sounded at the door.

Elspeth hurried to open it, revealing Ciaran in formal Highland dress.

He wore a finely tailored black jacket over a white shirt, a MacCraith tartan draped over one shoulder and secured with a silver brooch bearing his clan's crest. His dark hair was combed back from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his features.

His eyes widened slightly at the sight of her, that now-familiar heat kindling in their depths.

"Ye look..." he began, then seemed to think better of whatever he'd been about to say. Instead, he extended his hand. "Will ye join me?"

Isolde placed her fingers in his, ignoring Elspeth's knowing smile as they departed. His hand was warm around hers, the calluses from years of swordplay a reminder of the warrior beneath the laird's finery.

"I owe ye an apology," he said as they walked. "Fer last night."

"There's nay need," she replied quickly, heat rising in her cheeks at the memory. "It was an accident."

"Aye, but one that caused ye discomfort." He glanced down at her, his expression serious. "That was never me intention."

They descended a staircase she'd never taken before, leading deeper into the castle than she'd yet explored. Torches illuminated their path, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.

"Where are we going?" she asked, curious despite herself. "I thought ye said there was tae be a gathering."

"There is." A hint of a smile played at his lips. "Just nae where ye might expect."

They passed through a heavy oak door and emerged into the night air. Isolde gasped softly as she took in the sight before her. The castle gardens, which she'd seen only briefly during daytime walks with Elspeth, had been transformed into something from a fairy tale.

Hundreds of candles in glass lanterns hung from the branches of ancient trees, their golden light reflected in small pools and fountains.

The stone pathways were lined with torches, creating a warm glow that held the spring night's chill at bay.

In the center of the garden, a small area had been cleared, with a table set for two beneath a canopy of flowering branches.

"Ciaran," she breathed, unable to find words adequate to express her wonder.

"Ye've been forced tae stay here," he said softly. "I thought ye deserved one night of beauty."

From inside his jacket, he withdrew a small velvet pouch. "I have something fer ye."

Isolde watched, transfixed, as he tipped the contents into his palm. A delicate strand of pearls gleamed in the lantern light, each one catching and holding the golden glow like captured moonlight.

"Turn around," he murmured.

Her hands trembled as she obeyed, lifting her hair away from her neck. The warmth of his fingers brushed against her skin as he fastened the clasp, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the evening air.

"There," he said, his voice low. His hands lingered at her shoulders, gentle as a whisper.

Isolde's fingers rose to touch the pearls at her throat, feeling like a queen, like the lady she'd been born to be. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the MacAlpin name and its burdens, to be simply a woman adorned by a man who looked at her as though she were precious.

"I cannae accept such a gift," she protested weakly, though her fingers still caressed the smooth surface of the pearls.

"Enjoy it fer the evening," Ciaran replied, his eyes softening as he watched her. He stretched out a hand, running it lightly over her copper tresses. "They pale beside yer beauty, but they'll serve tae remind ye of this night."

The tenderness in his gaze made her breath catch. No man had ever looked at her this way—as though she were not just a laird's daughter, not just a political alliance to be made or rejected, but a woman to be treasured for herself alone.

"Thank ye," she whispered, the words wholly inadequate for the storm of emotions within her breast.

Four musicians sat to one side, playing a gentle melody on fiddle, harp, and flute. The music seemed to rise and fall with the night breeze, weaving through the garden like another form of light.

As he led her toward the table, set with the finest silver and crystal, Ciaran paused. From inside his jacket, he withdrew a familiar object—the silver and blue mask she'd worn the night of the ball.

"Ye dropped this," he said, holding it out to her. "The night those men attacked ye."

Isolde stared at the mask, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Ye kept it?"

"I thought I would keep it as a memory of the fiery lass who almost fought off three strong men on her own." His dark eyes held hers, searching. "I never imagined she would return tae me castle with me."

She took the mask with trembling fingers, the weight of it familiar yet now laden with new meaning. She'd worn it to hide her identity that night, but it had ultimately led her there— to that enchanted garden, to that man who looked at her as though she were precious.

"Will ye wear it again?" he asked. "Fer tonight?"

The request surprised her. "Ye wish me tae hide me face?"

"Nay," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I wish tae recreate the moment I first saw ye—but this time, without interruption."

With gentle fingers, Isolde secured the mask once more, the silver filigree cool against her flushed skin. The world seemed different now through its openings—more focused, more vibrant, as though the mask enhanced rather than concealed.

"Wine?" Ciaran offered, the crystal decanter catching and fracturing the candlelight.

"Please," she replied, watching as he filled two goblets with deep red wine .

The table before them held an array of delicacies arranged with artistic precision—smoked salmon with herbed butter, venison roasted with forest herbs, tender spring vegetables glazed with honey. Crystal bowls contained berries and cream, their scent mingling with the garden's flowering branches.

"Ye've gone tae extraordinary lengths," Isolde observed as he held her chair.

"Naething extraordinary about wanting tae see ye smile." His fingers brushed her shoulder as he moved to his own seat, the brief contact sending warmth cascading through her.

They dined beneath the stars, the music weaving through their conversation. Ciaran spoke of his childhood at Castle MacCraith, of his sister Sorcha and their adventures climbing the ancient oak that still stood sentinel by the north wall.

Isolde found herself sharing stories too—carefully edited tales of her sisters that revealed nothing of their clan, yet conveyed the love between them.

The wine loosened her tongue and warmed her blood. When Ciaran stood and extended his hand, she took it without hesitation.

"Will ye dance with me?"

The musicians, noticing his gesture, transitioned to a slower, more intimate melody. He led her to the small clearing among the lantern-lit trees, one hand at her waist, the other holding hers aloft.

Unlike their first dance at the ball, constrained by formal steps and watching eyes, they moved together with natural grace. His hand at her waist drew her closer with each turn, the heat of his palm burning through the silk of her gown. The scent of him enveloped her as surely as his arms.

"I've dreamed of this," he admitted, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Since that night at the ball, when ye ran from me."

"I didn't run because I wanted tae," she confessed, emboldened by wine and moonlight.

"Why then?"

The honest answer—that she'd feared recognition, feared the disappointment in his eyes when he discovered she was a MacAlpin—caught in her throat.

"Fear," she said instead, a partial truth.

"And now?" His steps slowed until they were barely moving, swaying in place beneath the canopy of light. "Dae ye still fear me, lass?"

"Nae ye," she whispered. "What happens next."

His hand released hers to trace the edge of her mask, his touch feather-light against her skin. "May I?"

Heart hammering against her ribs, she nodded.

Slowly, reverently, he removed the mask. The night air kissed her exposed skin as his eyes held hers, dark and intent. Time seemed suspended between them, fragile as a soap bubble, shimmering with possibility.

Then his lips found hers, and the world fell away.

The kiss was gentle at first, a question rather than a demand.

But when she responded, her hands sliding up the solid wall of his chest to link behind his neck, something broke free within him.

His arms encircled her waist, drawing her flush against him as the kiss deepened into something hungry and wild.

Isolde gasped at the flood of emotions—desire and fear and something dangerously close to love all tangled together in her breast. She'd imagined that moment countless times since first seeing him at her father's castle two years prior, but reality eclipsed fantasy in ways she couldn't have anticipated.

When they finally parted, breathless, Ciaran rested his forehead against hers. "Tell me who ye are," he whispered. "Nay more secrets between us."

The moment of truth had arrived. With his taste still on her lips and his arms still around her, Isolde could no longer maintain the deception.

"Me name is MacAlpin," she whispered, the name falling from her lips like a stone into still water. "I am Lady Isolde MacAlpin, eldest daughter of Laird Alistair MacAlpin."

She felt him stiffen, his breath catching. Slowly, he drew back, his eyes searching hers as though seeing her truly for the first time.

"MacAlpin," he repeated, his voice unreadable.

The name echoed in Ciaran’s his mind like distant thunder. "Ye're a MacAlpin."

He took a step back, hands falling away from her waist as though burned. MacAlpin .

One of the oldest Highland clans, once powerful, now... His mind raced through what he knew of their current state. Lands still extensive but poorly managed. Wealth diminished. Allies few. A clan his council had specifically named as having nothing to offer in alliance.

"I—ye—" Words failed him as he struggled to reconcile the woman before him with this new knowledge.

Isolde's eyes clouded, the joy of moments before replaced by something that looked painfully like resignation. "I should have told ye sooner," she said quietly. "But I knew this was exactly what would happen when I did."

Ciaran knew Isolde expected a response from him. And he wanted to reassure her. But only he uttered that one word.

"MacAlpin.”

Something shuttered in her eyes, and she stepped further away, gathering her skirts in one hand.

"Good night, Laird MacCraith," she said formally, the sudden distance between them measured not in steps but in worlds.

"Thank ye fer a lovely evening. Now ye ken me clan, ye have nay further use of keeping me here.

I will prepare tae leave in the morning. "

"Wait," Ciaran called, but it came out a mere whisper, not even loud enough for Isolde to hear, strangled by the conflict raging within him.

He called louder, "Isolde, wait!"

But she was already turning down the garden path, the cream silk of her gown ghostly in the lantern light, leaving him alone among the candles and uneaten desserts.