Page 16 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER TEN

C iaran stood at the eastern tower window, watching the sun break across the mist-shrouded glen. He hadn't sought his bed after Isolde's revelation, instead pacing the battlements until his boots wore paths in the stone.

MacAlpin.

Each time the name echoed in his mind, duty and desire warred anew within his chest. His council would never approve. His clan needed strength, not charity. Yet when he closed his eyes, he saw only her face the moment before she'd walked away—pride and resignation mingled with disappointment.

The betrayal in her eyes had cut deeper than any blade.

He'd earned her trust during their ride to the village and the subsequent trip to the store.

He had felt her body relax against his the previous night, heard the softness creep into her voice the moment before she decided to tell him her clan—only to shatter it all with his cold reaction afterward.

She'd finally revealed her truth after his consistent grinding, and instead of him trying to understand, he'd responded by withdrawing.

The memory of her wounded expression haunted him just as deeply as the lives of his fallen men.

The MacAlpins had once been among the most powerful clans in the Highlands, their history stretching back to ancient kings. Now they were reduced to managing dwindling resources and diminishing influence.

"Fuil na féinn! " he cursed under his breath, invoking the blood of ancient warriors. "Of all the lasses in the Highlands, why did she have tae be a MacAlpin? The Fates themselves must be laughing at such crossed fortune."

But what if there was more to consider than ledgers and fighting men?

Ciaran thought with a growing sense of hope.

MacAlpin lands bordered the fierce MacFarlanes to the east and Wallace territory to the south.

The same direction from which armed strangers had been encroaching on MacCraith lands.

The same direction from which Isolde had fled that night at Castle Murray.

This positioning made the MacAlpins strategic indeed.

The MacFarlanes would more than likely stand with them, if he negotiated an alliance with MacAlpin, especially since Wallace had been itching for battle for decades.

Ciaran's eyes narrowed.

Could those men lurking about his borders, the ones who'd murdered his clansmen, be targeting the MacAlpins through ye, Isolde? Is Wallace involved in this?

Perhaps they'd been trying to capture her as a way to force an alliance.

Or perhaps Isolde herself was she seeking an alliance with MacCraith to protect her clan from Wallace? It would explain why she'd risked personal safety to attend the masquerade, and why she'd been so reluctant to reveal her identity too early.

Ciaran strode to his private study. There, he unrolled the clan maps across his table, fingers tracing territorial boundaries.

The MacAlpin lands were extensive, though not prosperous as in years past. Their position at the crossroads of four clan territories—including the often-hostile Wallace clan and the opportunistic MacFarlanes—made them strategically invaluable despite their current weakness.

Even weakened, the MacAlpins held strategic positions—mountain passes, vital river crossings.

Their alliance could create a formidable buffer against growing threats.

If Wallace was indeed targeting them, perhaps seeking to absorb their territories, an alliance with the MacCraiths would strengthen both clans.

Ciaran stood straighter, new resolve hardening his features. The council would not see it at first—they would focus only on the MacAlpins' current weakness. But a laird had to look beyond immediate challenges, towards future possibilities.

And perhaps, a small voice whispered in his mind, perhaps there was a way to fulfill both duty and desire after all.

Decision made, Ciaran pulled the cord that hung beside the fireplace. The small bronze bell in the servants' quarters would summon his steward. Within moments, a knock sounded at his chamber door.

"Enter," Ciaran called, moving to his desk.

His personal steward since boyhood appeared with a bow. The older man's eyes widened slightly at the sight of his laird still in yesterday's formal attire, but his expression remained professionally neutral.

"Send word to Finlay to summon the council," Ciaran ordered. "Full attendance, no excuses. In one hour."

"At once, me laird." The servant bowed again and withdrew, no doubt already planning which servants to dispatch to each council member.

Ciaran remained at the window a moment longer, watching golden light spill across the valley.

He couldn't dismiss the memory of Isolde in the garden—the moonlight on her copper hair, the sweet surrender of her lips beneath his, the way her body had fit against his.

Then the shock in her eyes when he'd stepped away.

The hurt she'd masked with dignity. He'd longed for the revelation of her clan.

Planned for it even, and yet when it had come, it had fallen between them like a blade.

Ciaran was still deep in thought when the knock sounded at the door of his chambers. "Me laird, the council has assembled as requested," came the voice of his steward.

"I will be there in five minutes."

The council chamber fell silent as Ciaran entered.

Five pairs of eyes tracked his movement, their expressions reminding him he should have at least changed from his formal clothes, now creased from a night without rest. He ran a hand over his jaw line, realizing he should have also taken time to shave the dark stubble from his jaw.

He caught Finlay's concerned glance from the corner of the room where his friend stood, arms crossed.

Ultimately, what they thought of his appearance was of little concern to him. He grabbed a territorial map from a shelf before he took his seat at the head of the ancient oak table.

"Me laird," Old Fergus's gravelly voice broke the silence. "What matter demands our presence with such urgency?"

Ciaran looked from one lord to the next. He noted the concerned looks on each face. These were good men who understood the depth of their responsibility to the clan, as well as to its laird. "I've discovered the clan of our guest."

Laird Murray leaned forward. "And what clan is that?"

"She is Lady Isolde MacAlpin, eldest daughter of Laird Alistair MacAlpin."

A collective intake of breath swept the chamber. Murmurs broke out among the men.

"MacAlpin?" Angus, the youngest council member, couldn't hide his disbelief. "The clan that can barely maintain its own boundaries?"

"Precisely," Ciaran replied, spreading the territorial map across the table. "Which is why I propose we consider a formal alliance."

"An alliance?" Old Fergus's bushy eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "With the MacAlpins?"

"Consider their position," Ciaran said, finger tracing the boundaries where four clan territories met. "They hold the crossroads between MacCraith, Wallace, and MacFarlane lands. Their passes control access to the northern reaches."

"Aye, and what good is holding such passes when ye can't defend them?" countered Laird Murray. "The MacAlpins haven't fielded a proper fighting force in a decade."

"Which makes them vulnerable," Ciaran pressed. "If Wallace absorbs their territory, we'll have a hostile neighbor pressed against our flank."

Angus snorted. "No clan has sought alliance with the MacAlpins in twenty years. Their coffers are empty, their army mere farmers. What benefit would such a match bring us?"

Ciaran's jaw tightened. "Our clans share alliances from centuries past. The first MacCraith laird was an ally tae a MacAlpin."

"Ancient history and mere sentiments," dismissed Dunbar, who'd remained silent until now. "We need practical strength, nae sentiments of kinship long dissolved."

"The men who pursued Lady Isolde the night I found her. I believe now these men may be targeting her to use her in some way to force an alliance between their clan and the MacAlpins. If that is the case, we are better off making this alliance ourselves."

The council members exchanged glances.

"Dae ye ken this fer certain?" Old Fergus asked, suddenly attentive.

"I cannot prove it," Ciaran admitted reluctantly.

Dunbar waved a dismissive hand. "Speculation. The girl probably fled an arranged marriage her faither had already brokered with someone else."

"What cannae be denied," Angus added sharply, "is that since the MacAlpin lass arrived, armed men have breached our borders and MacCraith blood has been spilled on our own soil.

Whether she intended it or nae, she has brought war tae our doorstep.

Dae we truly wish tae formalize an alliance with a clan that drags such trouble in its wake? "

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber. Ciaran's knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table.

They're nae listening, nae seeing the opportunity.

Ciaran's frustration mounted as he watched skepticism settle back into their expressions.

"Me lords," he tried again, "think beyond immediate concerns. The MacAlpin lands are extensive, their soil fertile. With proper management?—"

"Which they've failed tae provide fer a generation," interrupted Angus.

"Aye. Strategic position means little without strength tae defend it," Dunbar countered dismissively. "The MacAlpins has all daughters, their laird ailing with no male heir. Why should MacCraith gold revive their fortunes that our own people may see nay benefit from?"

"Because sometimes strength lies nae in what a clan has, but what it might become," Ciaran's voice rose, passion coloring his words. "The MacAlpins have endured centuries of Highland winters. Their blood is as ancient as our own. And Lady Isolde?—"

"Ah, now we come tae it," Lord Dunbar smirked. "The lady herself. A comely lass, by all accounts."