Page 18 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

" L eave it," she told herself aloud. "It was never meant tae be yers anyway."

Isolde stared at the single pearl bead rolling across the floor and disappearing beneath the bed. She was folding the cream silk dress when her thumb tugged at a loose thread, causing it to snap and fly to the floor.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Enter," she called, quickly wiping her cheeks.

Elspeth appeared with a bundle of clothing in her arms. "I've brought ye traveling clothes, m'lady. Sturdy things fer the journey ahead."

"Thank ye, Elspeth." Isolde turned back to her task, carefully placing the gown down on the bed, mindful of its delicate fabric.

Elspeth set the clothes on the bed, her gaze falling to the dressing table where the pearl necklace and earrings from last night's garden ball still lay scattered. She moved to them, picking them up with gentle fingers.

"Such beautiful pieces," she said, placing the jewelry in a pouch and turning it to Isolde. "The laird says ye're tae keep them."

Isolde's hands stilled. "I need nay charity."

"'Tis nae charity tae give a gift tae someone ye care fer," Elspeth replied softly.

Isolde turned, eyes burning with fire, and exclaimed. "Is that what he thinks? That a few trinkets will ease his conscience?"

"I’m certain our laird gave them tae ye because he thinks ye deserve beautiful things," Elspeth said, her voice steady. "Regardless of yer clan."

Isolde turned away, shoulders rigid against the tears threatening to fall. "Me clan may have fallen on hard times, but we still have our pride."

“’Tis true, the MacAlpins were great once. Me grandmaither used tae tell tales of yer ancestors. But… pride can keep ye warm on cold nights, can it?" Elspeth retorted.

"We were great and now we're objects of pity." Isolde picked up her tattered riding cloak—the one she'd worn the night Ciaran found her.

"When will I be leaving?" she asked, carefully folding the worn garment.

"The laird is with the council now." Elspeth placed the retrieved jewelry in a small pouch. "I expect shortly afterward."

Elspeth paused, watching as Isolde methodically packed her few belongings. "Yer sisters—they must be worried fer ye."

Isolde's hands trembled slightly. "They helped me leave.

They covered fer me with Faither. But they surely havenae been able tae maintain the deception for so long.

.." She thought of fierce Rhona, artistic Lorna, daring Isla, and gentle Aileen.

"Rhona especially. She's never been able to hold her tongue when Faither presses her. "

"How many are ye, then?" Elspeth asked, moving to help fold a shawl.

"Five. All daughters." Isolde smiled faintly. "Faither's disappointment."

"Nay, lass. His legacy." Elspeth's weathered fingers brushed against Isolde's as they worked. "Ye speak of them with such love."

As Isolde described her sisters, Elspeth listened, nodding and asking questions that drew more details from her—Rhona's falconry, Lorna's paintings, Isla's knack for finding trouble, Aileen's quiet wisdom beyond her years.

When they finished packing, Elspeth placed the jewelry pouch atop the folded clothes. "Take them," she said gently. "Nae as charity, but as a memory of a place where ye were valued."

Isolde hesitated, then nodded once, unable to speak.

Elspeth paused, her weathered hands. "What were ye daeing out that night, lass? When the laird found ye?"

Isolde paused. She could lie, as she had to Ciaran, but something in the older woman's eyes invited truth.

"I just wanted tae see him one more time," she confessed softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "The great Laird MacCraith. I kent it was foolish, that nothing could ever come of it."

Elspeth nodded with understanding, reaching to squeeze her hand. "The heart daesnae always follow where reason leads, m'lady."

Something in Elspeth's tone made Isolde wonder if the older woman had once harbored similar feelings for someone beyond her reach. The thought created an unexpected bridge between them—two women separated by age.

Elspeth took her hand, squeezing it with surprising strength. "We'll miss ye around here, lass. The castle's been brighter with ye in it." Her eyes glistened. "Perhaps ye'll return someday, under happier circumstances."

"Perhaps," Isolde whispered, though she knew better.

Elspeth pulled her into a quick, fierce embrace. "Safe journey home, Lady MacAlpin. And ken ye leave friends behind at Castle MacCraith."

When the door closed behind Elspeth, Isolde moved to the window.

Below, the MacCraith clan went about their daily business—women carrying baskets of bread from the bakehouse, warriors training in the yard, children racing between the buildings.

In just days, the hustle and rhythm of the castle had become familiar.

She would miss this life of quiet luxury. The well-stocked kitchens, the sumptuous chambers, the sense of security that came with stone walls manned by trained warriors. At home, the rafters leaked when it rained, and they hadn't enough men to patrol their lands properly.

Her fingers closed around the jewelry pouch. Because he cares fer ye, Elspeth had said. Yet not enough to fight for her. Not enough to see past the MacAlpin name to the woman beneath.

"It daesnae matter," she whispered to herself. "It was never possible anyway."

Isolde moved to the window, needing a moment to breathe. Her hand touched the latch as she watched the bustling courtyard below. A rider crossed beneath her window—tall, broad-shouldered, with that same purposeful stride. Just like the day he'd first walked into her father's hall.

Her hand froze on the latch. The memory rushed over her like winter wind.

"Welcome tae Castle MacAlpin, Laird MacCraith," her father's voice boomed from below as he entered the hall to meet Ciaran and his men.

She had tae find out where they were going. When her father turned to lead Ciaran to the great hall, she darted from behind the pillar, slippered feet silent on stone as she followed. At the corner, she presses herself against the wall, straining to catch every word.

"We've heard reports of rebel men tracking near our borders," Ciaran's voice flowed like dark honey, deeper than she expected. "How fare yer defenses?"

"The MacAlpins have endured fer centuries without any clan's concern," her father replies, pride evident in his tone.

"Aye, and alone ye may fall," Ciaran counters gently. "These are changing times, Alistair. Old enemies grow bold."

"What would ye have me dae, Laird Ciaran? Bow tae the MacCraiths?"

"I would have ye consider ? —"

Isolde leaned further around the corner, desperate to see his face as he speaks. Their eyes almost locked. She fled to the gallery, heart thundering.

"Watching soldiers again?" Rhona appeared beside her, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"I meant nay ? —"

"He's too old fer ye, ye ken that?" Rhona whispers. "Too grand fer the likes of us."

"I wasnae ? —"

"Ah, but ye were." Rhona's grin is wicked. "The great Laird MacCraith has cast his spell on our Isolde."

Later, after their visitor departed, she followed her father to his study. "What did Laird MacCraith want?"

Alistair didn’t look up from his accounts. "Tae meddle in MacAlpin affairs."

"He seemed concerned fer our clan."

"Concern from a MacCraith comes with a price, daughter." His quill scratched against parchment. "Remember that."

She watched him, noting the slight tremor in his hand, the new lines on his face. When did he become so grey? "Faither, are we... are we safe?"

"We are MacAlpins," he said firmly. "We bow tae nae one."

But his eyes didn’t meet hers, and she wondered if he believed his own words.

Isolde pressed her forehead against the cold glass. That day marked when everything changed—when she couldn't stop thinking of those dark eyes, of a voice that spoke concern rather than scorn, of a presence that filled a room in a way only Laird Ciaran MacCraith could.

And now, two years later, she was leaving him behind. Just as Rhona had said— too grand fer the likes of us .

Three sharp raps on the door startled Isolde from her reverie. Ciaran, she thought, straightening her spine, and quickly rubbing at her cheeks before opening the door.

"Finlay?" Her voice cracked slightly at seeing Ciaran's trusted man. "I'd expected?—"

"The laird will come shortly." Finlay's hand gripped his sword belt, knuckles white. "Might I have a word?"

Isolde stepped back from the threshold. "Of course."

"I wanted tae..." He shifted, boots scraping stone.

Her chin lifted slightly, waiting.

"I came tae apologize," Finlay said carefully. "Fer everything that's happened."

Isolde's brow furrowed. "Ye've done nothing tae me, Finlay."

"Precisely." The eyes that met hers were sincere. "Sometimes daeing nothing is daeing wrong."

She studied the warrior before her—usually quick with a laugh, now standing uncomfortably.

"Come in," she said finally, stepping aside. "Ye need nae stand in the corridor."

Finlay entered slowly, maintaining distance as she closed the door. He remained standing as she perched on the edge of her chair, creating a careful space between them.

"I've known Ciaran since we were lads throwing stones at birds," he began.

"And what daes that matter now?" Isolde kept her voice gentle.

"It matters because..." Finlay ran a hand through his blond hair. "He's never spoken about any lass the way he speaks about ye. And the way he's been particular about yer comfort since ye been here. " Finlay said, the words hanging in the air between them.

Isolde's head jerked up. "I'm nae his first guest?" Isolde's fingers tightened on her skirts.

"First?" Finlay barked a laugh. "Hardly. He's had noblewomen stay—lairds' daughters seeking alliances. Did ye ken he once forgot one's name mid-conversation? But ye? He's never forgotten a single detail about ye."

Her chin trembled slightly. "Details dinnae matter. I saw his reaction when he kent me clan."

Finlay stared at her with something close to pity. "When we were lads, he jumped intae the frozen loch tae save me dog. Nearly died fer a mutt." Finlay's eyes held hers. "Ciaran—he'd defy his own council fer ye, if he could."

"But he cannae."

"Nay. He cannae." He hesitated. "If ye need help with anything..."

Isolde rose, moving to her packed belongings. She lifted her cloak, holding it like armor between them. "I thank ye fer yer kindness, but I'll face whatever comes."

Finlay studied her a moment longer. "Aye. I see now what he sees in ye, lass. Take care of yerself."

After he left, Isolde let out a sigh and moved to the washstand. She studied her reflection—red-rimmed eyes, chin lifted with MacAlpin pride. Whether Ciaran came to say goodbye or not, she would take it standing tall.

The knock that came was firm, and without waiting the door handle turned.

Ciaran stood in the doorway, tall, imposing, every inch the laird of MacCairth. The morning sun caught the stubble on his jaw. His eyes swept the chamber, taking in her packed belongings, then finally landing on her.

For a heartbeat, his gaze searched hers— and her own eyes sought desperately for traces of the previous night—the man who'd danced with her beneath lanterns, who'd touched her face with surprising tenderness, who'd kissed her with a hunger that matched her own.

Just a glimpse of him.

But his expression revealed nothing—no pity, no regret, no desire. Just the hard mask of a laird facing his duty.

Her heart stuttered. He didn't need to speak a word; his silence spoke volumes.

"Me laird," she managed, voice steady despite the trembling in her knees.

Isolde watched as his jaw tightened. "We leave at midday."