Page 19 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER TWELVE

T he words tasted like ash on his tongue. He watched Isolde's face crumble for one betraying heartbeat before she caught herself—that fierce MacAlpin dignity lifting her chin even as her eyes dulled. The laird in him welcomed it; better she hated him than hope.

Clan first, he reminded himself through gritted teeth. Always clan first. Yet holding her gaze felt like forcing himself to breathe through water—each moment stealing more from him, as each second tested his resolve.

His eyes remained fixed on a point past her shoulder. "Yer presence at Castle MacCraith has come to an end."

"I'm well aware, me laird." Her voice matched his for coldness, though he caught the slight tremor.

"I've made arrangements fer yer return tae yer clan." The formal address felt like speaking around broken glass in his throat. "As laird, it's me duty tae ensure ye reach yer family safely."

"I require nay escort?—"

"What ye require is irrelevant." His tone cut sharp as winter ice. "Ye are me guest until ye depart these lands. Ye'll accept me protection."

She flinched almost imperceptibly. Good. Distance. Duty.

"It's a long journey. We shall take the western route through Glen Arach. The main road..." He paused, choosing words carefully. "Is nae secure."

"When ye say 'we,' dae ye mean yerself and guards, or?—"

"Meself." The word dropped between them like stone. "Just meself. Additional men would draw attention."

Her fingers twisted in her skirts—the first crack in her composure. "Alone?"

"Ye think me unequal tae the task?" His voice shifted dangerously low. "I've escorted other valuable political allies, Lady MacAlpin."

That landed—her spine straightened, eyes flashing briefly before that damnable dignity reasserted itself.

"Of course, me laird. I meant nay offense."

"None taken." He moved to her window, addressing his next words to the glass rather than her reflection. "Pack light. Ye'll ride yer horse, and I'll take mine. We leave before the household rises."

Silence stretched between them.

"Is that all... me laird?"

The formal address from her lips wounded worse than any blade. He turned back, forcing himself to meet her gaze. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to drink in her beauty, and her spirit. Then he shut his heart again.

"Clean breaks serve best, Lady Isolde."

The courtyard buzzed with early morning activity. Ciaran watched a stable boy fasten saddlebags to Isolde's mare while one of his men held steady the reins of his own stallion.

"Two days' provisions," he ordered, voice clipped. "Water skins filled three times over."

"Aye, me laird," the man nodded, securing the leather straps.

"So this is it." Finlay emerged from the shadows, still fastening his sword belt. "Ye're truly just taking her back?"

"Aye. Isnae that what duty requires of me?" Ciaran checked his stirrup lengths, avoiding his friend's gaze.

"Me friend, I ken ye better than tae care about the council's orders." Finlay stepped closer, lowering his voice. "D'ye remember how many of their opinions ye've gone against and been proven right? Especially when ye feel like?—"

"Enough!" Ciaran spun to face him, eyes blazing. "Ye are overstepping.”

Finlay raised his hands. "Ciaran?—"

"I am laird, nae ye," Ciaran cut sharply.

A finger jabbed at his chest. "Me. Me, Finlay.

I bear the burden. I bear the responsibilities.

Even if me heart breaks while I dae me duties.

" He stepped closer, voice dropping dangerously low.

"If I hear one more word of this, I shall send ye to scout our furthest border fer two weeks or until ye learn tae speak tae yer laird with the correct tone. "

The silence stretched taut between them. Finlay's jaw worked, but he dipped his head. "As ye wish, me laird."

"Ready the guards," Ciaran commanded, turning back to his horse. "Six men tae the border. Nay more."

His man scurried to obey.

Minutes passed in silence as they waited. Finally, the sound of footsteps echoed across the courtyard. Ciaran forced himself to turn.

Isolde approached wrapped in a dark traveling cloak, Elspeth at her side. She held herself straight, though shadows darkened beneath her eyes.

"The horses are ready, me lady," he announced formally.

She nodded, accepting a stable boy’s help mounting without a glance toward Ciaran.

"Ride out!" Ciaran commanded, swinging into his saddle.

The guards fell into formation. As they passed through the castle gates, curious faces appeared in windows. Servants paused their morning tasks to watch their laird departing with his guest.

The morning mist clung to the glen as they rode the winding path away from Castle MacCraith. Isolde maintained her position three horse-lengths behind him. Close enough for propriety, distant enough to sting.

At the clan border, marked by ancient standing stones, Ciaran raised his hand.

"This is where we part," he told the guards. "Return tae the castle. Report tae Finlay before noon.

The guards hesitated, glancing between their laird and the woman.

"Now," Ciaran barked.

They wheeled their horses, soon disappearing into the morning fog.

Ciaran and Isolde remained at the boundary stones. The silence between them stretched like a drawn bowstring—taut with things unsaid, duty and desire.

Ciaran nudged his stallion forward, then glanced back. "Stay close, Lady MacAlpin. The faster I take ye, the faster we ken get all this behind us."

He watched her nod once before turning his horse toward a winding trail.

The path grew treacherous as they descended into Glen Arach. Ciaran's stallion picked his way carefully over loose stones, hooves scraping against rock. Behind him, Isolde's mare whinnied nervously at a particularly steep section.

Clan first. The words echoed in his mind like a military cadence. Always clan first. Bloody hell.

A sharp cry pierced the morning air. He turned to see Isolde's mare dancing sideways along the narrow ledge, white-eyed with fear.

"Hold steady," he called, his voice clipped as he wheeled his stallion back. "Give her the reins. Let her find her own footing."

"I ken how tae ride," Isolde replied sharply.

Her mare gained control, but Ciaran couldn't take his eyes off her—the morning light caught fire in her hair as she controlled her mount with practiced skill.

Beautiful.

The thought invaded without permission.

Take her back and forget ye ever kent her.

They continued in silence, the distance between them measured not just in horse-lengths but in everything unsaid. His horse’s steady gait marked time like a heartbeat—a forward motion that carried them further from the possibilities of the dinner and dance they had shared.

The path widened slightly where a stream crossed their route. The water ran swift and deep from spring rains.

"This crossing requires care," he announced, dismounting. "Stay mounted. I'll check the depth."

His stallion's hooves splashed into the rushing water as he tested the current.

Safe enough though tricky for her smaller mare.

"Come forward," he commanded. "Slowly. The stones are slick."

Her horse hesitated at the water's edge, tossing its head.

"Really?" She looked at him, exasperation clear in her eyes. "I believe I was riding these paths the night we met, me laird."

For a heartbeat, he caught her gaze—that spark of defiance he'd first glimpsed at the ball. A smile threatened despite himself. He turned away quickly, hardening his features.

"Then ye ken tae be careful," he barked gruffly, urging his stallion forward across the stream.

They cleared the water without incident. The morning sun climbed higher, burning off the mist. Each clip of hoof against stone counted down the miles between Castle MacCraith and whatever future awaited them in MacAlpin lands.

The path narrowed as they entered a dense copse of pines. Ciaran's hand moved to his sword hilt, a prickle of awareness raising the hair on his neck. Something wasn't right.

"Stay close," he murmured to Isolde.

Four men materialized from behind the trees, blocking the path ahead. Dressed in rough plaids with blackened faces, they carried an assortment of dirks, axes, and a rusted sword.

"We dinnae want trouble with ye, MacCraith," the leader called. "Just hand over the lady, and we'll be on our way."

"Ye started trouble the moment ye walked onto me land," Ciaran replied, his voice deadly calm. He recognized the stance of trained fighters. These men belonged to someone. "Tell yer master Laird MacCraith daesnae take kindly tae trespassers."

The leader laughed. "All's fair in claiming what ye want, aye? The lady has value beyond what ye ken."

Ciaran felt rather than saw Isolde stiffen behind him. His stallion, trained for battle, shifted beneath him.

"Four men," Ciaran said, measuring distances with his eye. "Poor odds—fer ye."

Ciaran's gaze flicked briefly to Isolde, positioned safely behind his right shoulder. Her face remained composed, though her knuckles whitened on her reins.

"Position yerself against that oak," he murmured, nodding toward a massive tree trunk five paces back. "Dinnae move unless I fall. And then ride as hard as ye can tae escape."

The men advanced slowly, weapons drawn. Ciaran remained mounted, his stallion perfectly still beneath him. One hand casually rested on his sword hilt while the other held the reins loosely.

"Last chance," the leader called, now close enough that Ciaran could see the scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

Ciaran straightened in his saddle, drawing his claymore in one fluid motion.

The massive blade gleamed above his head as he unleashed the ancient battle cry of his clan —"FUUUUIIIIIL 'S CLAIDHEAMH MHòR!

"— the Gaelic words tearing from his throat with primal fury as he spurred his stallion forward directly into their midst.