Page 2 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

"Careful, lass," he murmured, his voice lower and smoother than in her memories. It wrapped around her like velvet. "These floors have been kent to claim even the most delicate of dancers."

His face hovered mere inches from hers. She could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow of evening stubble beneath his mask, the way his lips curved—not quite a smile but just as ruthless in its charm.

Heat crept up her neck. This close, she could feel the power in his frame, the controlled strength as he effortlessly held her suspended between falling and standing.

"I—I wasnae... I didnae—" Words stumbled over her tongue, her usually quick wit deserting her entirely.

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes, the gesture so quick she might have imagined it, yet it left her lips tingling for his touch.

"Dance with me." Not a question. He expected Isolde to obey without protest.

Her fingers flexed against his forearms, not certain when she'd placed her hands there. She should retreat, make her excuses?—

"Unless ye fear being seen with me?" he challenged, something flashing in his eyes. "Perhaps ye prefer tae remain in the shadows, watching rather than experiencing?"

Pride surged through her confusion. She straightened her spine, chin lifting. "I fear naething, me laird." She infused her voice with all the noble bearing her father had instilled in her. "Certainly nae a dance."

His smile, a true smile that transformed his severe features, nearly buckled her knees. His eyes crinkled at the edges, revealing a warmth she hadn't expected from a man rumored to be tough, strong.

Isolde felt like the sun had just broke through the night, unexpected, and all the more stunning for its rarity.

He took her gloved hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a caress that seemed to scorch through the fabric.

"Then prove it to me," he said, leading her toward the center of the hall, where the musicians had begun a new melody. "Let us see if ye can keep pace with more than just yer sharp tongue."

The musicians struck up a new melody as he led her to the center of the hall.

Other dancers parted, their eyes following them with curious glances.

Lasses who'd spent the evening seeking the laird's favor now watched with silent dismay as he guided a mysterious masked woman across the floor, having ignored several eligible daughters, each of which had hoped to have the next dance.

"Strange," His hand settled at the small of her back. Isolde felt it like a flame burning through her gown, "I cannae recall seeing ye at any gathering before tonight. I'm certain I would remember."

She arched an eyebrow beneath her mask. "The whispers say ye have enough women in yer company. How dae ye keep a tally of them all?"

God, why did I just say that?

His laugh was low and rich, sending a shiver down her spine as he guided her through the first turn. "It's easy with the captivating ones." His fingers tightened slightly at her waist, drawing her closer than the dance required. "Especially when they cannae seem tae take their eyes off me."

The music quickened, and so did Isolde's heart as he spun her outward, only to pull her back against his chest with controlled strength. He continued speaking without giving her enough time to answer.

"Ye've been watching me all evening, lass." His voice dropped lower still. "From behind yer pillar. Did ye think I wouldnae notice?"

Isolde's breath caught. "I-I wasnae... I wasnae watching ye," she managed, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her.

One corner of his mouth hitched higher. "Ye lie very prettily."

His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering there with unmistakable intent. "Such bonnie lips shouldnae be wasted on falsehoods when they could be put tae far more... pleasurable uses." He pulled her closer, his meaning impossible to misinterpret as his own lips hovered mere inches from hers.

Heat flared in Isolde's cheeks. She pulled back sharply, missing a step in the dance. Her pulse quickened with indignation at his boldness. No man had ever dared speak to her so brazenly before

"Ye dare tae presume..." she started, her voice trembling slightly.

"I presume naething, lass," he countered, his brogue deepening. "I merely observe what's before me."

"I am a lady, Laird MacCraith, nae one of your tavern wenches tae be toyed with." Her chin lifted, eyes flashing fire behind her mask. "I thought ye were a man of honor, nae one who would speak tae a woman of noble birth as if she were... were..."

"Fascinating?" he offered, seemingly more intrigued than chastened by her outburst.

"Indecent," she finished, stepping away from him as the dance came to an end. The other dancers were already pairing off for the next set, but Isolde had endured enough. Her heart couldn't bear another moment pressed against him, desire warring with dignity.

"Ye think me a conquest then?" she challenged, backing away.

The MacAlpin name might have lost its wealth and its standing, but she would not let it lose its honor.

Even as her traitorous body yearned for his touch, her father's daughter would not be made sport of by a man who could take whatever—and whomever—he wanted.

"I think ye a mystery I intend tae solve," he replied, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Ken, lass, this isnae finished between us. "

She dropped into a curtsy, deliberately formal and cold. "Good evening, m'laird. Thank ye fer the dance."

Without waiting for his response, she turned and moved swiftly through the crowd, ignoring his call of "Wait!" that followed her.

Her cheeks burned with equal parts anger and embarrassment. She had fantasized about this moment for two years, and now that insufferable man had spoiled it entirely with his arrogance.

The great Laird MacCraith—so proud and presumptuous, treating her as though she were merely another conquest to be claimed like land in battle.

For all his fine reputation, he was no better than the rest of them—those Highland lairds who believed their power gave them right to whatever they desired.

Mother would have called him 'a wolf in fine wool,' and now Isolde could see why. Yet, even as disappointment burned in her breast, something else smoldered alongside it—something dangerous that sought expression.

The cool night air hit her face as she pushed through a side door into a small courtyard. Stars dotted the black sky above. She gulped down breaths, willing her racing heart to calm.

She heard the door behind her open, and pressed herself into the shadows of a stone archway, holding her breath. Ciaran's tall figure appeared, his silhouette unmistakable as he looked left and right across the courtyard.

"Me laird!" A voice called from inside. "The lairds are gathering in the library to discuss the alliance."

Ciaran hesitated, looking once more into the darkness before turning back. "Aye, I'm coming."

When the door closed behind him, Isolde sagged against the cold stone. What a fool she'd been. This entire adventure had been madness from the start. She pushed away from the wall, gathering her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

It was time to go home. She'd had her glimpse of Laird Ciaran MacCraith—far more than a glimpse.

Perhaps it was for the best he'd revealed his true nature.

Now she could finally purge him from her thoughts, her dreams, her very being.

The man she'd built in her imagination had crumbled to dust, replaced by this arrogant beast with hungry eyes.

Perhaps it was the cure she'd needed all along.

A few minutes later, Isolde was urging her horse faster along the narrow path.

The forest was thick there, branches reaching like spectral fingers across the trail.

She'd tarried too long at Castle Murray—dawn would break in mere hours, and she had to be back in her bed before the household stirred.

"Come on, Brígh," she whispered to her mare, leaning forward in the saddle. The path dipped sharply, forcing her to slow as they descended toward the valley that would lead her to the MacAlpin lands.

The snap of a branch froze her blood.

Isolde pulled Brígh to a halt, listening. The night was too quiet—no owls, no rustling creatures. She reached slowly for the dagger in her boot, fingers just brushing the hilt when thundering hoofbeats erupted behind her.

"Yah!" She dug her heels into Brígh's sides. The mare surged forward, but the path was too narrow for speed. Three riders crashed through the underbrush, cutting across the forest to intercept her.

The first rider appeared ahead, blocking the path. Isolde yanked the reins, veering Brígh sharply left into the trees. Branches clawed at her face and gown as they plunged through the darkness.

"There she goes!" a gruff voice shouted. "Dinnae let her reach MacAlpin land!"

They ken who I am.

Panic surged through her veins. Brígh stumbled on the uneven ground, nearly sending Isolde flying. Before she could regain control, a rope whistled through the air, catching her around the waist and yanking her from the saddle.

She hit the ground hard, air rushing from her lungs. Still, she scrambled to her feet, dagger now in hand as three men dismounted and advanced.

"Well, well," the largest one chuckled, his face scarred and brutal in the moonlight. "Lady Isolde MacAlpin, out fer a midnight ride. Laird Wallace will be pleased."

Wallace! I should have kenned!

"Tell yer master I'm nae interested in his attentions," Isolde spat, circling slowly, dagger gleaming. "I'd sooner wed a toad."

The men laughed, spreading out to surround her. "It's nae a proposal we're bringing ye, m'lady," the scarred one said. "It's an order. Ye'll make a dutiful bride at our laird's side, whether ye wish it or nae. The MacAlpin lands will be his one way or another."

"I'll die first," Isolde hissed, lunging suddenly at the nearest man.

Her dagger slashed across his arm, drawing a howl of pain. She spun, kicking hard at the second man's knee, feeling it buckle beneath her boot. But the scarred leader caught her from behind, massive arms wrapping around her.

Isolde drove her head backward, feeling the satisfying crunch as her skull connected with his nose. His grip loosened enough for her to twist, bringing her knee up sharply between his legs.

"Ye witch!" he gasped, doubling over.

She clawed at his face, nails raking bloody furrows down his cheek before the other men recovered. One grabbed her hair, yanking her head back while the other twisted the dagger from her grip.

"Naething was said about bringing ye unharmed," the scarred leader growled, blood streaming from his nose into his beard as he straightened. "Just alive."

"Ye can tell yer—" Isolde's defiant words cut off as he backhanded her across the face, splitting her lip. She tasted blood but refused to cry out.

"Enough talk," he snarled, grabbing her chin. "Bind her hands. We ride fer?—"

The snap of a twig and the soft thud of boots hitting earth silenced him. It was their only warning before a shadow detached itself from the darkness behind them.