Page 20 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

The first man raised his weapon, but he was too late. Ciaran's downward stroke cleaved through his raised arm and into his chest with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across Ciaran's boots as he wrenched the blade free.

Without pausing, he wheeled his mount sharply left. The second attacker scrambled backward, but the stallion's iron-shod hooves caught him squarely in the chest. Bones shattered beneath the impact, the man's scream cut short as he crumpled to the forest floor.

Ciaran's gaze darted back to Isolde. She was still safe, her mare dancing nervously but holding position. Relief coursed through him for a heartbeat before he turned to face the remaining two men.

The third attacker lunged with an axe, aiming for Ciaran's leg. The claymore met the axe handle mid-swing, splintering wood and severing fingers. Before the man's howl could reach full volume, Ciaran's backhand stroke separated head from shoulders, the body collapsing in a spray of crimson.

The fourth man turned to flee. Ciaran slid his claymore into its sheath across his back, instead drawing the dirk from his belt.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, the blade spun through the air, burying itself between the fleeing man's shoulder blades.

He fell face-first onto the heather path, legs twitching as life fled.

Four bodies lay scattered across the blood-soaked ground. The entire fight had lasted only a few minutes.

He guided his stallion back to Isolde, who remained exactly where he'd positioned her. Her face had paled, but her blue eyes were wide with something beyond fear. Her gaze moved from the carnage to him, taking in the blood spattered across his plaid, the controlled power in his posture.

"Are ye hurt?" he asked, scanning her for injury.

"Nay. Are ye?" When he shook his head, she continued, awe filling her voice. "Ye... ye killed four men in the time it takes tae draw breath."

"Men who meant ye harm." He dismounted to retrieve his dirk, wiping the blade clean on the dead man's plaid. Even with his back to her, he remained acutely aware of her presence, of her gaze following his movements.

When he turned, he found her studying him with new eyes—not with horror at the violence, but with something that looked unsettlingly like admiration.

"Where did ye learn tae fight like that?" she asked softly.

"A laird must protect what's his." The words slipped out before he could catch them.

Something in her steady gaze pulled words from him he rarely shared.

"I was sent away when I was twelve," he said, his voice lower now as he mounted his stallion again. "Me faither believed a future laird should learn warfare from those who practiced it daily."

"Twelve?" The shock in her voice was evident. "That's barely more than a child."

A humorless smile crossed his face. "The MacCraith alliance with the northern clans required payment in gold or fighters.

Me father chose tae send his only son rather than empty the clan's coffers.

" He adjusted his blood-spattered plaid.

"I spent eight years fighting in skirmishes that weren't me own, learning tae hunt and tae kill efficiently so I might someday return home. "

"And did ye? Return home, I mean?"

"Only when word came that me faither had died." Something dark flickered across his features. "By then, killing had become as natural as breathing." Her eyes met his, something flaring between them that had nothing to do with the danger they'd just survived. For a heartbeat, formality crumbled.

Ciaran broke the gaze first, his expression once again composed. He remounted with practiced ease. "We should move. There may be others."

As they rode away, he caught Isolde stealing glances at him with a reassessment that made his blood warm despite himself. He kept his eyes forward, his spine straight.

He was a laird, not a common mercenary seeking approval. Yet her admiration settled in his chest warm, dangerous, and entirely too pleasant. Akin to whisky.

They'd ridden two more hours when Ciaran raised his fist, signaling a halt. His stallion's ears pricked forward, alert.

"What is it?" Isolde whispered, instinctively reaching for the dagger in her boot.

"Fresh tracks." He studied the ground, dismounting to examine the prints. "Three men, probably armed."

Her heart quickened. "How recent?"

"Hours, maybe less." His eyes scanned the surrounding trees. "They crossed our path here, heading west."

"Toward MacAlpin lands?"

Instead of answering, he remounted with deadly grace. "Stay behind me. We're riding faster."

For the next mile, tension strung tight between them like a drawn bowstring. Every snap of twig, every shifting shadow made Ciaran's hand twitch toward his sword. Despite his cold manner all day, she noticed how he positioned himself between her and any potential threat.

When they discovered the hastily abandoned campsite—still-warm embers and scattered belongings—Ciaran's jaw clenched visibly.

"They fled recently." He kicked dirt over the smoldering fire.

"Ye think they are still hunting me?"

The eyes that met hers, for the first time since their ride began, were not distant or cold. "Nae while I breathe."

The admission hung heavy between them before duty's mask slammed back into place. "Mount up. We dinnae stop until we reach the glen."

The shadows lengthened as they reached a sheltered glen, a natural clearing protected by ancient oaks. Ciaran raised his hand.

"We'll rest here." He swung down from his stallion, ground-tying the reins before unbuckling saddlebags.

"The border cannae be far now." Isolde dismounted stiffly, stretching muscles long cramped by the saddle.

"Another day's ride." Ciaran gathered kindling from beneath the trees. "These woods are safe enough. The MacAlpins still patrol here, aye?"

"When we can." She tended to her mare's girth, loosening the strap. "Faither sends men when the weather permits."

He nodded. "Finlay will have me men surrounding us from a distance, even though I told him nae tae. He willnae risk his laird's life."

"Smart man, yer Finlay."

Surprised by the response, Ciaran looked up from setting the kindling. "Aye."

Within minutes, he had a fire crackling, the smoke carrying the fresh scent of the woods. From his saddlebag, he produced a leather hide, unrolling it before the flames.

"Sit." He gestured to the makeshift seat. "The ground will be cold."

She hesitated, then lowered herself carefully onto the hide. He spread a second leather on the opposite side of the fire, creating proper distance between them.

From his saddlebag, he produced strips of dried venison—what the clan called "travel meat," cured with salt and herbs to keep for weeks.

"Here." He tossed her a portion. "It's tough, but filling."

She caught it deftly, tearing into the meat with her teeth. They ate in silence, the fire popping between them.

"These men who chased ye," Ciaran said finally, breaking off a piece of oatcake, "ye never did say which clan they belonged to."

Her chewing slowed. "I told ye, I dinnae ken."

"Ye dinnae ken, or ye cannae say. Because they kent ye clearly." He studied her over the flames. "Enough tae hunt ye through moonlit woods."

"These are dangerous times." She shrugged, but her fingers tightened on the meat.

Ciaran reached for the water skin, taking a long draught. "Me scouts have been bringing in reports. Armed men crossing clan boundaries without permission. I think Wallace may be involved in this."

"Many clans grow bold when they see weakness, some more than others." Her voice remained carefully neutral, but he knew that she was silently acknowledging what he had said.

"Aye." He passed her the water. "Is that what they see in the MacAlpins? Weakness?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously in the firelight. "Me clan has endured longer than most. We may nae field armies as grand as the MacCraiths, but we still stand."

"I meant nay insult." He held up a hand. The fire crackled in the gathering darkness. Night birds called from the surrounding woods, their cries echoing Isolde's earlier words back to him. Overhead, the first stars emerged through the canopy.

"I've bedding in me pack," he said, rising to fetch it. "Ye should take the softer ground by the fire."

They prepared for sleep in practiced silence—boots off, cloaks spread, weapons within reach. Ciaran banked the fire to last through the night while Isolde arranged her makeshift bed.

As they settled on opposite sides of the dying flames, the glen fell quiet save for the crackle of embers and the soft snore of horses.

Then Isolde's voice cut through the darkness: "Tell me, Laird MacCraith, did learning me name truly change everything between us so completely?"