Page 21 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
C iaran's jaw tightened visibly, his eyes flickering to hers before returning to the fire. For a heartbeat, something raw and unguarded crossed his face—and Isolde thought it looked like pain—before his expression hardened once more.
The words hung in the night air between them, weighted with all she'd left unspoken. Isolde leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening in her lap as she waited for him to speak. The crackling fire illuminated the hard angles and shadows of this face, where for the past days there had been warmth.
How could a single word— MacAlpin —transform him so utterly? Just two nights before, his lips had sought hers beneath the lantern light with a hunger that matched her own. Now he sat before her like carved granite, every trace of that man locked away behind a laird's mask of duty.
She searched his face across the flames, desperate for even a flicker of the connection they'd shared.
This distance between them felt impossible to cross—wider than glens, deeper than lochs.
Yet she had to try, had to know if what she'd glimpsed between them had been real, or merely a dream she'd foolishly allowed herself to believe.
"After everything between us," Isolde leaned forward, the firelight casting shadows across her determined features, "ye'll answer with naething but silence?"
Ciaran's gaze remained fixed on the dancing flames, as though they held answers she couldn't provide.
"Why?" she pressed, voice rising with each word. "Why daes one word—MacAlpin—erase everything that came before? Were yer emotions so shallow that ye cannae even look at me now that ye have learned me name?"
"Watch yer tongue, Lady MacAlpin." Ciaran's voice was controlled, measured, each syllable pronounced with deliberate formality.
The night seemed to hold its breath around them. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl called, its lonely cry echoing Isolde's unspoken pain.
"Nay." Her voice was quiet but determined.
Ciaran's head jerked up, surprise flickering across his features before the mask slipped back into place. He sat up straighter, shoulders squaring. "Nay? Ye dare defy me command?"
"Nay. I willnae defy yer command as a laird. But I dare tae defy yer command as a man who I ken cares fer me." Her voice softened on his name. "Ciaran..."
The plea spilt from her lips, but she could sense the wall between them still standing. The deliberate distance stung like a physical blow.
"What would ye have me say tae ye, Lady MacAlpin?" The formal tone and stiff body language made his retreat complete.
Isolde recoiled before anger surged through her veins, hot and clarifying.
"I would have ye speak truth fer once!" she snapped, fists clenching at her sides.
"Truth?" Ciaran's laugh was harsh in the darkness. "Ye want truth? The truth is I am laird before I am man."
"Ye are above such an answer," Isolde fired back, the fire between them flaring as if responding to her anger. "Ye were laird as well, were ye not? When ye danced with me, and kissed me beneath the stars—were ye nae laird then too?"
Ciaran's jaw tightened. "Aye. And I was wrong."
"Wrong?" Her voice caught. "Was it wrong tae see me as something other than my clan name?"
"It was wrong tae indulge meself and forget me duty." He straightened, his voice hardening with each word. "The MacCraith council exists fer a reason. Political alliances through marriage must strengthen the clan."
"And the MacAlpins have nothing tae offer?" The words tasted bitter on her tongue.
His silence was louder than any words he could have answered.
Isolde rose to her feet, unable to remain still beneath the weight of his dismissal. She paced around the fire, the flames casting her shadow long against the surrounding trees.
"So that's all that matters? Gold in coffers? Fighting men? Nae character or courage or?—"
"It matters that I keep me people safe!" His voice rose to match hers. "Every laird who was ever worth the name puts his clan above himself. Marrying a daughter of a wealthy, powerful clan means protection, trade, alliances that keep our borders secure."
"And ye think I dinnae understand duty?" She whirled to face him. "Who dae ye think has managed the MacAlpin household these past five years while me faither grieved? Who stretches every coin, mends every garment, ensures me sisters have enough tae eat when winter stretches long?"
Ciaran remained seated, but Isolde noticed his knuckles had whitened where they gripped the hilt of his dirk.
"If ye understand duty so well," he said, voice dangerous in its softness, "then ye ken why I must dae this. Would ye nae dae the same fer yer clan? Fer yer sisters?"
The question struck true. Isolde's steps faltered. She would sacrifice anything for her family—had already sacrificed her youth, her freedom, every small comfort.
"Aye," she admitted finally. "Fer me sisters, I would."
Something shifted in Ciaran's expression—a flicker of understanding, of shared burden.
"Then ye ken why there cannae be anything between us."
"But that's where ye're wrong," she countered, moving closer.
"There are different kinds of strength than just gold and swords.
The MacAlpins may have fallen on hard times, but our lands are still strategically valuable.
We control the passes between four clan territories—yours, Wallace's, the MacFarlanes', and our own.
Whoever holds those passes controls trade and military access tae the northern Highlands. "
Ciaran's brow furrowed slightly. For the first time since revealing her name, he looked at her directly—truly looked at her.
"I ken that, lass. I like that ye think strategically of yer clan."
"I speak like a woman who's spent her life learning tae survive." She knelt beside the fire, closer to him now. "The MacAlpins and MacCraiths shared ancient alliances, did ye ken that? Our clans stood together centuries ago."
"Aye," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Me faither spoke of it. The first MacCraith laird and the MacAlpin king forged a blood oath during the ninth century."
"Our ancestors fought side by side," Isolde said, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "In times when both clans were legendary."
"Ancient history now. As ye will find with most Highland alliances." Was that the ghost of a smile on his face?
"Too ancient tae matter, apparently." She couldn't help the challenge in her voice.
To her surprise, Ciaran's laugh escaped—brief and rough, but genuine. "Yer tongue remains as sharp as the day I met ye, Isolde MacAlpin."
The sound of her name without the formal "Lady" sent warmth coursing through her. "I've always been told that," she muttered, "usually just before someone tells me to hold it. Ye ken, ye're the only man who never told me tae stay in me place."
"Nay. I like that ye speak yer mind."
Their eyes met, a moment of connection rekindling between them like an ember brought back to life. For the briefest moment, they were just a man and woman sharing a joke beneath the stars, the weight of clan names temporarily lifted from their shoulders.
"Tell me of yer maither," Ciaran suddenly changed the subject, catching Isolde off-guard.
The flames between them danced lower now, casting a gentler light across his features. Something in his tone had shifted. He was less the commanding laird, and simply a man inquiring.
Isolde studied him for a moment before answering.
"She was remarkable. Born to the MacDonald clan, she brought their fierceness with her tae the MacAlpins.
" A smile touched her lips at the memory.
"She could read and write in three languages, kept the ledgers with more skill than any steward, and still found time tae teach us girls everything from household management tae Highland history. "
"She sounds like a formidable woman." Ciaran's voice held genuine respect.
"She was. The clan respected her judgment almost more than Faither's in some matters." Isolde's fingers absently traced patterns in the dirt beside her. "When traders came from Edinburgh or even France, she could haggle in their own tongues. They never expected it from a Highland lady."
"Me maither was similar," Ciaran offered, surprising her. "Though she died when I was young—eight summers old."
Isolde's eyes met his across the fire. Both had shouldered responsibilities too young, both knew what it meant to lose the foundation beneath their feet.
"The worst was watching Faither after me maither died," she added softly. "He's never truly recovered."
Ciaran nodded, the firelight catching on the angles of his face. "It changes a man, losing the one who holds his heart."
Isolde wondered if he spoke only of her father, or if the words held deeper meaning. The silence that followed felt comfortable rather than strained, as if some small barrier had crumbled between them.
Ciaran reached for the water skin, taking a drink before offering it to her. As she took it, their fingers brushed—a brief, accidental touch that sent a jolt through her body like summer lightning.
Their eyes met, held, and for a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Ciaran withdrew his hand as if burned, the fragile connection between them severing just as quickly as it had formed.
"Yer sisters," he said, his voice rougher than before. "Ye spoke of them with such affection. Each one different, ye said?"
Isolde understood the retreat, even as she mourned it.
Still, she found herself answering, telling him bits she hadn't shared with Elspeth or any outsider—Rhona's fierce independence, Lorna's quiet wisdom, Isla's adventurous spirit, little Aileen's uncanny ability to calm even the most skittish foals.
As she spoke, she watched his face. The formal mask had softened, his eyes reflecting genuine interest in her words. No longer the unyielding laird, but something closer to the man who had danced with her beneath garden lanterns.
"So ye see," Isolde said softly, "despite Highland culture, a lass with wit and knowledge of strategy can be as valuable tae her clan as any sword arm, purse of gold or even a lad.
When me maither saw her fourth and fifth children were lasses, she taught us that, so naebody will make us feel less valuable.
MacAlpins have always kent this truth, even when others forget it. "