Page 22 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
H oofbeats thundered across the path as Ciaran urged his stallion forward, setting a punishing pace. Isolde's mare kept stride just behind.
Sleep had eluded him through the night. Isolde's words had echoed in his mind long after they'd retreated to opposite sides of the dying fire.
A lass with wit and knowledge of strategy can be as valuable tae her clan…
Indeed, she had proven herself more capable than many lads he'd met in his lifetime—quick-witted, strong-willed, possessed of both intelligence and spirit. Yet that changed nothing between them. Duty remained, immutable as the ancient stones that marked clan boundaries.
The morning had begun in tense silence, neither willing to resume the previous night's argument.
They'd broken camp efficiently, their movements around each other a careful dance of avoidance.
When their fingers had brushed accidentally while dousing the fire, Ciaran had withdrawn as if burned, ignoring the flash of hurt in her eyes.
Now, leagues stretched behind them, eaten by their relentless pace. The MacAlpin borders lay ahead—perhaps by midday he would be free of her, this vexing woman who had somehow worked her way beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn't extract.
"We should reach the river crossing by noon," he said over his shoulder, the first words spoken since dawn. "From there, it's but two hours to the MacAlpin castle."
"Aye." Her voice carried forward, carefully neutral. "The eastern path would be quicker."
"The eastern path crosses Wallace territory."
"Only fer half a league."
"Half a league is enough fer trouble."
A stubborn silence followed, though he could practically feel her biting back a retort. In his mind's eye, he could see her expression without turning—that proud tilt of her chin, the fire in her eyes that sparked whenever he issued a command.
The trail narrowed as they entered a dense stretch of ancient pines. Ciaran slowed his stallion, allowing Isolde to draw alongside where the path widened briefly.
"There's something amiss," he said quietly, nodding toward the forest floor. "Look there."
Boot prints marked the soft earth—too many for hunters, too orderly for travelers. Military formations had passed this way, and recently.
Isolde's expression darkened. "Wallace?"
"Could be." He scanned the surrounding trees. "They passed yesterday, by the look of the tracks. Heading toward MacAlpin lands."
"Me sisters—" Alarm flashed across her face.
"Are safe at yer faither's keep," he said firmly. "These men are nae enough tae take a fortified castle."
Her fingers tightened on her reins, knuckles whitening. "Then they'll target what they can reach. The villages. The farms."
They pressed forward with renewed urgency, following the boot prints until they vanished where the soil turned rocky. Once again, an unsettling silence hung over the forest—no birdsong, no rustling creatures. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
As they emerged from the tree line, Ciaran spotted an abandoned farmstead ahead. The door hung from broken hinges, windows dark and empty. No smoke rose from the chimney, no livestock moved in the paddock.
"They left in haste," he observed, dismounting to examine the ground. Fresh wheel tracks cut deep furrows into the mud—a cart heavily laden, departing at speed. "Recently."
"Fleeing from what?" Isolde slid from her saddle, moving toward the cottage.
"Dinnae go inside," Ciaran warned, but she had already pushed past the broken door.
Her sharp intake of breath drew him after her. The cottage interior was intact but abandoned mid-meal—bowls still on the table, bread half-sliced. Whatever had driven the family away had come suddenly, leaving them no time even to gather provisions.
As they stepped back outside, something caught his eye on the horizon—a dark smudge against the clear blue sky. At first, he thought it merely a rain cloud gathering, though the air felt too dry. As they crested the next ridge, the smudge grew larger, more distinct.
Not a cloud. Smoke.
Ciaran reined in his stallion sharply, Isolde's mare nearly colliding with him at the sudden halt.
"What is it?" she asked, breathless from their hard ride.
He stared at the thickening plumes that stained the sky. His stomach tightened in grim recognition.
"There's a village burning," Ciaran said, already wheeling his horse around.
They rode hard toward the smoke, the horses' hooves pounding against the earth like war drums. Ciaran led the charge, his face set in grim determination. The stallion's muscles bunched and stretched beneath him, each powerful stride bringing them closer to the growing pall of black smoke.
The smell reached them first—acrid smoke that stung their eyes and caught in their throats. As they crested the final hill, the devastation spread before them in all its horror.
What had once been a thriving village of perhaps twenty stone cottages now burned fiercely, thick black smoke billowing into the morning sky. Thatched roofs blazed like torches, collapsing inward with terrible groans that carried over the crackling flames.
"Keep close, Isolde, remain behind me." Ciaran barked the orders without looking back, fully expecting Isolde to obey.
Villagers scrambled in frantic disarray—men and women forming desperate water chains from the nearby burn, passing leather buckets hand to hand. Children wailed, huddled together beneath a massive oak at the village edge, their tear-stained faces smudged with soot.
Near the well, the injured lay on blankets—an old man with badly burned arms, a woman cradling a bloodied head, a boy no more than ten clutching a wound at his side.
"Sweet Mother of God," Isolde gasped behind him. "Wallace…"
Ciaran's jaw tightened. "Ye dinnae ken that fer certain, lass."
"I ken it in me bones," she replied, already sliding from the horse before he could stop her.
The village square was thick with smoke and desperation. A mother clutched a child to her chest, tears cutting clean trails through the soot on her face. Men formed a line from the burn to the nearest building, passing buckets with grim determination.
"Where's yer headman?" Ciaran called out, dismounting in one fluid motion.
An older man with singed eyebrows stepped forward. "I'm Floyd. And who might ye be?"
"Laird Ciaran MacCraith," he answered, already removing his cloak. "What happened here?"
"Men came at first light," Floyd said, voice rough with smoke and exhaustion. "Ten, maybe more. Torches and dirks. They'd been coming fer weeks, saying we were tae pay tribute tae Laird Wallace or suffer the consequences." His eyes dropped to the ground. "We had naething tae give."
Isolde flinched at the confirmation, guilt washing over her. These were her people, suffering when they should have been protected.
"Water willnae be enough fer the smith's," a young lad shouted, pointing to a building where flames licked higher than the rest.
"There are folk still inside the chapel!" a woman cried from across the square.
Ciaran's eyes met Isolde's for one brief moment—enough to communicate without words. He nodded, then turned to the village men.
"Ye lot, keep working on the homes that can be saved," he commanded with the natural authority of a laird. "Ye three, with me."
As he ran toward a burning building, flames already licking at its timber roof, Ciaran glanced back to see Isolde gathering her skirts, organizing women at the well. Her voice carried clear and strong above the chaos: "Bring anything that ken carry water! Buckets, pots, anything!"
Pride swelled in his chest, unexpected and fierce. The lass had mettle.
Inside, screams guided him to a trapped family—a mother clutching two small children behind a fallen beam. Ciaran heaved against the burning wood, ignoring the searing pain against his palms as he created just enough space for them to crawl through.
"Go!" he shouted to the village men. "Get them out!"
The smallest child, a wee lass no more than four, trembled too violently to move. Without hesitation, Ciaran scooped her into his arms, shielding her face against his chest as he charged through the thickening smoke toward daylight.
Outside, he surrendered the child to her weeping mother, his lungs burning with each ragged breath. There was no time to rest. He immediately turned his attention to the spread of the flames, directing men to tear down a small shed to create a firebreak.
For hours they fought against the relentless flames. Ciaran worked alongside farmers and craftsmen, his fine clothes forgotten, his status as laird meaningless against nature's fury. What mattered was saving lives, protecting homes.
Twice he caught glimpses of Isolde—once comforting an injured elder, and later organizing children to help carry water. Her fine dress—the one he'd gifted her—was now ruined with smoke and soot, yet somehow she looked more regal than any noblewoman he had known.
As dusk fell, the worst was over. Of the twelve buildings in the village, five were completely destroyed, three damaged but standing, and four had been spared. Miraculously, no lives had been lost, though the village healer was tending to burns and smoke-filled lungs.
Ciaran's entire body ached with exhaustion. His hands, blistered from the burning beam, throbbed painfully. Yet what weighed heaviest was the knowledge that that had been no accident—it had been Wallace's deliberate cruelty.
He found Isolde sitting on an overturned bucket, a cup of water clutched in trembling hands. Even streaked with soot and sweat, her beauty struck him anew. This was no pampered noble daughter, but a woman of strength and compassion.
"Ye did well today," he said, his voice rough from smoke.
She looked up, her blue eyes startlingly bright against her soot-darkened face.