Page 25 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T he last of the flames had been doused, leaving wisps of smoke curling into the darkening sky. Ciaran found Isolde crouched beside an injured villager, her hands gentle as she helped bind a gash on the man's leg.

"Are ye alright, lass?" he asked, kneeling beside her.

She looked up at him, soot streaking her cheek and exhaustion shadowing her blue eyes. "Aye, but these people need help. We cannae just leave them tae tend their wounds alone."

Ciaran nodded, rising to address the gathered villagers.

"Right then. Men who can still lift buckets, help salvage what grain ye can from the storehouse.

Women and children, gather in the kirk—we'll tend the wounded there.

" His voice carried the authority of command.

"Those with cottages still standing, make room for yer neighbors. Nay one sleeps cold tonight."

For the next several hours, they worked side by side. Ciaran organized the men to shore up damaged roofs and clear debris, while Isolde moved among the injured with the calm efficiency of someone well-versed in caring for others. By the time full darkness fell, the immediate crisis had passed.

The taste of smoke lingered on Isolde's tongue, bitter as the memory of Wallace's men burning the village.

Her hands, still smudged with soot despite scrubbing them in the village well, ached from helping to carry water buckets and tending to the wounded.

Around them, the villagers worked to salvage what they could from the smoldering ruins.

Dark clouds had been gathering on the horizon throughout the afternoon, and now the first fat raindrops began to fall, hissing against the still-warm embers of what had been the village's grain stores.

"Me laird, me lady." Floyd approached them. "The storm's coming in fierce, and it'll be full dark soon. Ye shouldnae be traveling these roads at night, nae with Wallace's men still about."

Ciaran looked up at the darkening sky, then at Isolde. "Are there any accommodations we might use taenight?" Ciaran asked Floyd, though his eyes remained on Isolde's face.

"Me cottage is gone, but there is a good little tavern—" Floyd gestured toward the edge of the village where the houses had escaped the worst of the flames. "Old Angus and his wife, they've room enough, and they'd be honored tae shelter ye both properly."

Thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain began to fall in earnest. Isolde felt the cold drops sliding beneath her collar, and she saw Ciaran's jaw tighten with decision.

"We accept their hospitality," he said formally, then his voice softened as he looked at her again. "Ye're exhausted, lass. And soaked through."

A recognition that went deeper than mere attraction passed between them. They had faced ruin and death together that day and had emerged changed. The battle had stripped away pretense between them, leaving something raw and honest in its place. Something inevitable.

As Floyd led them toward the cottage, Isolde felt Ciaran's gaze on her.

The rain was falling harder now, turning the muddy village paths treacherous, but she barely noticed.

All she could think about was the way he'd looked at her across the battlefield, the way his eyes had found hers when the fighting was done.

"'Twas nae as bad as it could have been," Ciaran observed, his hand reaching out to hold her gently by the waist. "Only two cottages lost, and the grain stores mostly saved."

"This time," she said quietly, trying hard to remain normal despite the sensations running through her at the way his fingers gently, but firmly pressed into her flesh. Ciaran's touch was like that. Insistent, yet not rushed. "But Wallace willnae stop here."

Ciaran studied her face in the moon light. "Tell me about Wallace. What daes he want with yer clan?"

Isolde was quiet for a long moment, then decided there was nothing to hide anymore.

"He wants tae force a marriage that gives him control of everything we have.

" Her voice grew bitter. "Me faither has nay sons, ye see.

Only daughters. And Wallace kens that if he can wed one of us, he gains claim tae all MacAlpin holdings. "

"But surely yer faither wouldnae?—"

"Me faither grows weaker each year," she interrupted. "The clan council grows more frightened. If Wallace keeps attacking our people, burning our villages..." She shrugged helplessly. "How long before they decide 'tis better tae sacrifice one daughter than lose everything?"

Ciaran frowned. "Why would Wallace go tae such lengths? It's not like Wallace daesnae have land of its own."

"Greed. We may nae have the largest territory, but we control the mountain passes between the Lowlands and the western isles." Her eyes flashed with anger. "And Wallace has the men and arms tae wage this kind of war."

"And yer clan cannae?"

"Nae in the way that matters against men like Wallace."

The pieces began falling into place in Ciaran's mind. "The night we met," he said slowly. "When those men attacked ye?—"

"Aye." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

"They were Wallace's men. He must have been watching, waiting fer one of us tae venture beyond our borders.

" She met his gaze steadily. "Any one of the MacAlpin daughters would have been sufficient as bride, but I was the fool who gave him his chance. "

Ciaran's jaw tightened. "Ye werenae a fool fer wanting a moment of freedom."

"Wasnae I? Look where it's led." She gestured toward the tavern door, beyond which lay the damaged village. "He's been hunting us ever since that night. Every attack, every burned cottage—it's all because I escaped him."

"Nay." Ciaran's voice was firm, dangerous. "It's because he's a bastard who preys on those he thinks cannae fight back."

"This isnae yer fault, lass." His hand squeezed her waist.

Isolde stared down and Ciaran felt the slight tremor that ran through her. "Sometimes I think... maybe I should have let him take me that night. Maybe then none of this would have happened."

"Dinnae." The word came out harsher than he intended. "Dinnae ever think that. Ye did what any person with courage would dae—ye fought fer yer freedom."

She looked up at him then, something vulnerable and grateful in her expression. "Why dae ye care so much? These arenae yer people he's hurting."

Ciaran was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing her side. "Maybe nae by blood," he said finally. "But any man who would terrorize innocent folk tae force a marriage..." His green eyes hardened. "That makes him me enemy too. Besides, now there’s ye… "

Silence stretched between them at the implication of his words.

"What will ye dae now?" he asked.

"Go home. Try tae convince me faither that we need tae fight instead of hiding." Her laugh held no humor. "Though I doubt he'll listen tae his daughter's counsel over his advisors' fears."

"And if he daesnae?"

Isolde met his gaze steadily. "Then I'll find another way tae protect me clan." She shook her head.

By now they were at the door of the tavern. Ciaran caught her hand.

"Isolde," he said quietly. "Whatever ye're thinking of daeing—dinnae face it alone."

Inside, the tavern was humble but clean, its stone walls thick enough to keep out the worst of the Highland weather. Angus MacLeod, a man of perhaps sixty with silver threading through his dark hair, opened the door before they could knock.

"Come in, come in," he said, his weathered face creasing into a smile. "Ye're both soaked tae the bone."

His wife Margaret appeared behind him, a small woman with kind eyes and flour dusting her apron. "Oh, me lady, look at the state of ye! And me laird! Ye've been fighting fer us today." She clucked her tongue like a mother hen. "Come away from that door before ye catch yer death."

Isolde stepped into the warmth of the cottage, immediately struck by its cozy simplicity. A peat fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on whitewashed walls. The scent of fresh bannocks and mutton stew filled the air, making her stomach clench with sudden hunger.

"We've two rooms upstairs," Margaret said, already bustling about. "Nothing grand, mind ye, but clean and dry. Angus, help his lordship with his cloak."

"There's no need tae fuss—" Ciaran began, but Margaret waved him silent.

"Nonsense. Ye've saved our village today. 'Tis the least we can dae." She turned to Isolde with motherly concern. "Me lady, I'll have hot water brought up for washing, and there's a clean shift that belonged tae me daughter before she married and moved north. It'll dae until yer own clothes dry."

"Ye're too kind," Isolde murmured, touched by their generosity despite having lost so much that day.

"Kindness is repaying a debt," Angus said gruffly. "Without his lairdship's sword, we'd have lost more than buildings taeday."

Margaret disappeared into what Isolde assumed was the kitchen, already calling for her young servant girl to heat water and gather linens. The efficiency of their hospitality, even in the face of disaster, was something to behold.

"The rooms are just up the stairs," Angus said, gesturing toward a narrow wooden staircase. "Naething fancy, but the beds are soft and the blankets warm."

Ciaran's eyes met Isolde's across the small room, and she felt that same electric current that had sparked between them all day. Two rooms. Separate rooms. It was proper, respectable, exactly what should happen.

So why did her heart sink slightly at the thought?

An hour later, Isolde sat clean and warm in Margaret's borrowed shift, her damp hair falling loose around her shoulders. The servant girl had brought up a tray of food—thick mutton stew, fresh bannocks, and sweet butter.

"Could ye tell me," she asked the girl quietly, "has his lairdship eaten?"

"Nay, me lady. He asked fer the food tae be left outside his door. Said he wasna hungry."

Isolde frowned. Why would he refuse food after such a fierce battle? Something was wrong.

She rose from the small wooden chair. Outside, the corridor was dim, lit only by a single candle in a wall sconce. Ciaran's door was shut, and she could see the untouched tray sitting on the floor beside it.

"Me laird?" She knocked softly. "Are ye well?"

"Aye." His voice was rough. "Just need some rest. Have ye eaten, lass?"

But there was something in his tone that made her push the door open despite propriety. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his leine and plaid discarded, candlelight flickering across the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.

"Ye're hurt," she said, moving toward him.

"It's naething," he dismissed, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed him.

"Let me see." Her tone brooked no argument as she stepped closer, reaching for his arm.

For a moment, he remained stubbornly still. Then, with a resigned sigh, he extended his arm.

"Naething?" she echoed incredulously. "Ye call this naething? If this isnae tended properly, it'll fester."

Without waiting for permission, she positioned the basin of water beside them. Their eyes met briefly before he looked away.

"I've had worse," he said, his voice low.

"That daesnae make this less serious," Isolde replied, gently cleaning the wound with water and soap. The cut was deep but clean. "How did this happen?"

Ciaran gave a carefree shrug, barely wincing as she worked. "A blade caught me when I turned tae check on ye."

The words settled between them, heavy with implication. He'd been wounded because he'd looked back to ensure her safety. A rough hand unexpectedly covered hers, stilling her ministrations.

"Ye fought well today," he said quietly. "Few lasses would have stood their ground against trained warriors."

"I'm nae most lasses," she replied, resuming her work on his wound.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Nay. Ye're definitely nae."

She tore a clean strip from the cloth and began wrapping his arm, watching his face for any sign of pain. His features remained stoic, though she noticed the slight tightening around his eyes with each turn of the bandage.

"Why are ye being kind tae me again?" The question escaped her lips before she could snatch it back.

His eyes darkened. "Have I been unkind, then?"

"Ye ken fine what I mean," she pressed, her fingers stilling on his arm. "Since I told ye me clan name, ye've been a different man. Cold. Distant. Yet here—" she gestured to his wound, to the small space between them, "—ye look at me as ye once did."

Something like regret flickered across his face before he quickly mastered his expression. "The battlefield changes things."

"Daes it?" she asked softly.

His eyes darkened as he watched her hands continue their gentle work on his wound. "Aye. It strips away pretense. Shows a man what truly matters." His voice grew rougher. "Shows him what he's willing tae fight fer."

"And what would that be?"

"When I saw ye standing against Wallace's men today," he said, his gaze intense, "fighting with the courage of ten warriors, I knew." His free hand came up to catch a strand of her damp hair, twisting it gently around his finger. "I am MacCraith, but I fought fer ye, lass."

She stilled, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"I reacted badly before," he continued, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Pushed ye away when I shouldnae have. But that daesnae change what's been true since the moment we first danced." His thumb traced along her jawline. "What's been growing between us whether I wanted it or nae."

"Ciaran..." she breathed.