Page 3 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
CHAPTER TWO
T he thud of steel met flesh before the men could turn. The scarred man howled in pain as a blade sliced across his back. He stumbled forward, releasing Isolde as he turned to face this new threat.
Isolde fell back, eyes widening as she recognized her rescuer. Laird Ciaran MacCraith, his face fierce in the moonlight, was a far cry from the charming dancer she had run out on at the ball.
"Kill him!" the scarred leader roared, drawing his own sword. The three men formed a semicircle, stalking toward Ciaran with weapons raised.
The first attacker lunged with a wild swing. Ciaran sidestepped with practiced ease, his blade meeting the man's with a ringing clash before sliding down to slice across his opponent's forearm. The man cried out but pressed forward, joined by his companions in a coordinated attack.
Ciaran moved like water between them, his footwork precise where theirs was clumsy. His sword became an extension of his arm, parrying, striking, drawing blood with each calculated movement. Where they hacked and slashed, he executed controlled strikes that spoke of years of disciplined training.
One man fell to his knees, clutching a deep gash in his thigh. Another stumbled back, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. The scarred leader, seeing his advantage disappear, glanced between his injured companions and the barely winded laird.
"Run!" he finally shouted, scrambling backward toward his horse. The others followed, cursing as they fled.
The attackers crashed through the forest, disappearing into the darkness with Ciaran's curses following them into the night. Only when their hoofbeats faded did he turn back to Isolde, sheathing his blade.
"Are ye hurt, lass?" Ciaran asked. Blood pounded in his ears, the battle rage still coursing through his veins.
Something about her had drawn him away from duty—perhaps the way she'd stood her ground against his teasing, or how she'd matched him word for word without cowering as most lasses did. She was fire where others were merely smoke, and he'd been unable to resist the pull of her flame.
His impulsive decision to follow her had saved her life, though he'd had no choice in letting the bastards who attacked her go. Making sure she was alright was more important, and if she told him who they were, getting them would prove easy enough.
Now, watching her in the moonlight, he wondered what other surprises this mysterious woman might hold.
She touched her lip where blood had already begun to dry. "Nothing lasting," she said, pride evident in her voice though it caught on the words.
For all her brave front, Ciaran could see the way her shoulders shook, how she clutched at the torn fabric of her gown as though it might shield her from memories still fresh and raw.
Ciaran studied her in the dappled moonlight.
Her mask remained firmly in place, but he could see now how the fear she fought to hide mixed with her fierce spirit burned behind those blue eyes.
Though she stood tall despite her torn gown, when she took a step forward, her knees nearly buckled beneath her.
Ciaran reached out and steadied her, his large hand gentle against her elbow. "Here now," he murmured, guiding her to sit on a nearby fallen log. "Take a moment, lass."
She sank down, her legs finally betraying the strength she'd fought to maintain. In the silvered light, he could see the pallor beneath her flushed cheeks, the way she held herself as though one wrong move might shatter her composure.
"Are ye truly alright?" he asked, crouching before her, his voice softer than he'd intended. This close, he could see the fine tremors running through her, smell the sweet heather scent of her hair beneath the fear and exertion.
"Aye. I'm fine," she answered, lifting her chin. "Thank ye fer yer... intervention."
They sat in silence for a moment, the forest quiet save for the distant hoot of an owl and the drumming of his own heart.
The moonlight caught in her hair, turning the loose strands to liquid silver.
Despite her torn gown and the smudge of dirt on her cheek, she carried herself with the bearing of nobility.
The memory of her fighting—kicking, clawing, using her small dagger with no practiced skill—flashed through his mind. A small smile turned big until laughter rumbled up from his chest, unexpected and deep.
"Something amuses ye, me laird?" she asked sharply.
His laugh grew louder. "I've never seen a lass fight like that," he managed between breaths. "Three armed men twice yer size, and ye had them howling. I could enlist ye in me ranks tomorrow and make me enemies tremble."
For a moment she stared at him, then her own laughter joined his, a musical sound that lightened the forest darkness. "I wasnae sure me knee found its mark on that big one," she admitted, "but his face told me otherwise."
The shared laughter cleared the battle haze from Ciaran's mind. This woman was no ordinary noble daughter, taught only to embroider and please a future husband. There was steel beneath her fine gown.
"Ye have a name, lass?" he asked when their laughter subsided. "Or should I simply call ye 'the warrior in silk'?"
She turned away, searching the forest floor. "Me horse," she said, ignoring his question.
Ciaran spotted it among the trees and walked over to it, taking its reins. "Allow me tae escort ye home. After what just happened, it would be madness tae let yer travel alone."
"I thank ye fer yer help, Laird MacCraith, but I can manage from here." She moved to step past him.
Ciaran stepped smoothly into her path, his mouth curving into a knowing smile. "Ye called me by name at the ball as well, if I recall. Strange fer a lass who has nay name nor clan."
His eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he studied her masked face. "Were ye there just fer me then? Seeking out the fearsome Laird MacCraith?"
"Dinnae flatter yerself," she retorted, though her cheeks flared with color visible even in the dim light. "Everyone kens who ye are. 'Tis hardly a secret when ye command attention wherever ye go."
Her quick response only deepened his interest. This woman had spirit—first fleeing from him at the ball, now standing defiant despite her ordeal. Whatever game she played, he found himself increasingly unwilling to let her vanish into the night.
Ciaran caught her arm, gentle but firm. "Three men just tried tae carry ye off intae the night, and ye think I'll let ye wander these woods alone?
" He searched her masked face, trying to place her features among the daughters of nearby clans.
"Who are ye, and why willnae ye tell me where yer home is? "
She stiffened beneath his touch. "Release me, sir."
"Nae until I ken ye're safe."
"I am safe! I was handling meself fine, just as I was before ye came tae me at the ball," she retorted, pulling free.
Ciaran raised an eyebrow. "Handling yerself fine? As I recall, ye were almost on the floor before I caught ye. And after that, ye seemed willing enough when me arm was around yer waist."
Color rose in her cheeks, visible even in the dim light. "That was... I was..."
"Yes?" He couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips.
Her eyes flashed. "Ye're insufferable."
"And ye're injured, lost, and stubborn as a mule." He sighed, running a hand through his hair, loosened from its tie during the fight. "Look, I dinnae ken who ye are or why ye're hiding it, but those men will return, likely with more. These woods arenae safe."
She took a step back. "I ken these paths better than ye think."
"Aye, and so dae they, it seems." Ciaran gestured to the forest around them. "They kent exactly where tae wait fer ye."
Her confidence wavered, eyes darting to the shadows between trees. Ciaran pressed his advantage.
"Me castle is less than an hour's ride. Ye can rest there, tend that cut properly, and I'll have me men escort ye home, but only if ye tell me which clan ye belong tae." When she hesitated, he added softly,
"I cannae?—"
"Ye can and ye will," he said, his voice taking on the tone that silenced arguments in his council chamber. "Fer if ye think I'll stand here debating while ye bleed on forest leaves, ye're sorely mistaken."
Her shoulders squared. "Ye cannae command me, Laird MacCraith. I am nae one of yer clan."
"Then from which clan are ye?" he challenged.
Silence stretched between them. She glanced toward the path she'd been following, calculating. Ciaran watched her, fascinated by the play of thoughts behind those expressive eyes.
"I willnae tell ye me name or me home," she finally said. "But neither can I remain in these woods."
"Then we have only one option." Ciaran moved toward his horse, which had remained calm throughout the skirmish, trained for battle as it was. "Ye'll come tae Castle MacCraith."
"I willnae."
He turned back to her, amusement fading. "Fight me all ye want, lass, but ye're coming with me. One way or another."
Something in his tone must have convinced her of his resolve. She stared at him for a long moment, measuring him as one might an opponent across a battlefield.
"Until dawn," she conceded finally. "I will stay until dawn, and then I must go."
Triumph rose in Ciaran's chest. But it was not enough. "Nay, lass. I’ll nae let ye go until ye tell me yer clan and I can see ye safely tae yer home."
He approached his horse, a massive black stallion that towered over her slight frame, and tied the mare’s reins to its saddle, so it would follow him. Before she could protest, he placed his hands at her waist and lifted her effortlessly onto his saddle.
The contact sent a jolt through him, like the ones he felt while dancing with her.
Careful, man. Ye ken naething about her.
As he lifted her, the silk ribbon of her mask caught on his sleeve. The delicate covering fell away, revealing her face in the moonlight. Her gasp was immediate, her hand flying up to cover herself, but it was too late.