Page 30 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

" W allace." Isolde sank into the window seat, the news of Rhona's disappearance striking her like a physical blow. "If Rhona crossed into his territory..."

Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her face, breathing deeply to steady herself. The room fell silent, her sisters watching her with expressions ranging from concern to fear.

"And how have ye explained me absence tae Faither? And Rhona’s?" Isolde asked, her mind racing. "Daes he ken I've been gone these weeks?"

The three sisters exchanged glances before Isla spoke. "Nay. We told him ye'd fallen ill with fever the morning after ye left. That ye needed isolation tae prevent the spread. And we now told him that Rhona has fallen ill too, with tyer ailment."

"Ye've been 'resting' in yer chamber and now, so is Rhona," Aileen added, her young face surprisingly composed for the deception. "We take meals tae yer empty rooms and bring them back later. The few servants have been helpin’ us maintain the secret."

Isolde stared at them, grudgingly impressed by their resourcefulness. "And Faither believed this? Fer this long?"

"He's been very concerned about ye, Isolde.

.. and now about Rhona as well, but we told him it was best fer his weak health that he nae come close tae ye.

And he has been distracted with clan matters," Lorna explained, her practical nature evident in her steady tone.

"The Wallace incursions along the border have increased. "

"He sent fer Margot, the village healer," Aileen added.

" But we explained tae her, and thankfully she’s been helping us cover fer ye, telling Faither that ye just need rest and quiet.

But she's been so worried, yesterday she threatened tae tell faither the truth if ye didnae return soon.

Thank the gods ye're back. What happened? We have been sick with worry!!"

Isolde stood, pacing the small sitting room as she processed everything. She decided the best approach was to tell her sisters only what they needed to know.

"I've been with Laird MacCraith," she said suddenly, turning to face her sisters. "Ciaran. He saved me from Wallace's men the night of the ball, and we've been..." She hesitated, unsure how to describe what had transpired between them. "We've become allies against Wallace."

Three pairs of eyes widened in perfect unison.

"Laird MacCraith?" Isla gasped, ever the romantic.

"The very one whose name ye used tae doodle in the margins of yer Latin lessons?" Aileen added with a ghost of her usual mischief, despite the gravity of the situation.

Lorna, however, focused on practicalities. "And he's where now?"

"Camping in the woods beyond the eastern ridge," Isolde replied. "He'll approach the castle formally tomorrow, as a visiting laird. He has resources, men. He'll make sure Rhona is returned safely."

"A MacCraith helping a MacAlpin?" Lorna's skepticism was evident. "What daes he gain from this alliance?"

Isolde hesitated, unwilling to voice the complex emotions that had grown between her and Ciaran. "Wallace threatens his borders too," she said instead. "And unlike us, the MacCraiths have the strength to fight back."

Isla studied her face carefully. "There's more than that, isn't there? Between ye and him?"

Before Isolde could respond, Lorna rose decisively. "Whatever the nature of this... arrangement... we need tae focus on the immediate problem. Ye need to 'recover' from yer illness before Faither summons the healer."

"Aye," Isolde agreed, grateful for the shift in topic. "What exactly am I supposed to have suffered from?"

"A lingering fever with chills and weakness," Aileen recited. "Occasional delirium, loss of appetite, sensitivity to light."

"We've told Cook ye could only manage broth fer nearly a fortnight," Isla added. "Oh! And ye've developed a slight cough in the past three days."

Despite everything, Isolde couldn't help a small smile at their thoroughness. "And how will I miraculously recover?"

"Gradually," Lorna replied, already plotting. "Starting tonight, ye'll begin to 'improve.' Ye'll appear weak but coherent when Aileen brings yer evening meal, and without any fever. Faither will likely visit then—he always asks after ye after his supper."

"By morning, ye'll be well enough tae manage some porridge," Isla continued.

"Perhaps even recovered enough to leave yer chamber briefly, though still pale and requiring rest," Aileen finished.

Isolde nodded, impressed by their strategic thinking. "That gives me a day to meet with Ciaran and determine how tae search fer Rhona."

"And the scratches on yer hands?" Lorna asked, pragmatic as ever as she gestured to the marks from the brambles.

"Nightmares," Isolde decided. "I thrashed about and scraped against the bedpost."

They spent the next hour refining details of their deception, planning Isolde's gradual recovery with the precision of military tacticians. As the sun began its descent toward the western hills, Lorna rose to prepare Isolde's bedchamber while Isla fetched clean nightclothes.

Aileen lingered behind. "I was so frightened," she admitted, her composure finally cracking. "First ye disappear, then Rhona. I thought I might lose ye both."

Isolde pulled her sister into a fierce embrace. "Ye'll nae lose either of us, I swear it. We'll find Rhona and bring her home safely."

"Dae ye truly believe Laird MacCraith will help us?" Aileen asked, her voice muffled against Isolde's shoulder.

"I dae," Isolde replied, surprised by the certainty in her own voice. "He's a man of honor, Aileen. When he gives his word, he keeps it."

The young girl pulled back, studying her sister's face. "Ye care fer him, and more than in yer previous dreamy manner," she said, not a question but a simple observation.

Isolde opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. There was no point lying to Aileen, who had always seen through her better than anyone. "It's complicated," she finally said.

"Most important things are," Aileen replied with wisdom beyond her sixteen years.

Lorna returned, breaking the moment. "Yer chamber is ready. We should move ye there before the servants begin dinner preparations."

As Isolde followed her sisters through the familiar corridors of her childhood home as secretively as they could, she felt like a stranger.

The girl who had snuck away to attend a masquerade ball had vanished, replaced by a woman who had fought beside warriors, faced death, and discovered strengths she'd never known she possessed, all while growing emotionally attached to a laird.

Whether that woman could find her sister and protect her clan while navigating the treacherous waters of her feelings for Ciaran MacCraith remained to be seen.

Ciaran MacCraith rode through the main gates of Castle MacAlpin the following morning, his stallion's hooves echoing against the cobblestones of the outer courtyard.

The castle rose before him, its stones bathed in morning light. He remembered his first visit two years before, when he'd gone seeking alliance against border raiders. Then, the fortress had impressed him with its strategic position, despite showing the signs of a clan in decline.

Now, the deterioration was more evident.

One section of the curtain wall had been hastily repaired.

Several of the outbuildings stood empty, their thatched roofs sagging.

Most telling was the number of guards. A castle this size should have had at least twenty men visible on the walls and in the yard. He counted only seven.

Yet pride remained in how the guards carried themselves, the MacAlpin banner flying defiantly from the highest tower. These were people holding onto their dignity despite diminished circumstances.

A grizzled man with the bearing of a senior guard approached, offering a formal bow.

"I’m Laird MacCraith, I seek audience with Laird MacAlpin," Ciaran said.

"Laird MacCraith. Ye honor us with yer presence."

"Me men and I crossed paths with Wallace raiders near yer borders yesterday. I thought it prudent tae bring word directly," Ciaran said, dismounting with fluid grace.

"If ye'll follow me, I'll inform Laird MacAlpin of yer arrival."

Ciaran handed his stallion's reins to a stable boy, noting how the lad's clothes hung loosely on his thin frame. Even the servants showed signs of the clan's hardships.

They were led through the main hall, where tapestries depicting MacAlpin victories hung proudly on stone walls. Ciaran remembered a formal dinner hosted there many, many summers back—the hall filled with clansmen, the atmosphere warm and welcoming despite the already-dwindling resources.

Now the great hearth held only a small fire, and the long tables that had once accommodated feasts stood bare.

The guard escorted them to a smaller chamber off the main hall—the laird's study, judging by the shelves of leather-bound ledgers and the massive oak desk positioned before a narrow window.

"Wait here, me laird. I'll fetch Laird MacAlpin."

Ciaran nodded, using the opportunity to assess the room. The desk surface held several maps with markings that suggested defensive considerations. A half-written letter lay abandoned beside an inkwell, the handwriting strong but uneven, as if written by someone fighting fatigue or illness.

He moved to examine a worn tapestry depicting what appeared to be the castle in its glory days, surrounded by prosperous farmlands and forests teeming with game. How different from the reality he'd seen on his approach.

"Laird MacCraith."

Ciaran turned at the familiar voice. Alistair MacAlpin stood in the doorway, his imposing height undiminished by age, though he leaned almost imperceptibly on an ornately carved walking stick.

The last two years had left their mark. Silver now dominated his once-auburn hair, and new lines etched his face.

Yet his eyes remained sharp as he assessed his unexpected visitor.

"Laird MacAlpin." Ciaran offered the traditional bow between equals. "Fergive me unannounced arrival."

"Few come tae the MacAlpins these days," Alistair replied, moving to take his seat behind the desk. The motion was careful, controlled, as if hiding discomfort. "What brings the Laird of Clan MacCraith tae our door?"

Ciaran noted the subtle emphasis on titles—a reminder of the formal nature of their relationship.

"Me men and I encountered Wallace raiders near your eastern border yesterday," Ciaran explained, maintaining the cover story he and Isolde had agreed upon. "Men attacking a village that I believe falls under MacAlpin protection."

Alistair's expression darkened. "Braehead. Did ye intervene?"

"We did. The men fled, but not before burning cottages and hurting several villagers. I believe at least two may be dead."

"And ye rode directly here tae inform me?" Alistair's tone held skepticism. "Most unusual fer a MacCraith, least of all the laird himself tae concern himself with MacAlpin troubles."

"Highland troubles concern all clans," Ciaran replied evenly. "Wallace grows bolder by the day. His incursions have begun along my southern borders as well."

"So this is about protecting MacCraith interests." There was no accusation in Alistair's voice, merely acceptance of political reality.

"Partly," Ciaran acknowledged. "But also about addressing a common threat. Wallace will not stop with border raids."

Alistair studied him for a long moment. "Ye speak as if ye have insight into his plans."

"I've intercepted his men on several occasions now. Their movements suggest organization beyond simple raiding. He's testing defenses, probing for weaknesses."

"And ye find mine lacking." It wasn't a question.

Ciaran recognized the pride in the older man's bearing. It was the same pride he'd seen in Isolde when she'd shown him her clan's struggling lands. "I find yours targeted," he corrected carefully. "Which suggests Wallace sees something valuable in MacAlpin territory."

Something shifted in Alistair's expression. It was a flicker of concern quickly masked. "What else did ye observe during this... intervention?"

Ciaran maintained his neutral expression. "The villagers mentioned increased Wallace patrols along your eastern border. They fear more attacks may come."

"Me clan matters are me own concern, Laird MacCraith." Alistair's voice cooled perceptibly.

"Of course," Ciaran agreed smoothly. "I merely thought the information might be of value."

Tension stretched between them, unspoken questions hovering in the air. Ciaran wondered how much Alistair suspected—about Isolde's connection to him, about Wallace's true intentions, about the real purpose behind Ciaran's presence at his castle.

Finally, Alistair sighed, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. "Ye've ridden far tae bring this news. MacAlpin hospitality demands we offer rest and refreshment at minimum."

"I would be honored," Ciaran replied, recognizing the formal offer for what it was. Not genuine welcome, but adherence to ancient Highland customs that transcended clan rivalries.

"Ye and yer men may stay the night if ye wish. We dine at sundown." Alistair gestured to a servant who had appeared silently in the doorway. "Show Laird MacCraith and his men to the guest chambers in the west wing."

"Ye're most generous," Ciaran said. "But I am here alone. But I would be more than happy tae dine with ye and yer family."

Alistair's gaze sharpened.

"Very well." Alistair's noncommittal reply was belied by the suspicion in his eyes. "If ye'll excuse me, Laird MacCraith, clan matters require me attention."

As Ciaran followed the servant from the study, he felt Alistair's gaze on his back. Calculating, wary, protective. The older laird sensed something amiss, though he couldn't know the truth of how his eldest daughter and the Laird of Clan MacCraith had come to be connected.

Now all that remained was to find a way to speak with Isolde privately as soon as he could—to coordinate their stories and plan their next steps together.