Page 31 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
T he MacAlpin great hall stood transformed by candlelight, shadows concealing the tapestries and faded grandeur that daylight revealed. Ciaran surveyed the scene from his position at Alistair MacAlpin's right hand, the place of honor that tradition demanded for a visiting laird.
Silver gleamed on the high table, though he noted it was concentrated near their settings while simple pewter served the lesser tables. A calculated display of wealth where it would be most noticed.
Alistair raised his goblet in a formal toast. "Tae our guest, Laird MacCraith, who brings us warning of Wallace's treachery."
"Laird MacCraith," echoed the gathered clansmen, their voices a rumble beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Ciaran inclined his head in acknowledgment, taking a measured sip of the wine—good stock, likely from dwindling reserves saved for such occasions. "Tae Clan MacAlpin's health and prosperity," he returned, the traditional response of a welcomed guest.
His gaze moved purposefully across the table to where three young women sat watching him with expressions too careful to be innocent.
The MacAlpin sisters formed a striking tableau: Lorna, with shrewd eyes that missed nothing; Isla, with her barely suppressed smile; and young Aileen, whose stare was so transparent in its assessment that Ciaran nearly smiled.
Their hair—a shade lighter than Isolde's but unmistakably marking them as sisters—caught the candlelight as they exchanged glances too coordinated to be coincidental. Something passed between them, a silent communication that reminded him forcefully of Isolde.
"We're honored by yer intervention at Braehead," Lorna said, breaking the momentary silence. Her tone was perfectly proper, yet something in her steady gaze suggested layers beneath her words. "Especially considering the historic relations between our clans."
"History needn't dictate present actions," Ciaran replied carefully. "Wallace threatens all Highland peace."
"Indeed," Isla interjected, leaning forward slightly. "It's remarkable how fate brings people together in times of danger. Wouldn't ye agree, Laird MacCraith? How chance encounters can change everything?"
Beside her, Aileen's eyes widened fractionally, a warning glance directed at her sister that Ciaran caught only because he was watching so closely.
It was then that certainty crystallized in his mind.
They knew. Perhaps not everything, but enough.
Isolde had confided in them, had told them of their meeting, their journey, perhaps even their growing feelings.
These were not merely sisters making polite conversation, they were assessing the man who had returned their eldest sister home.
"I find," he said carefully, meeting Isla's gaze directly, "that the most meaningful encounters rarely happen by chance alone."
A small, satisfied smile touched her lips before she ducked her head to attend to her meal. Beside her, Aileen's cheeks flushed slightly, while Lorna's expression remained composed but watchful.
The conversation shifted as servants brought in the main course—a roasted venison that spoke to the clan's continued hunting rights in the surrounding forests.
The meat was carved with ceremony at the high table, the portions carefully distributed to demonstrate proper hospitality while conserving precious resources.
"Ye'll find our deer have a distinctive flavor," Alistair commented, ever the gracious host despite the undercurrent of wariness in his posture. "The heather they graze upon here lends a sweetness ye won't find elsewhere."
"It's excellent," Ciaran acknowledged truthfully. "Reminds me of hunting these forests as a lad with me faither."
"Ye've been tae MacAlpin lands before?" Lorna asked, her tone conversational though her eyes remained sharp.
"A few times. Once as a boy, and again fer feasts and two summers past." He kept his expression neutral as he took a piece of venison.
"And what brings ye back now, truly?" Aileen asked, her youthful directness earning her a quelling look from Lorna. "Beyond Wallace's raiders, I mean."
A moment of tense silence followed the question. Alistair's hand stilled above his wine goblet, his gaze shifting between his youngest daughter and their guest with sudden attention.
"Aileen," Lorna admonished softly, "Laird MacCraith has explained his presence."
"It's quite alright," Ciaran assured them, meeting Aileen's transparent gaze.
"Curiosity is natural, especially in unusual circumstances.
" He deliberately gentled his voice. "I find meself concerned by Wallace's increasing aggression.
Yer clan has borne the brunt of his attention far longer than mine.
I thought our shared intelligence might benefit both our peoples. "
Alistair nodded slowly, though the suspicion never fully left his eyes. "A reasonable sentiment, though uncommon among Highland lairds."
"Perhaps more lairds should consider common threats above ancient rivalries," Ciaran suggested.
"How progressive," Isla murmured, her tone lightly teasing but her eyes serious. "Next you'll suggest Highland clans should unite through more than just temporary alliances."
"Isla," Alistair said sharply, "our guest has no interest in your romantic notions of Highland politics."
"On the contrary," Ciaran countered smoothly, "I find Lady Isla's perspective refreshing. The old ways of clan isolation grow increasingly impractical in changing times."
"Is that what ye've observed in yer travels, Laird MacCraith?" Lorna asked, her tone carefully neutral. "That isolation leaves clans vulnerable?"
"I've observed," he replied, meeting her gaze directly, "that those who stand alone often fall alone."
Aileen leaned forward slightly. "And if one offered their hand in friendship, or something more, would ye accept it, even from those society might deem unsuitable?"
Alistair's fork clattered against his plate. "Aileen! That is quite enough. Fergive me daughter's impertinence, Laird MacCraith. She sometimes forgets herself."
"Youth should never apologize fer honest questions," Ciaran replied, holding Aileen's gaze steadily. "And I have always valued sincerity over suitability."
A smile bloomed across the young woman's face, quickly suppressed as she ducked her head toward her plate. Across the table, her sisters exchanged another of those meaningful glances that confirmed his suspicions.
They'd been testing him, determining if his intentions toward their sister were honorable. Whatever Isolde had told them, they had appointed themselves her protectors in her absence from the table.
The remainder of the meal continued with careful conversation about neutral topics, from the weather, hunting prospects, to news from Edinburgh.
But beneath the civility, Ciaran remained acutely aware of being watched, evaluated by three pairs of eyes that saw far more than their father suspected.
After the meal, the gathering retired to the small sitting room where a modest fire warded off the evening chill.
The chamber, once designed for entertaining noble guests, showed signs of better days—faded silk cushions carefully arranged to hide worn patches, silver candelabras polished to gleaming brightness though missing several arms, portraits of stern-faced MacAlpin ancestors watching from walls where lighter rectangles revealed where companion paintings had once hung.
"My daughter Aileen has some skill with the harp," Alistair announced, gesturing to where a beautifully carved instrument stood in the corner. It was one of the few items in the room that appeared untouched by the clan's declining fortunes. "Perhaps she might play fer us?"
"I'd be honored," Ciaran replied, noting how the three sisters exchanged another of their meaningful glances.
Aileen rose gracefully, moving to the instrument with practiced ease. Her fingers caressed the strings, drawing forth a traditional Highland melody that spoke of mountains and mist, of ancient loyalties and enduring bloodlines. The music filled the chamber, providing cover for other conversations.
"Ye mentioned Wallace's men at Braehead," Alistair said, his voice low as he leaned toward Ciaran. "What numbers did ye observe?"
"Six mounted, possibly more in the trees," Ciaran replied, watching Aileen play. "Their movements suggested military training, not common brigands. I stood with yer clansmen and pushed them back with several wounded and at least one dead."
"They grow bolder." Alistair's weathered hands tightened around his walking stick. "Yet I cannae spare more men fer patrols without leaving the castle vulnerable."
As they spoke of defenses and strategies, Ciaran noticed the careful movement of servants around them—too few for a household this size, each performing the work of three with quiet efficiency.
A single manservant tended the fire and poured their whisky, while an elderly woman who might once have been head housekeeper herself carried away the used glasses.
Aileen's music shifted to a slower, more contemplative air. She glanced up, catching Ciaran's eye with purpose. "Laird MacCraith, would ye turn the page for me? Me hands are occupied with these difficult passages."
He approached the harp, aware of Lorna watching them carefully from her seat near the hearth. As he reached for the music, Aileen's fingers brushed his, leaving behind a small folded paper no larger than a coin.
"Thank ye," she said, her voice carrying naturally through the room while her eyes conveyed a different message entirely. "This melody speaks of patience rewarded, dinnae ye think?"
"Indeed," he replied, smoothly pocketing the note as he turned the page. "The best things often come tae those who wait."