Page 32 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

The evening continued with more music and careful conversation, Alistair eventually rising with the aid of his stick. "I fear I must retire earlier than I once did," he announced. "The years make themselves known in me joints. Lorna, see our guest is comfortable."

"Of course, Faither." Lorna rose, every inch the practical daughter managing household duties. "If ye'll follow me, Laird MacCraith, I'll show ye tae yer chambers."

They walked in silence through corridors where tapestries had been strategically repositioned to cover damaged sections of wall. Lorna finally stopped before a heavy oak door in the west wing.

"Yer chambers, me laird," she said formally, though her eyes carried the same assessment he'd seen at dinner. "If ye need anything during the night, pull the bell rope."

"Thank ye fer yer hospitality," Ciaran replied.

Lorna hesitated, then spoke in a lower voice. "Me sister has spoken highly of ye, Laird MacCraith. I hope her judgment proves sound."

Before he could respond, she turned and disappeared down the dimly lit corridor, her footsteps fading into silence.

Inside his chamber, Ciaran waited until the sounds of the household settling for the night had quieted before retrieving Aileen's note from his pocket. The message, written in a delicate hand, contained just five words: Third hour. Wait by door.

The castle bell had just struck the third hour when a soft scratch at his chamber door alerted Ciaran. He opened it to find Aileen, a hooded cloak covering her nightdress, a single candle casting strange shadows across her young face.

"Follow me," she whispered, glancing nervously down the corridor. "And step where I step. The east passage floorboards creak something fierce."

Without waiting for his response, she turned and moved silently down the hallway, her bare feet making no sound on the stone floor.

Ciaran followed, his own footfalls carefully placed despite his larger frame.

His warrior's senses mapped their path, noting defensive positions and vulnerabilities as they wound deeper into the castle's heart.

Aileen led him down a servants' staircase, through a small antechamber lined with dusty suits of armor, and finally to a tapestry depicting a stag hunt. With practiced ease, she slipped behind the heavy fabric, revealing a narrow door cut into the stone wall.

"The old laird's passage," she explained in a whisper as she produced a key from within her cloak. "Built during the border wars three centuries past so the family could move unseen between chambers."

The hidden corridor beyond was cramped, forcing Ciaran to duck his head beneath low-hanging beams. Aileen's candle cast grotesque shadows ahead of them, the flame guttering in strange drafts that whispered through unseen cracks in the ancient masonry.

"Isolde said ye saved her life," Aileen said suddenly, her voice barely audible. "She said ye fought Wallace's men fer her, though ye didnae ken who she was."

"Aye," Ciaran confirmed, watching the young woman's profile in the flickering light.

She stopped abruptly, turning to face him with an expression far older than her sixteen years. "Me sister is strong, but she carries too much on her shoulders. Our maither's death, Faither's decline, the clan's troubles... she takes it all as her burden."

"I've seen her strength," he agreed quietly.

"Good." Aileen's eyes narrowed slightly. "Because if ye hurt her, I may be young, but I ken seventeen ways tae poison a man without leaving evidence."

Despite the gravity of her expression, Ciaran found himself hiding a smile. "I believe ye," he said solemnly. "Yer loyalty daes ye credit."

"'Tis nae loyalty. 'Tis love." She turned away, continuing down the passage. "There's a difference."

They navigated several more turns before Aileen stopped again, this time before a narrow wooden door reinforced with iron bands. "She's waiting," she said, pressing a small iron key into his palm. "I'll return fer ye before dawn. Any later and the servants will be about."

Ciaran's fingers closed around the key. "Thank you, Lady Aileen."

The girl's severe expression softened slightly. "She deserves happiness, Laird MacCraith. Even in times like these."

Without another word, she slipped away, her candle's glow diminishing until darkness swallowed her completely.

Isolde paced the length of her chamber, her heart thundering against her ribs as she awaited Aileen's return with Ciaran.

The single candle cast long shadows across the room, making the familiar space seem strange and expectant.

She had changed three times, finally settling on a simple nightdress covered by her mother's blue silk robe—the finest thing she still owned.

When the lock finally turned, she froze, suddenly uncertain.

The door swung open to reveal Ciaran framed in the narrow passage, his tall figure ducking beneath the low lintel.

For a moment, neither spoke, the air between them charged with everything that had happened since that fateful night at Castle Murray.

"Ye came," she whispered, her voice catching on the words.

"Did ye doubt I would?" He closed the door quietly behind him, his eyes never leaving her face.

She moved toward him, drawn by some invisible force, only to stop as his next words hit her like a blow.

"I must return tae MacCraith lands on the morrow."

Isolde felt the blood drain from her face. "So soon? Rhona's missing. She rode off tae find me and hasn't returned."

"I'll have me best trackers search fer her," he assured her, reaching for her hands. "But I must return tae MacCraith tae be as effective as I need tae this season. I must face me council before we can move forward. There are political realities we cannae ignore."

She pulled away, hurt flaring bright in her chest. "Always duty first, is it not, Laird MacCraith?"

"Isolde—"

"I should have kenned better," she continued, turning from him to hide the tears threatening to fall. "Was I merely a diversion on yer journey? Something tae pass the time before returning tae yer important duties?"

"That's unfair, and ye ken it." His voice hardened. "Everything I've done since finding ye has put me position at risk."

"Then why come here at all?" She whirled to face him. "Why seek me out if ye mean tae leave again so quickly?"

"Because I must find a way tae make this work!" The controlled facade slipped, revealing his own frustration. "Me council will never approve an alliance with the MacAlpins in yer clan's current state. I need time tae convince them, tae build support fer what I intend."

"And what exactly dae ye intend, Ciaran?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What am I tae ye?"

The silence between them stretched taut, filled with unspoken words and fears. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.

"Everything," he said simply. "Ye're everything I never knew I wanted until I found ye."

"Then why leave?"

"I'm nae leaving ye. Isolde, there is a right way tae dae this," he interrupted, closing the distance between them in two strides. "A way that protects ye, yer family, and our future together."

"I dinnae care about the right way!" The words erupted from her with unexpected force. "I care about ye. About us. I care about finding Rhona! I'm tired of waiting fer permission tae live me own life!"

His hands caught her shoulders, his face inches from hers. "Damnit, Isolde, can ye not see I'm trying tae give us more than just stolen moments in secret passages?"

The heat of his touch, the intensity in his eyes caused something to break inside her.

Her arms wound around his neck, intertwining her fingers in his hair, and pulling him closer as unfulfilled longing ignited into flame.

His lips were firm yet tender, demanding yet giving, everything she had imagined in her most secret dreams.

"Isolde," he breathed against her mouth.

Her fingers tangled in his dark hair as he deepened the kiss, his strong hands spanning her waist, drawing her against the solid warmth of his chest. The silk of her robe whispered between them, too much barrier despite its delicate weight.

As if reading her thoughts, Ciaran's fingers found the sash at her waist, his touch questioning.

She answered by guiding his hand, the sash falling away as her robe parted beneath his touch.

His sharp intake of breath as his hand met the thin linen of her nightdress sent a shiver of pleasure through her body.

"Are ye certain?" he asked, his voice strained with restraint.

In answer, she drew him toward her bed, the single candle casting golden light across the linens. "I've been certain since I first saw ye two years ago."

His hands framed her face with such tenderness that tears pricked at her eyes. This powerful man, this warrior who had fought and killed with terrifying efficiency, touched her as though she were made of mist—precious and impossible to hold.

When he laid her upon the bed, Isolde felt no fear, only a rightness that transcended all the barriers between them. Here, now, nothing mattered besides the truth of his body meeting hers, his heartbeat thundering against her palm as she slid her hand beneath his shirt.

"Ye're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with want as his gaze raked slowly over her. "Like something out of the old stories. Too fine for mortal men."

Isolde gave a soft, knowing smile, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I’m nay ghost, Ciaran MacCraith. I’m right here—flesh and blood—and I want ye. All of ye.”

He growled low in his throat, and in one smooth motion, he seized her waist and pulled her firmly against him.

Her gasp was lost as his mouth crashed down on hers—hungry, claiming, full of heat that made her knees tremble.

His hands gripped her backside, lifting her slightly as he backed her toward the bed, never breaking the kiss.

“Ye’re mine,” he breathed against her lips, voice thick with desire. “And I’ll have ye know it.”