Page 34 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY

T he room still held Ciaran's presence, like a ghost lingering in the morning light. Isolde pressed her palm against the hidden door through which he'd disappeared. Her body ached pleasantly, bearing invisible marks of a night she would carry within her always.

A soft knock at the main door broke her reverie. Aileen slipped inside, her young face flushed with the excitement of conspiracy.

"Did ye manage tae speak with him?" she asked, but the knowing gleam in her sister's gaze suggested she suspected far more than mere conversation had transpired.

"Aye," Isolde replied, turning from the hidden passage to face her sister. "We spoke at length."

Aileen's eyes drifted to the rumpled bedsheets, the candle burned to a nub, the unmistakable flush on Isolde's cheeks. A small smile played at her lips. "I see ye... reached an understanding."

Heat crept up Isolde's neck. "Ye're too young fer such insinuations."

"I'm sixteen," Aileen countered, setting a fresh dress on the chair. "Old enough tae recognize when me sister glows like she's swallowed the sun."

Before Isolde could formulate a suitably sharp response, the door opened again as Lorna and Isla entered, each carrying elements of Isolde's "recovery" disguise.

"Ye’ve look remarkably well fer someone at death's door these past days," Lorna observed dryly, setting down a tray with thin broth and bread—an invalid's breakfast. "Though the shadows beneath yer eyes suggest ye found little sleep."

"Daes he snore?" Isla asked with characteristic directness, earning her a scandalized gasp from Aileen and an exasperated sigh from Lorna.

"We discussed Rhona," Isolde said firmly, though she couldn't quite meet her sisters' eyes. "And Wallace. And what comes next."

"What daes come next?" Lorna asked, all business as she helped Isolde into the simple linen shift that would support their story of her gradual recovery. "Beyond stolen meetings in secret passages."

Isolde winced at the hint of disapproval in her practical sister's voice. "He returns to MacCraith lands today. He'll speak with his council, seek support fer an alliance."

"Between our clans?" Isla's romantic soul couldn't hide her excitement. "A political alliance, or something more personal?"

"Both, perhaps." Isolde allowed herself a small smile. "But first, he'll help us find Rhona."

The mention of their missing sister sobered the room instantly.

"Dae ye think he truly can?" Aileen asked, her youthful bravado cracking to reveal the frightened girl beneath.

Isolde pulled her youngest sister into an embrace. "If anyone can, it's Ciaran. He already has men watching Wallace's borders. They'll be questioned this morning if they've seen anyone matching Rhona's description."

Lorna, ever practical, nodded her approval. "But what of Faither?"

The question brought Isolde up short. She had been so consumed with Ciaran, with her own feelings, with plans for finding Rhona, that she had scarcely considered her father's role in what was to come.

"I'll have tae speak tae Faither before Ciaran departs. She realized aloud. "Immediately. He needs tae ken I'm truly recovered before Ciaran leaves. Perhaps..." She hesitated, an idea forming. "Perhaps I can even encourage him tae be more receptive tae MacCraith's overtures."

"Without revealing that ye've already been thoroughly... receptive?" Isla suggested with a wicked grin.

"Isla!" Lorna scolded, though her lips twitched despite herself.

"Help me dress," Isolde said, ignoring the jibe as she moved to the basin to wash. "I'll need tae look improved but still somewhat fragile. And me hair?—"

Her sisters moved with practiced efficiency, transforming her into Lady Isolde MacAlpin, eldest daughter and acting lady of the castle.

Lorna brushed her hair into a simple braid while Isla selected a pale blue dress that would emphasize the lingering pallor appropriate for someone recovering from lengthy illness.

"Remember tae walk slowly," Lorna instructed as they finished. "Ye're meant tae be weak from being in bed."

"And cough occasionally," Aileen added. "Nae too much, just enough tae seem improving."

"And fer heaven's sake," Isla whispered as she opened the chamber door, "try nae tae glow quite so obviously when speaking of Laird MacCraith."

With these less-than-reassuring admonitions, Isolde made her way carefully through the familiar corridors of her childhood home. Servants she passed expressed delight at her improved condition, offering curtsies and well-wishes that stoked her guilt over the deception.

Outside her father's study, she paused to collect herself.

As a child, she had played beneath its massive oak desk while her father conducted the affairs of their people.

As she grew, the space had transformed into a place of learning as Alistair and his wife, progressive for their time, had insisted his daughters understand clan management as thoroughly as any son might.

After her mother's death, the study had become Isolde's study too, as she worked alongside her father to keep their failing clan afloat. Every difficult decision, every painful concession, every desperate measure to maintain appearances—all had been discussed within these walls.

She knocked softly.

"Enter." Alistair's voice, once powerful enough to carry across the great hall without effort, now sounded diminished, though no less commanding.

Isolde pushed open the heavy door, steeling herself for her father's reaction.

She found him seated before the fire, wrapped in the MacAlpin plaid despite the moderate temperature.

The changes in him struck her like a physical blow—his once-auburn hair now predominantly silver, his broad shoulders slightly stooped, lines etched more deeply into his face than she remembered.

"Faither," she said, keeping her voice deliberately soft.

Alistair's head jerked up, his eyes widening. "Isolde! Ye're out of bed!" He started to rise, struggling slightly before finding his balance.

"Please, dinnae rise," she said quickly, moving to his side. "I'm much improved, but still regaining me strength."

His weathered hand caught hers, squeezing with surprising strength. "Me girl," he said, voice gruff with emotion. "Ye had me worried."

Guilt twisted in her chest at the genuine concern in his eyes. How much anxiety had her absence caused him, masked by her sisters' well-intentioned deception?

"The fever has broken," she said, the rehearsed words falling easily from her lips. "Lorna's tonics did their work."

"Ye should still be resting," he admonished, though his eyes drank in the sight of her as though afraid she might disappear again.

"I heard we have a guest," she replied, carefully taking the seat opposite him. "Laird MacCraith. I thought I should at least make an appearance before he departs."

Something flickered across her father's face—suspicion, perhaps, or simply the wariness of a laird discussing another clan's leader. "Aye. A most unusual visit."

"How so?" she asked, keeping her tone innocently curious.

"The MacCraiths have rarely concerned themselves with our troubles," Alistair said, adjusting his plaid. "Yet he arrives speaking of Wallace's raids as though they were a shared burden."

Isolde chose her next words with extreme care. "Perhaps the changing times call for changing alliances."

Her father's sharp eyes studied her face. "Ye've always had an interest in politics beyond most lasses. Tell me, what would ye make of a MacCraith suddenly extending his hand tae a MacAlpin?"

"I would consider the potential benefits before dismissing it," she replied honestly. "Wallace grows bolder by the day. We cannot stand against him alone."

A shadow crossed Alistair's face, and for a moment he looked every one of his years.

"Ye speak truths I've been reluctant to face.

" His fingers tightened around his walking stick.

"While ye were ill, we lost three more families to the Lowlands.

The southern fields lie fallow fer lack of hands tae work them. "

Isolde's heart ached at this confirmation of what she'd observed on her journey home. "And Wallace?"

"His men come closer each week. They take a sheep here, burn a croft there. Testing us." Alistair's jaw clenched. "I can spare very few men fer patrols without leaving the castle vulnerable."

She leaned forward, covering his hand with hers. "Then perhaps Laird MacCraith's interest comes at a fortunate time."

"Perhaps." Her father didn't sound convinced. "Though I wonder what brought him tae our door in truth. Men like Ciaran MacCraith dinnae act without purpose."

Isolde swallowed hard, knowing she walked a treacherous line between truth and deception. "Has he spoken of any intentions?"

"Only of Wallace's aggression along his own borders, and of raiders he encountered near Braehead." Alistair's eyes narrowed slightly. "He asked after ye all. Suggested ye join us fer dinner. But ye… then Rhona… "

At the mention of her sister's name, genuine pain flickered across Isolde's face. "I am sad tae hear Rhona has come down with a fever. Perhaps she caught it tending tae me needs. "

Alistair's shoulders seemed to cave inward, the proud laird momentarily eclipsed by a father's fear. "Perhaps. Two of me oldest daughters taken ill at the same time. More than a man can bear. And tae think I could only pray fer ye. I couldnae even visit due tae me condition..." His voice faltered.

"She'll recover, Faither. As ye see I have recovered," Isolde said with more conviction than she felt. "Rhona is strong. She'll fight until she finds her way back to us."

Her father nodded, though the worry never left his eyes. "She insisted she will be the one tae mainly go in and tend tae ye, ye ken. And now… "