Page 35 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

The simple statement hit Isolde like a blow. Though her sisters had told her as much, hearing from the extent to which it had affected her father made Rhona's disappearance feel suddenly, terribly real—and directly connected to her own choices.

Isolde's hands twisted in her lap, shame burning in her chest. "Faither, there's something I must tell ye."

His attention snapped back to her face, suddenly alert. "What is it?"

"Me illness..." She took a deep breath. "It was nae entirely as it seemed."

"Go on," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

Isolde looked down at her hands, seemingly wrestling with her words. "I ken ye were worried. But Rhona… gave herself fer me."

Her father's expression softened. "Aye, she barely left yer side."

She met his eyes, her own bright with unshed tears. "Then I owe her everything. And now that I'm well again, I need tae make sure she's fine too. Whatever it takes—I have tae be there fer her the way she was there fer me."

"Of course," Alistair said, though something in her tone puzzled him. "That's what sisters do for each other."

"Aye," Isolde whispered. "That's exactly what sisters dae. They protect each other, nay matter the cost."

He reached over and squeezed her hand. "I'm proud of how much ye care fer each other. After yer maither... having ye girls look after one another gives me great comfort."

Isolde nodded, not trusting her voice. Her father understood the surface meaning, but she knew the deeper truth—Rhona had sacrificed her freedom, possibly her life, to save her. And now it was Isolde's turn to do whatever it took to save her sister in return.

"I promise we'll get her back," she said, the words catching in her throat. The true nature of her relationship with Ciaran and his feelings for her, and hers for him would have to wait to be announced to him until Rhona was safe and Wallace's threat addressed.

As they stood facing each other, Isolde truly saw her father perhaps for the first time.

In the unforgiving morning light, the changes in him were impossible to ignore.

The strong hands that had once swung her high above his head now bore prominent veins and age spots.

The shoulders that had seemed impossibly broad to a child's eyes now curved slightly inward.

The face that had commanded respect across the Highlands now showed every year of struggle and sacrifice.

When had Alistair MacAlpin become an old man?

The question pierced her heart with sudden clarity.

During her childhood, he had seemed ageless, invincible—the mighty laird whose word was law throughout their lands.

Even after her mother's death, when grief had etched new lines into his face, his strength had remained undiminished.

Now, watching him struggle to maintain the appearance of the formidable leader she remembered, Isolde realized that time had continued its relentless march during her absence. Her father was mortal—a man fighting age and circumstance with the same stubborn pride that had defined his leadership.

"Ye look so like her," Alistair said suddenly, his fingers brushing a stray lock of copper hair from her face. "Yer maither. She had the same determined set to her chin when she'd made up her mind about something."

"What was she like?" Isolde asked softly. "Not as the clan's lady, but as herself?"

She sought a different understanding—woman to woman, rather than child to parent.A smile softened her father's weathered features.

"Fiery. Brilliant. Stubborn." His eyes grew distant with memory.

"She could discuss politics with Edinburgh lords, then turn around and patch a tenant's roof with her own hands.

Never saw distinctions where others placed them. "

"Like ye," Isolde observed. "Ye never treated us as less because we were daughters rather than sons."

"That was her influence," he admitted. "She would have haunted me from beyond the grave if I'd limited me girls tae needlework and household management." His hand tightened on hers. "She would be proud of ye, Isolde. Of the woman ye've become."

The simple words filled an emptiness Isolde hadn't realized she carried. Tears pricked at her eyes, surprising her with their sudden appearance.

"Now," Alistair said, straightening in his chair with visible effort, "tell me what ye make of our visitor. Laird MacCraith seems an unusual ally fer our troubled times."

Isolde returned to her seat, composing her features to hide the leap of her heart at Ciaran's name. "We haven't met," she reminded her father. "But his reputation speaks of honor and strength. If he offers friendship, perhaps we should consider it."

"Friendship from a MacCraith," Alistair mused, skepticism evident in his tone. "These are strange days indeed."

"Strange days may call fer unexpected alliances," she suggested carefully. "Wallace threatens us both. Together, perhaps we stand a better chance."

Her father studied her face, his gaze unusually penetrating. "Ye seem remarkably open tae such notions."

Heat crept up Isolde's neck. Had she revealed too much? "I've had ample time tae think about our clan's position," she said, choosing each word with care. "And about what Maither would advise in such circumstances."

"And what would she advise, dae ye think?"

Isolde met her father's gaze steadily. "She would say that pride makes a poor shield against those who would take everything we have."

Something flickered in Alistair's eyes—recognition, perhaps, or reluctant agreement. Before he could respond, a knock at the study door interrupted them.

"Enter," Alistair called, his voice strengthening into the laird's commanding tone.

The door opened to reveal Lorna, her expression carefully neutral. "Fergive the interruption, Faither. Laird MacCraith has requested an audience before his departure. He awaits at yer convenience in the great hall."

"Very well." Alistair began the process of rising, waving away Isolde's offered assistance. "Tell him I shall attend him shortly."

As Lorna departed, Alistair turned to Isolde. "Will ye join us? If ye're truly well enough to leave yer bed, perhaps meeting our visitor would be instructive."

Isolde's pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Ciaran again so soon, in the formal setting of the great hall with her father watching their every interaction. Could she maintain the fiction that they were strangers to each other? Would her face betray the intimacy they had shared mere hours ago?

"Of course, Faither," she said, proud of how steady her voice remained. "I would be honored tae accompany ye."

As they moved toward the door, with Alistair slowly walking, and Isolde matching her pace to his, she felt the weight of secrets and promises pressing upon her shoulders.

Ahead lay a performance she must execute flawlessly: the laird's daughter meeting a neighboring clan's leader for the first time, hiding that she had already given him her heart.