Page 36 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
C iaran stood at the center of the MacAlpin great hall, the morning light filtering through narrow windows to cast long shadows across the flagstones.
Footsteps in the corridor drew his attention. The great oak doors swung open to reveal Laird Alistair MacAlpin, moving with deliberate dignity despite the walking stick that supported his right side. But it was the figure beside him that caused Ciaran's breath to catch in his throat.
Isolde walked at her father's elbow, her hair braided simply, wearing a pale blue dress that emphasized her slender frame. She looked both familiar and strange—the woman who had lain in his arms mere hours ago now transformed back into Lady Isolde MacAlpin, eldest daughter of a Highland laird.
"Laird MacCraith," Alistair called, his voice stronger than it had been during their previous meeting. "I trust ye found yer accommodations satisfactory."
"Most comfortable," Ciaran replied formally, inclining his head in the traditional gesture between equals. "MacAlpin hospitality lives up tae its storied reputation."
His eyes flickered to Isolde, who stood with perfect composure beside her father. Only someone who knew her intimately would notice the slight tension in her shoulders, the carefully controlled breathing that betrayed her nervousness.
"May I present me eldest daughter, Lady Isolde," Alistair said, a note of pride evident in his voice. "Recently recovered from a lengthy illness."
"Lady Isolde." Ciaran bowed precisely the correct degree for greeting a laird's daughter—not too deep to suggest impropriety, not too shallow to give offense. "Yer faither spoke of yer recovery. I'm pleased tae see ye well enough tae join us."
"Laird MacCraith." Isolde curtsied, her voice revealing nothing of their shared past. "Ye honor our hall with yer presence."
Only the barest flicker of her eyes meeting his for a fraction too long might have suggested anything beyond formal politeness.
Ciaran maintained his careful expression, though his body remembered the exact feel of her skin beneath his fingers, the precise curve of her waist where his hands had rested hours before.
"Ye've gathered quite a reputation among Highland lairds," Alistair observed, his sharp eyes moving between his daughter and their guest. "Tales of victories against raiders from the Lowlands, innovations in clan defense."
"I merely seek tae protect what's mine," Ciaran replied, aware of the double meaning in his words as his gaze briefly met Isolde's again.
Something shifted in Alistair's expression—a narrowing of his eyes, a subtle tensing of his jaw. The older laird studied Ciaran with sudden intensity before turning to glance at his daughter.
Isolde's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her father's arm. "Laird MacCraith mentioned his concern about Wallace's movements along our borders," she said, smoothly redirecting the conversation. "His vigilance benefits all neighboring clans."
"Indeed," Ciaran agreed, grateful for her quick thinking. "Which is why I must take me leave—tae ensure proper patrols continue along the shared territories."
"A wise precaution." Alistair extended his hand in the traditional farewell between lairds. "May yer journey be safe, Laird MacCraith."
"And may yer clan prosper," Ciaran returned, clasping the older man's arm. The formal words held new meaning now that Isolde had become so important to him. The MacAlpins' prosperity was suddenly tied to his own happiness in ways he couldn't have imagined weeks ago.
As they moved toward the castle's main entrance, Isolde fell into step beside her father, maintaining perfect propriety. Only when they reached the courtyard, where Ciaran's horse waited, did opportunity arise for a final, private word.
Alistair pulled back to give instructions to a servant. Ciaran found himself briefly alone with Isolde at the base of the stone steps.
"Wait tae hear word from me. A fortnight," he said under his breath, his words for her alone as he pretended to adjust his saddle. "Nay more."
Her eyes met his, a world of emotion contained in that brief glance. "I'll hold ye tae that promise, Laird MacCraith."
"And I'll keep it," he vowed, wishing he could touch her just once more before leaving. "Whatever it takes."
The moment shattered as Alistair approached. Ciaran mounted his stallion with practiced ease, inclining his head in final farewell to both father and daughter.
"Until we meet again," he said formally, though his eyes remained on Isolde.
"Safe travels," she replied, the simple words carrying unspoken meaning only he would understand.
With a final nod, Ciaran prompted his horse toward the castle gates. He did not allow himself to look back, though every instinct urged him to turn for one last glimpse of her standing in the morning light.
The Highland landscape unfolded before him as he rode.
Rolling hills gave way to steep valleys, and ancient forests to open moorland.
Ciaran pushed a hard pace, determined to reach MacCraith lands by nightfall.
Every mile carrying him away from MacAlpin Castle felt like stretching a tether that bound him to Isolde.
The memory of her in his arms—trusting, passionate, vulnerable—mingled with the image of her formal farewell, standing proud beside her father while pretending they were strangers.
He had traveled perhaps two hours when three riders appeared on the crest of a hill ahead, approaching at speed.
Ciaran drew his stallion to a halt, reaching for his dirk, at the same time raising his hand to signal the approaching men that he was not a potential threat.
His tension eased as he recognized the MacCraith colors and the distinctive silhouette of his captain.
"Hold," he commanded his horse.
Finlay reined in his mount as they met on the narrow track, two MacCraith warriors flanking him. "Me laird," he greeted with a quick bow from the saddle.
"What are ye daeing here, Finlay?" Ciaran asked, surprised to find his captain so far from their lands. "Is there trouble at the castle?"
"Nay trouble," Finlay replied. "We came tae escort ye home. The scouts reported Wallace men moving near the border crossings—I thought additional swords might prove useful."
Ciaran nodded, appreciating his friend's foresight. "Yer timing is fortunate. There's a matter requiring immediate attention."
He gestured for Finlay to fall back with him, creating enough distance from the other men for private conversation. When they were out of earshot, Ciaran lowered his voice.
"The MacAlpin's second daughter, Rhona, is missing," he explained. "She vanished while searching fer her sister."
Finlay's brow furrowed. "And ye suspect Wallace involvement?"
"She's been taken, it seems" Ciaran confirmed grimly. "And we need tae ken before we can plan her recovery."
Finlay nodded, understanding immediately.
"Macallum," he called, gesturing to one of the riders who had accompanied him.
"Ride tae our southeastern outpost. Tell Donnan tae send his best scouts into Wallace territory—we seek information about a young woman, a MacAlpin, possibly taken captive within the last week.
Discretion is essential, nay MacCraith colors past the border! "
The rider nodded sharply, wheeling his horse without question and galloping back the way they had come.
When the messenger had disappeared over the ridge, Finlay turned back to Ciaran, his expression grave. "This complicates matters. If Wallace holds a MacAlpin daughter, he may use her tae force concessions from Alistair."
"Or worse," Ciaran said darkly, "tae force a marriage alliance that would give him legal claim tae their territories."
Silence fell between them as they continued to ride. "Is there something else on yer mind, me laird?" Finlay enquired as they crossed a swift-running burn. His friend had drawn his mount alongside Ciaran's, falling back from the others just enough to allow private conversation.
"I have much tae consider," Ciaran replied, his eyes scanning the horizon from habit, alert for any sign of danger.
"The MacAlpins," Finlay ventured, watching Ciaran's face carefully. "Their situation is worse than we thought, isn't it?"
"Aye." The simple word carried the weight of all he'd witnessed—abandoned fields, thinly spread defenders, a once-great clan holding onto dignity despite dwindling resources. "They stand on the edge of a blade, Finlay. Another season of Wallace's encroachment could push them beyond recovery."
"And the lady?" Finlay asked, his voice dropping further. "Did ye see her?"
Ciaran's fingers tightened around his reins. "Briefly."
Finlay's eyes narrowed at the deliberate evasion. "And?"
"And I mean tae help her," Ciaran said, meeting his friend's gaze directly. "Both with finding her sister and with securing her clan's future."
"The council will never agree tae an alliance," Finlay warned, though there was no judgment in his tone. "Ye ken that as well as I dae."
"The council will find it is a different laird from days ago. Besides, their duty is tae serve the laird," Ciaran replied, his voice hardening. "Nae the reverse."
They rode in silence for several moments, the only sounds the steady rhythm of hooves against earth and the calling of birds overhead. When Finlay spoke again, his voice had softened with concern.
"Ye care fer her." It wasn't a question.
Ciaran considered denial, then abandoned the pretense. Finlay knew him too well. "More than I thought possible."
"Enough tae risk yer position? Yer clan's support?"
The question hung between them, weightier than any council debate.
Ciaran had been raised from birth to prioritize clan welfare above personal desires.
The MacCraith had prospered under his leadership precisely because he had always made the practical choice, the strategic alliance, the decision that benefited the many rather than the one.