Page 37 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

"If it comes tae that," he said finally, "I'll find another way.

But I willnae give her up, Finlay. “His friend studied him for a long moment before a slow smile spread across his face.

"Then I suppose we'd better find a way tae convince the council that this alliance offers advantages they haven't recognized. "

Ciaran glanced sharply at him. "Ye'll support me in this?"

"I've followed ye into battle against impossible odds," Finlay replied with a shrug. "Why would matters of the heart be any different?"

The simple loyalty in his friend's words eased something tight in Ciaran's chest. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he would not face them alone.

Hours later, Castle MacCraith rose against the evening sky, its stone walls catching the last golden rays of sunset.

After two days of hard riding, the sight of home should have brought comfort.

Instead, Ciaran felt only impatience—each moment here represented time away from Isolde, delay in finding Rhona, opportunity for Wallace to press his advantage.

The contrast between his own castle and the MacAlpins' struck him anew as they rode through the gates.

Where Alistair's home showed signs of struggle, Ciaran's domain thrived—storehouses full, training yards bustling with warriors, smithy fires burning late into the evening.

The prosperity he had always taken pride in now seemed almost excessive when compared to Isolde's circumstances.

"Welcome home, me laird," his steward greeted him in the courtyard. "The council has been notified of yer return and awaits yer convenience tomorrow."

"Tell them we meet at midday," Ciaran instructed, dismounting with fluid grace despite the long journey. "And send word tae our scouts along the Wallace border. I want reports by morning."

As the castle settled into evening routines around him, Ciaran retreated to his private chambers.

The rooms felt strangely empty now, though nothing had changed in his absence.

The massive oak bed, the desk where he conducted private business, the weapons displayed on the wall—all remained exactly as he had left them.

Yet something fundamental had shifted within him, rendering the familiar suddenly foreign.

The council chamber buzzed with low conversation as Ciaran entered, the five elders rising in respect before resuming their seats around the ancient oak table.

Sunlight streamed through narrow windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and the expectant faces of men who had advised his father before him.

Old Fergus, his white beard nearly reaching his chest, sat at Ciaran's right, in the position of senior advisor.

Beside him, Dunbar's severe features remained unreadable as always.

Murray's red beard had acquired more silver, while young Angus—at thirty-five, the newest council member—fidgeted slightly with the hilt of his ceremonial dirk.

Lord Maxwell, the fifth member, studied Ciaran with the calculating gaze that had earned him his reputation as the council's most pragmatic voice.

"Me lords," Ciaran began, remaining standing as tradition dictated when a laird addressed his council formally. "I thank ye fer gathering on such short notice."

"Yer message suggested urgency," Old Fergus observed, his rheumy eyes sharp despite his advanced years. "What news from MacAlpin lands?"

"Wallace gathers his forces along their borders," Ciaran replied, his voice carrying in the stone chamber. "Our scouts confirm activity consistent with preparation fer territorial expansion."

Murmurs passed between the council members, none seeming particularly surprised or concerned by this information.

"The MacAlpins have been declining fer years," Lord Dunbar said dismissively. "If Wallace absorbs their lands, it merely hastens the inevitable."

"And puts a hostile force directly against our eastern border," Ciaran countered. "Rather than a weakened but friendly clan."

"Ye speak as though we should involve ourselves in their troubles," Laird Murray observed, his tone making clear how little he favored such intervention. "Clan MacCraith has historically maintained neutrality in such matters."

Ciaran drew a deep breath, knowing the moment had arrived. "I propose more than involvement, me lords. I propose alliance—through marriage.

The stunned silence that followed was broken by Angus's incredulous laugh. "Marriage? Tae a MacAlpin? Surely ye jest, me laird."

"I have never been more serious," Ciaran replied, his voice hardening. "I intend tae take Lady Isolde MacAlpin as me wife."

Old Fergus's bushy eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "The eldest daughter? The one yee kept at Mac Craith castle fer days?"

"The very same."

Lord Maxwell leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "A bold declaration, me laird. May we inquire what prompted this... unusual choice? Three days ago, ye wanted only an alliance, today ye want a wedding."

Ciaran had anticipated the question, had rehearsed a response that emphasized political advantage and strategic positioning. Yet standing before these men who had known him since childhood, he found himself speaking a simpler truth.

"I believe she is the right woman tae stand beside me as Lady MacCraith," he said. "She brings intelligence, courage, and a fierce loyalty tae her people that would serve our clan well."

"She brings little else," Lord Dunbar observed coldly. "Nay dowry worth mentioning, nay military strength, nay powerful connections."

"She brings territorial advantage, legitimate claim to lands that border our own, and the opportunity to prevent Wallace from expanding his influence," Ciaran countered, his voice remaining measured despite the anger building in his chest.

"All those advantages could be claimed through simpler means," Laird Murray suggested. "A formal alliance requires nay marriage. Or, should Wallace succeed in his apparent ambitions, we could negotiate with him directly from a position of strength."

Ciaran's hand tightened around the edge of the table. "I will nae barter with Wallace after he has destroyed a Highland clan that has stood fer centuries."

"Yer concern fer Highland tradition is admirable," Old Fergus said, his tone gentler than the others, "but the council must consider practical matters. What tangible benefits would such a marriage bring tae the MacCraith?"

A flash of impatience crossed Ciaran's features.

"I told ye before, but ye wouldnae listen tae yer laird.

This land is strategically positioned—" He gestured toward the window facing MacAlpin territory.

"Ye all can remember when it was once among the most fertile in the Highlands.

The soil is rich, the water sources abundant.

With proper management, it could be prosperous again. "

For the first time since entering the chamber, Finlay spoke from his position near the door. "Perhaps, me lords, ye might consider that our laird's judgment in clan matters has never led us astray before. His strategic vision has brought the MacCraith unprecedented prosperity."

Five pairs of eyes turned to regard Finlay with varying degrees of surprise and displeasure at this unexpected intervention. Council meetings traditionally excluded all but elders and the laird himself.

"Captain Finlay speaks out of turn," Lord Dunbar said coldly, "but raises a point worth considering. Yer leadership has indeed benefited our clan, Laird MacCraith. Which makes this sudden fixation on a MacAlpin bride all the more concerning."

"It is not a fixation," Ciaran replied, his voice dangerously quiet. "It is a decision made after careful consideration of all factors—including some that may not be immediately apparent to the council."

Lord Maxwell acknowledged, "Ye may be right, but these advantages exist whether the MacAlpins hold the land or Wallace does. The question remains: why risk allying ourselves with a failing clan?"

"Because some traditions are worth preserving," Ciaran answered firmly.

"Because the MacAlpins have stood as honorable neighbors fer generations.

Because Wallace is making incursions intae their lands, nae just ours, burning their crops, villages, and stealing their livestock.

That is an ally I couldnae trust. And… because I have given me word. "

The final statement hung in the air like a challenge. Among Highland lairds, one's word was sacred—a bond as binding as blood.

"I suspect, me laird, that there is much about yer visit tae MacAlpin Castle that ye have nae shared with this council." His tone carried unmistakable accusation. "Perhaps yer judgment in this matter has been... compromised by other considerations."

Ciaran straightened to his full height, authority radiating from every line of his body. "Me judgment is sound, Lord Dunbar. And while I value this council's wisdom, I remind ye that the final decision rests with me as laird."

The gauntlet had been thrown. Five faces regarded him with expressions ranging from shock to outrage. For the first time in his tenure as laird, Ciaran had directly challenged the council's authority in matters of clan alliance.

"We must consider this... proposal... further," Old Fergus said carefully, breaking the tense silence. "Such a significant decision should nae be made hastily."

Ciaran leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving deliberately around the table. "Aye, ye may consider it. I respect this council enough tae hear yer concerns and trust ye will make the best decision fer our clan."

He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. "I challenge any man here tae name a single time I have acted against the best interests of this clan. One decision that has nae brought prosperity, security, or honor to the MacCraith name."

The council members exchanged glances, but none spoke.

"Exactly," Ciaran said. "And this marriage will be nay different.

With our expertise in agriculture and trade, our troops fer protection, and our resources fer rebuilding, we can turn the MacAlpin lands intae one of the most profitable territories in the Highlands.

We're not just gaining land—we're gaining opportunity. "

Old Fergus stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Ye have guided us well, Laird MacCraith. If ye believe this path serves our clan..."

"Then I move we put it tae a vote," Lord Dunbar said reluctantly. "All in favor of sanctioning Laird MacCraith's marriage proposal tae Lady Isolde MacAlpin?"

Slowly, hands rose around the table—Old Fergus first, then Murray, then three others.

Ciaran nodded solemnly. "Thank ye fer yer trust. Captain Finlay, select twenty of our finest men. We ride fer MacAlpin lands at dawn tae formally request Lady Isolde's hand."

As the council members began to file out, heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. The great doors burst open, and a mud-splattered messenger stumbled in, his horse's lather still visible on his clothes.

"Laird MacCraith!" the man gasped, dropping to one knee. "Urgent news from the MacAlpin borders!"

Ciaran was on his feet instantly. "Speak."

"Wallace has moved," the messenger panted. "His forces struck three MacAlpin settlements yesterday. Burned the granaries, scattered the livestock. They're saying he means to starve them into submission before winter sets in."

The blood drained from Ciaran's face. Isolde.

"How many men daes he have?" Finlay demanded, stepping forward.

"Near two hundred, sir. And they're moving toward the MacAlpin stronghold."

Ciaran's jaw tightened as he processed the implications. Wallace was positioning for a siege. And Isolde was trapped in the middle of it.

"Change of plans," he said grimly, already moving toward the door. "We leave within the hour. And we're taking every available man."

"Laird," Old Fergus called after him, "if ye ride with such force, it will be seen as an act of war?—"

Ciaran paused in the doorway, his eyes blazing with deadly intent. "Then let Wallace ken that war is exactly what he'll get if he touches what's mine."

The doors slammed shut behind him, leaving only the echo of his boots as he strode toward the stables, and the promise of blood on Highland soil.