Page 39 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

"Ciaran MacCraith?" Tavish raised an eyebrow. "He's a hard man, but fair. His clan prospers while others struggle."

"Aye," another advisor added. "And he has nay love fer Wallace. The stories say he refused tae even meet with the man's envoys."

Alistair was quiet for a long moment, staring out the narrow window at the smoke still rising in the distance. "It would mean offering something in return. An alliance requires mutual benefit."

"Then we find something tae offer," Isolde said. "Our lands may be damaged, but they're not worthless. Our people have skills, knowledge of the borderlands. And..." She took a deep breath. "A marriage alliance might seal such a pact."

The words hung in the air like a blade. Her father's eyes snapped to hers, searching her face for something she couldn't name.

"Are ye volunteering, daughter?"

Isolde met his gaze steadily. "If it saves our people, aye. I would make that sacrifice."

It wasn't entirely a lie. She would marry Ciaran to save her clan, but the word 'sacrifice' felt wrong on her tongue when her heart leaped at the very thought of what they'd shared only two days back.

Alone in her chamber as evening shadows lengthened across the stone floor, Isolde sat before her writing desk with a blank piece of parchment. How did one write to the man she loved, asking him to risk everything for her clan?

She dipped her quill in ink and began:

Me dearest Ciaran,

I pray this letter finds ye safe and well. I think of our last moments together constantly, and the words we spoke...

She paused, her heart aching. Even now, in the midst of crisis, the memory of his confession warmed her. But she couldn't write a love letter when people were dying.

The second attempt was more direct:

Dear Laird McCraith,

I need yer help. Wallace has destroyed three of our villages and...

Too abrupt. Too cold. She crumpled it and tried again.

Me beloved,

I wish I were writing tae tell ye how much I miss ye, how every day without ye feels incomplete. Instead, I must write with news that chills me very soul.

She continued, her hand growing steadier as emotion poured onto the parchment:

Wallace's forces struck at dawn yesterday, destroying three of our villages with calculated cruelty. They burned the granaries, slaughtered livestock, and killed anyone too old or sick tae flee. Our castle now shelters nearly two hundred refugees, and their stories break me heart with each telling.

I ken that if anyone has the strength and honor tae stand against such evil, it is ye. I have seen yer heart, Ciaran. I ken the man ye are.

I willnae lie tae ye, me love—I am terrified. Nae fer meself, but fer the innocent people who look tae me fer salvation I cannae provide. Fer the children who cry fer parents who will never return. Fer me faither, who would rather die than bend the knee but whose pride may doom us all.

She paused, tears blurring her vision. When she continued, her words came from the deepest part of her heart:

Ye told me ye loved me, and I told ye the same.

Those words were not spoken lightly, and they remain true, even in this darkness.

Perhaps especially in this darkness. If there is any chance ye might come tae our aid—not just as the MacCraith laird, but as the man who holds me heart—I am asking ye fer it now.

I ken what such assistance would cost ye. I ken the risks. And I ken I have nay right tae ask. But if ye could find it in yer heart tae help us, I would be forever in yer debt. We would be forever in yer debt.

Me faither speaks of alliance, of bonds between our clans. He mentioned marriage as a way tae seal such an agreement, nae kenning that me heart has already chosen. I pray this letter reaches ye swiftly. Time is nae our friend.

With all me love and desperate hope,

Yer Isolde

She sealed the letter with trembling hands, her heart laid bare in ink and parchment. It was vulnerable, perhaps foolishly so, but it was honest. If Ciaran came, it would be because he loved her, not out of cold political calculation.

"Hamish!" she called, and when the servant appeared, she pressed the letter into his weathered hands.

"Our fastest rider, and tell him his life depends on speed. This must reach MacCraith lands before another sunset passes."

As Hamish hurried away, Isolde touched her fingers to her lips, remembering Ciaran's kiss, and their nights together. She whispered a prayer that love might be stronger than war.

Darkness began to fall over the castle, and Isolde moved around it, lighting torches in the courtyard just as another group of refugees stumbled through the gates. These survivors looked even worse than the morning's arrivals, with hollow-eyes, bloodstained, some barely able to walk.

Isolde met them at the entrance, though her legs felt like they might buckle beneath her. She'd been on her feet since dawn, tending wounds, distributing food, and trying to find space for people where none existed.

"How many more?" she asked quietly as Morag appeared beside her with what little bread remained from their evening meal.

"A dozen or so, me lady."

As she turned to head inside, a commotion erupted from the battlements above. A guard's voice rang out across the courtyard:

"Me lady! Fires on the western horizon!"

Isolde's heart stopped. She rushed to the stairs leading up to the wall walk, her tired legs carrying her faster than she thought possible. At the top, she could see them—orange flames flickering in the distance like fallen stars.

"How far?" she asked the lookout, though she dreaded the answer.

"Hard to say in the dark, me lady. But if I had tae guess..." He paused, swallowing hard. "They'll be at our gates by noon tomorrow."

The fires seemed to pulse in the darkness, growing brighter as she watched. Wallace wasn't just coming—he was already here.

Time had run out.