Page 40 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
" L aird!" Finlay called from behind him. "The horses need rest!"
Ciaran pulled up reluctantly, his destrier snorting and prancing beneath him. Steam rose from the animal's flanks, and he could see the exhaustion in its eyes. Around him, his men's mounts were equally spent, their heads hanging low.
"Ten minutes," he said grimly, dismounting. "Water them, but keep the saddles on."
Duncan approached, his weathered face creased with concern. "Me laird, I ken ye're worried about the lass, but we'll be nay good tae her if we kill our horses getting there."
"Wallace could attack at any moment," Ciaran said, pacing restlessly as the horses drank from a small stream. "Every minute we delay could be the minute that—" He couldn't finish the thought.
"She's strong," Finlay said quietly. "From what ye've told us, Lady Isolde isnae one tae give up easily."
"Mount up," he commanded after what felt like seconds rather than minutes. "We ride until we see MacAlpin walls."
"Aye, laird." Finlay bowed respectably, turning to give the command.
As they set off again, the urgency that had driven him since the messenger arrived at his gates intensified.
He could almost feel time slipping away like sand through his fingers.
Somewhere ahead in the darkness, the woman he loved was in mortal danger, and nothing—not exhausted horses, not treacherous terrain, not the very gates of hell—would stop him from reaching her.
The stars seemed to mock him with their distant, cold light as he drove his men onward through the night.
"Christ's wounds," Ciaran breathed. "Look at them all."
The first thing that struck Ciaran as they crested the final ridge was the the gray smoke of countless cooking fires rising from MacAlpin Castle's courtyard. The second thing was the noise: voices calling, children crying, the general din of far too many people crammed into too small a space.
The castle courtyard, normally spacious enough for a full garrison's training exercises, was packed with makeshift shelters.
Lean-tos constructed from salvaged timber and torn cloth pressed against every available wall.
Cook fires dotted the space between them, tended by women who looked like they hadn't slept in days.
Children darted between the shelters while their parents tried to organize the chaos of displaced lives.
But it was the figure moving through the crowd that captured Ciaran's attention completely.
Isolde.
Even from a distance, even exhausted and wearing a simple working dress instead of fine gowns, she commanded the scene.
He watched her kneel beside a wounded man, her hands gentle as she examined his bandages.
She spoke to a group of women organizing food distribution, her gestures calm but decisive.
When a child ran up to her crying, she lifted him into her arms without hesitation, soothing him before passing him to his mother.
"She's holding it all taegether," Finlay observed quietly.
Aye, she was. But Ciaran could see what others might miss—the way her shoulders sagged for just a moment between tasks, the exhaustion etched in every line of her body. She was magnificent, but she was breaking under the weight of it all.
"State yer business!" The challenge came from the castle's main gate as they approached. Guards with the MacAlpin colors stepped forward, hands on their sword hilts.
"Ciaran MacCraith, here tae speak with Laird Alistair," Ciaran called back, pulling back his hood so they could see his face clearly.
The reaction was immediate. One guard nudged another, whispers rippled through the small group, and within moments an older man in captain's gear was striding toward them. Ciaran recognized him—Tavish, MacAlpin's captain of the guard, a man he'd met during clan gatherings in better times.
"MacCraith," Tavish said, his tone carefully neutral. "This is... unexpected."
There was wariness in the man's eyes, and Ciaran couldn't blame him. The MacCraiths and MacAlpins had maintained a careful distance over the years—not enemies, but not friends either. His sudden appearance with armed men could be seen as either salvation or threat.
"I come in peace, Tavish. Me men and I are here tae help."
"Thank ye, me laird," Malcolm's eyebrows rose. "As ye can see, our clan will accept any help we ken get."
Before Ciaran could answer, a commotion near the castle's main door caught his attention. Isolde and her sisters had spotted them and were making their way through the crowd, her face a mask of careful composure that didn't quite hide her shock.
"Lord MacCraith," she said as she approached, her voice steady despite the slight breathlessness that suggested she'd hurried. "This is... most unexpected."
Their eyes met, and for a moment the crowded courtyard seemed to fade away. He saw relief flash across her features, quickly hidden.
"Lady Isolde," he said formally, acutely aware of all the watching eyes. "I've come tae offer whatever aid me clan can provide in these troubled times."
"And we are most grateful. Did ye receive me letter?"
"Letter? Nay. Word reached us of Wallace's attacks," Ciaran said carefully. "Nay clan should face such brutality alone."
A letter. Ciaran felt something twist in his chest, she had reached out to him, had asked for help as he'd already been on his way.
Isolde stepped forward slightly. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside. Me faither will want tae speak with ye directly." She paused, then added quietly, "We sent a messenger tae MacCraith lands yesterday. He may have missed ye on the road."
"Then it seems we're of like minds," he said. "I'm glad I arrived when I did."
As they moved toward the castle, Isolde walking beside him while Tavish and the guards flanked them, Ciaran caught sight of the refugees he'd encountered on the road. They were being tended to near the gates, and several pointed at him with obvious relief and gratitude.
"Ye've already been helping our people," Isolde observed, following his gaze.
"They're nae just your people anymore," he said quietly, so only she could hear. "They're mine too."
The look she gave him told him everything he needed to know about why he'd ridden through the night to get here.
"Tavish, see that Lord MacCraith's men are given food and quarters," Isolde said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I'll escort him tae me faither meself."
Tavish nodded, though his eyes remained wary. "Aye, me lady. But dinnae be long—there's much that needs yer attention."
As soon as they were alone in the corridor leading to the great hall, the careful composure they'd both maintained crumbled. Isolde turned to face him, and the vulnerability he'd glimpsed in the courtyard was now written plainly across her features.
"Ciaran, I—" she began, but he closed the distance between them in two swift strides.
His hands cupped her face, and when their lips met, it was with all the desperate relief of two people who'd feared they might never see each other again. She melted against him, her fingers clutching at his jerkin as if to convince herself he was real.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"I wasnae sure ye'd come in time," she whispered.
"I made a promise tae ye. Naething could have kept me away," he said fiercely. "Naething. When I heard about Wallace's attacks..."
She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. "I'm so tired, Ciaran. There are so many people depending on me, and I dinnae know if I'm strong enough?—"
"Ye are," he said firmly. "What I saw in that courtyard—the way ye're holding everything together, caring for your people—ye're the strongest person I know. But ye dinnae have tae carry this weight alone anymore."
"Me faither will want guarantees, terms fer any alliance."
"Let me worry about yer faither. I brought fifty men, but I can summon more. Whatever ye need. Food, supplies, fighting men—it's yers."
Relief flooded her features, followed quickly by something that looked almost like shame. "I hate that ye're seeing us like this. Broken."
"I see people worth fighting fer," he interrupted. "I see the woman I love daeing everything in her power tae protect them."
Before she could respond, rapid footsteps echoed in the corridor. A scout burst around the corner, his face grim with urgency.
"Lady Isolde! Our lookouts have spotted Wallace's main force. They're moving toward the castle in battle formation."
Isolde's face went pale. "How long dae we have?"
"They'll be at our gates by dawn, me lady. Maybe sooner if they push through the night."
The moment of tender reunion shattered like glass. Around them, the castle seemed to hold its breath, waiting for whatever horror the morning would bring.
Ciaran's hand found Isolde's, squeezing tight. "Then we'd better prepare fer war. But first, take me tae yer faither. There's something I need tae dae."