Page 43 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

Isolde lifted her head, listening to the distant clanging that carried on the evening air. "That's the castle bell," she said, sitting up. "Multiple rings— riders approaching."

Ciaran was already reaching for his clothes. "More than one set of hoofbeats, by the sound."

"It sounds like there are more people arriving at the castle," she said, pulling on her chemise with practiced efficiency. "They probably need help."

"Aye. We should return." He helped her to her feet, and both of them were dressed within moments.

As they rode back toward the castle, the bells continued their urgent summons, and Isolde felt the magical peace of their hidden glen slipping away like mist before the dawn.

The courtyard was chaos when they returned. Wagons loaded with families and their meager possessions filled every available space, while children cried and horses stamped nervously. Refugees from the borderlands streamed through the gates, their faces drawn with exhaustion and fear.

"Take as many families tae the east tower as can fit intae the space," Ciaran called to one of his men, his voice cutting through the din. "And see that the children get food first."

Isolde was already moving toward a wagon where an elderly woman sat clutching a bundle to her chest. "What can I dae tae help, goodwife?" she asked gently.

"Me granddaughter," the woman whispered. "She's with child, and the journey... she's been bleeding."

Without hesitation, Isolde helped the young woman down from the wagon. "Ciaran," she called, and he was at her side immediately, supporting the girl's other arm.

"We should take them tae the blue chamber in the family wing," she said quietly. "It's closest tae the healer's supplies."

They moved as one, Isolde murmuring reassurances while Ciaran cleared a path through the crowded corridor.

Anyone watching would have seen the perfect synchronization between them—how he anticipated her needs before she spoke them, how she steadied the girl while he opened doors and gathered pillows.

In the chamber, they worked together with practiced ease. Ciaran held the young woman's hand while Isolde examined her, their movements flowing around each other as if they'd done this a hundred times before.

"The bleeding's stopped," Isolde announced with relief. "But ye need rest, lass. Complete rest fer at least a night."

"We'll see that ye have everything ye need," Ciaran added, his voice gentle despite his usual commanding presence.

"Me laird, me lady." The girl's voice was weak but grateful. "Ye're so kind tae us. Like a proper laird and lady should be."

Isolde felt heat rise in her cheeks at the assumption, but before she could correct the girl, a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.

"Indeed, they dae make quite the pair."

Laird Alistair MacAlpin stood in the entrance, his weathered face unreadable as he took in the domestic scene before him. Isolde's heart hammered against her ribs.

"Faither." She rose quickly, smoothing her skirts. "I was just—the lass needed tending."

"So I see." His grey eyes moved between her and Ciaran, noting how they'd positioned themselves, how naturally they'd worked together. "And Lord MacCraith was assisting ye?"

"Lady Isolde has skilled hands fer healing," Ciaran said carefully. "I was merely helping where I could."

Alistair's gaze lingered on them both, and Isolde felt certain he could see right through their careful words. "Aye, me daughter has always had a gift fer caring fer others." His tone was neutral, giving nothing away.

Neither she nor Ciaran responded. Her father stepped into the room, and she noticed how his eyes searched between her and Ciaran. Isolde knew this was not the time for her father to become distracted.

She stepped forward, clearing her throat. "Faither, surely ye have more pressing matters?—"

"Naething more pressing than me daughter's welfare." Alistair's voice held a warning edge. "Despite Laird MacCraith showing his intention tae wed ye, daughter, I am sure he has been... respectful during our hospitality?"

"Completely," Isolde said, perhaps too quickly. "He's been naething but honorable."

Ciaran cleared his throat.

"Me laird!" A messenger burst into the room, his face flushed from hard riding. "Fergive the intrusion, but I bring urgent news!"

Alistair turned sharply. "Speak."

"Wallace's troops have been spotted near the Cromwell border. Our scouts estimate a full army—at least three hundred men, maybe more. They're moving this way."

The color drained from Isolde's face. Three hundred men. Against their combined forces, they might manage half that number, and many of those would be farmers and shepherds who'd never held a sword in earnest.

"How long dae we have?" Ciaran demanded, his voice cutting through the sudden silence.

"Two days, me laird. Maybe less if they force march."

Alistair's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt. His eyes flicked meaningfully between Isolde and Ciaran. "We'll speak later, daughter."

But Isolde knew, with a sinking heart, that there might not be a later. Wallace was coming with an army, and everything—her father's suspicions, her future with Ciaran, the safety of everyone in this castle—hung in the balance.

"Summon the war council," Ciaran ordered the messenger. "All clan leaders, now."

As the room erupted into activity, Ciaran moved swiftly to Isolde's side. His hand found hers, squeezing gently despite the eyes watching them.

"Dinnae worry, lass," he murmured, his voice low but steady. "We'll be ready for him."

Laird Alistair's sharp gaze caught the intimate gesture, but before he could speak, Ciaran was already moving into action.

"Finlay!" he called to his friend, who appeared in the doorway as if summoned by thought alone. "I need three of our fastest riders, now."

"Aye, me laird."

"And parchment, ink, and wax fer sealing. Move quickly."

Within minutes, Ciaran was bent over a writing table in the castle's solar, his hand moving swiftly across the parchments. Isolde watched him work, marveling at how completely he'd taken command of the situation.

"The first goes tae MacCraith lands," he explained as he wrote, his voice crisp with authority. "Me full garrison—two hundred trained men. They can be here in a day if they ride hard."

"And the others?" Alistair asked, moving to peer over Ciaran's shoulder.

"Clan MacKinney—Ingram owes me a debt from the cattle raids three summers past. And Clan Campbell.

They've nay love fer Wallace after he burned their border villages last winter.

" Ciaran sealed the first letter with quick, practiced movements.

"Between them, we should have another hundred and fifty men. "

"Thank ye, me laird. However, even with that, we may still be outnumbered," one of the MacAlpin elders said grimly.

Ciaran looked up, his green eyes hard as winter stone. "Numbers arenae everything in war, old man. Position, strategy, and the will tae fight—those matter more."

He sealed the final letter and handed all three to Finlay. "Ride out immediately. Different routes in case Wallace has scouts watching the roads."

"Consider it done." Finlay strode from the room with the purposeful gait of a man who understood the stakes.

The moment the letters were dispatched, Ciaran turned his attention to the MacAlpin forces. "Laird MacAlpin," he addressed Alistair formally, "with yer permission, I'd like tae assess what we have tae work with."

Alistair nodded slowly. "Dae what ye must."

What followed was a transformation that left Isolde proud to have witnessed. Even laird MacAlpin's expression held more respect for Cairan.

"Tavish MacAlpin," he called to the grizzled warrior who served as the clan's war leader. "I need tae ken our strengths. Who among these men can we count on?"

Tavish, a man of fifty with steel-grey hair and scarred hands, stepped forward. "Aye, me laird. MacBride there—" he pointed to a lean man with calloused fingers, "—he's our best archer. Learned his craft hunting deer in the high country."

"Good. MacBride!" Ciaran's voice carried clearly across the courtyard. "Take charge of the archers. How many men can ye train tae hit a target at fifty paces?"

"A dozen, maybe fifteen if we're lucky, me laird," MacBride replied.

Ciaran nodded, then turned back to Tavish. "And scouts?"

"Dougal there has been tracking sheep through these hills since he was a lad. Knows every path and hidden way fer twenty miles around."

"Dougal!" Ciaran called. "Yer sheep-herding days taught ye tae move quiet through the hills. I need scouts—can ye dae it?"

"Aye, me laird," came the immediate response.

Within an hour, Ciaran had the MacAlpin forces arranged into proper military units. Men who'd spent their lives tending cattle and sheep found themselves being drilled in formation fighting. The castle's blacksmith was pressed into service sharpening every blade and arrowhead they could find.

"The wall's weakness is here," Ciaran explained to the assembled defenders, pointing to a section of the castle's curtain wall. "We'll need archers positioned on the towers tae cover it. And we'll dig trenches outside the main gate—funnel them where we want them tae go."

"What about the women and children?" asked the cook.

"Move them tae the castle's keep. The cellars are stone-built and deep. They'll be safe there." His eyes found Isolde in the crowd. "Lady Isolde will organize supplies and tend the wounded when the fighting starts."

"I can fight," Isolde protested.

"Aye, and if needed ye will. But yer value is in keeping as many people as possible alive, not in dying on the walls." His tone brooked no argument, but his eyes held warmth. "Leave the killing tae those of us who've made it our trade."

Isolde had no response for that. So as the day wore on, she watched in amazement as men from MacAlpin clan joined the men from the MacCraith clan to look to Ciaran for orders. His natural authority, combined with his obvious military experience, had won their respect in mere hours.

"He's good," her father said quietly, appearing beside her as they watched Ciaran directing the construction of defensive positions. "I can see why ye—" He stopped himself, but the implication hung between them.

"Faither—"

"We'll speak of it after the battle, lass. Assuming we're all still breathing." Alistair's weathered hand touched her shoulder briefly. "But ken this—any man who'd stand and fight fer MacAlpin people as if they were his own... that says something about his character."

As their frantic preparations continued, Isolde found herself standing on the battlements, watching Ciaran move among the men below. He paused to speak with each group—offering encouragement here, tactical advice there, his presence alone seeming to steady nerves and strengthen resolve.

In less than a day, he'd transformed farmers, herders and soldiers who had not seen battle in decades into something resembling an army. More importantly, he'd given them something they'd been lacking for years: hope.

The castle had finally slipped into some form of quiet anticipation as exhaustion overtook even the most anxious of souls.

Isolde moved silently through the corridors, her bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floors.

The guest chamber where they'd housed Ciaran was in the east wing, away from her father's rooms and close enough that she could find it in the dark.

She knocked softly on the heavy oak door.

"Come."

His voice was weary, and when she slipped inside, she found him sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, still fully clothed despite the late hour. His head was in his hands, and for a moment he looked like what he was—a man carrying the weight of hundreds of lives on his shoulders.

"Ciaran?"

He looked up, and she saw the exhaustion etched in every line of his face. "Isolde. Ye should be sleeping, lass. Come daylight, there will be?—"

"I couldnae sleep." She closed the door behind her and moved toward him. "I had tae see ye first."

He rose as she approached, his natural courtesy overriding his weariness. "What is it?"

"I wanted tae thank ye." The words came out in a rush. "Fer everything ye've done today. For taking command when we needed it most, fer sending fer yer men, fer..." She gestured helplessly.

He was quiet for a long moment, his green eyes searching hers. "I love ye, and I willnae let Wallace take ye from me without a fight."

The simple honesty of it made her throat tighten with emotion. "The men respect ye already. In one day, ye've given them more hope than they've had in months."

"They're good men. They just needed someone tae show them their own strength."

"And what about ye?" she asked softly. "Who shows ye yers?"

He smiled then, the first real smile she'd seen from him since the messenger had arrived. "Ye dae, lass. Every day since I met ye."

She reached up to touch his face, feeling the rough stubble beneath her palm. "I'm frightened," she admitted. "Nae of dying, but of losing ye. Of watching Wallace's men cut ye down and being powerless tae stop it."

"Hey." His arms came around her, pulling her close. "That willnae happen. I promise ye that."

"Ye cannae promise such a thing."

"I can, and I dae." His voice was fierce with conviction. "I've fought in a dozen battles, survived things that should have killed me ten times over. I dinnae plan on dying tomorrow, especially nae before I can make ye me wife properly."

Isolde felt her heart skip. Isolde had not fully processed what living with Ciaran as his wife would be like. "Yer wife… "

"Aye. After we send Wallace tae hell where he belongs." His hands framed her face. "And ye will give me plenty of babies tae run around the castle."

"Then ye have tae make sure ye stay alive fer me. Fer this," she lifted his hand to cover her heart. "And fer our future."

"Oh, Isolde MacAlpin. I want ye as me wife as soon as possible. I want tae protect ye and yer clan, tae build something lasting between MacCraith and MacAlpin." His thumbs traced her cheekbones. "Daes that sound like a good plan, lass?"

"Aye," she whispered, tears spilling over. "Aye, Ciaran MacCraith."

He kissed her then, soft and sweet and full of promise. When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his.

"Stay with me taenight?" he asked quietly. "I dinnae want tae spend these hours away from ye."

She nodded, and they settled onto the narrow bed together, her head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped protectively around her.