Page 5 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER THREE

C iaran guided Isolde through the torch-lit corridors of Castle MacCraith, his hand never leaving the small of her back. The warmth of his touch seeped through the torn fabric of her gown, setting her skin aflame despite the chill of the stone walls.

"The healer's quarters are just ahead," he said, his deep voice echoing in the narrow passage. "Elspeth usually has healing potions prepared fer eventualities."

Isolde fought to maintain her composure, acutely aware of how close he stood, of how his massive frame seemed to envelop her own. "Ye needn't trouble yerself, m'laird. 'Tis but a scratch."

His dark eyes flicked to her bruised face, lingering on the dried blood at the corner of her mouth. "A scratch that came from protecting yer honor. The least I can dae is tend tae it properly."

They reached a small chamber lined with shelves of herbs, tinctures, and clay pots. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light across a wooden table and several stools. The room smelled of dried heather, rosemary, and something sharp that could be witch hazel.

"Where's yer healer?" Isolde asked, noticing the empty room.

"Attending some urgent matter," Ciaran replied, moving toward the shelves with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he sought. "But we dinnae need her."

Ciaran turned from the shelf of medicines, a small clay pot in his large hands.

"Leave us," he commanded, his voice cutting through the hushed whispers of the hovering servants.

Isolde watched as the two women who had been lingering by the door immediately straightened.

"Aye, me laird," they murmured in unison, backing out of the room with lowered eyes.

She couldn't help but notice how they obeyed without question—so different from her father's castle, where servants had grown familiar over years of dwindling fortunes.

When the heavy door closed, Ciaran approached her. "The cloak, lass. It needs tae come off if I'm tae tend ye properly."

Isolde clutched the torn fabric tighter around her shoulders, suddenly aware of how exposed she'd be without it. "I can manage meself."

"I dinnae doubt it, but ye'll humor me all the same."

His eyes, dark as peat, held hers until she relented. What choice did she have? She was in his castle, at his mercy—though mercy seemed a strange word for the feelings his gaze stirred within her.

With reluctant movements, she allowed him to help her remove the cloak. His fingers brushed against her neck as he unfastened the clasp, sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. She prayed he hadn't noticed.

"Now," he said, dipping a clean cloth into a bowl of water, "will ye tell me yer name? Or must I continue calling ye 'lass' all through the night?"

Isolde lifted her chin. "Lass suits me fine." If he knew she was a MacAlpin, everything would change. The MacCraiths had no need for alliances with fallen clans.

"Daes it now?" His mouth curved into a half-smile as he carefully pressed the damp cloth to the cut on her lip.

Isolde tried not to wince at the sting and tried even harder not to focus on how close he stood, how his breath warmed her cheek. How he smelled.

"And what am I tae tell those who ask about the woman I've brought intae me home?" he asked.

"I’m sure a laird such as yeself has nay need tae explain anything tae anyone. But tell them whatever ye wish. It matters nae tae me." But it did matter. It mattered that her father not discover her foolishness. That her sisters could come up with a good excuse for her absence

Ciaran's eyes narrowed. "Yer tongue remains sharp fer someone in yer position."

"And what position is that, Laird MacCraith?" She shouldn't provoke him, yet she couldn't seem to help herself.

"Under me protection." He dabbed a sweet-smelling salve onto her bruised cheek with surprising gentleness. "Though I cannae protect ye properly if I dinnae ken who ye are."

The salve stung, and Isolde felt her eyes water. Apart from that, she refused to show weakness. "I didnae ask fer yer protection."

"Yet ye need it all the same." His fingers traced the edge of her bruise, his touch feather-light. "It’s nae too bad, I've treated worse on the battlefield."

"I'm hardly a wounded soldier, Laird MacCraith." Her voice sounded breathless even to her own ears.

His eyes flickered to hers, dark and intense. "Nay, lass. Ye're far more dangerous."

The words hung between them as his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. Isolde's heart hammered against her ribs. She should pull away, remember her place, her duty, the impossible distance between a MacCraith laird and a daughter of the fading MacAlpins.

Instead, she found herself caught in his gaze, unable to move as his fingers lingered against her skin. The man she'd watched from afar for two years was touching her, tending her wounds with hands that could wield a sword and apply healing balm with equal skill.

This was madness. Sweet, intoxicating madness.

"I can see ye are of noble birth," Ciaran said, interrupting her thoughts. He finished applying the salve. "At first light I could send scouts tae find which clan has a missing laird's daughter..."

Isolde felt her heart stutter in her chest.

He must have noticed the alarm in her eyes, for his expression softened unexpectedly. "But I willnae. If—" he paused, fingers lingering near her jaw, "if ye tell me why ye were out on yer own. A lady unescorted at night isnae common, even in peaceful times."

For the first time since she had met the laird, Isolde looked away, heat creeping up her neck. The truth seemed suddenly childish—sneaking out to glimpse a man who'd occupied her thoughts for years.

A look of dawning crossed the laird's face. "Ye snuck out tae come to the ball," he said, his voice lowering to a rumble that she felt more than heard. "Should I dare ask if ye wanted tae get close tae a certain laird?"

He leaned closer, his expression both charming and infuriatingly smug. The scent of his cologne clung to him, making it difficult to concentrate.

"Ye wish," Isolde replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. She'd rather face the men that had attacked her than admit the truth to this arrogant man.

Yet even as she bristled at his presumption, she found herself noticing things about him—the way one corner of his mouth lifted higher than the other when he smiled, the faint scar near his temple, the gentleness of his hands that contrasted with his commanding presence.

Around servants and even at the ball, he was all hard edges and authority.

But here, alone with her, there were hints of something else—a boyishness, a warmth that peeked through the hard exterior.

Despite herself, despite everything, Isolde felt a smile tugging at her lips. Perhaps sneaking out hadn't been such a terrible mistake after all. Perhaps?—

"Isolde."

The name slipped from her lips before she could stop herself, a whispered offering in the quiet of the healer's chamber.

Ciaran's hands stilled, his dark eyes lifting to meet hers with undisguised surprise. For a moment, he simply stared at her.

"Isolde," he repeated, her name rolling off his tongue like honey, his brogue caressing each syllable. A slow smile spread across his face. "It suits ye, lass. And would a clan name follow, Isolde?"

She lowered her gaze, already regretting the impulse. "Just Isolde. Naething more."

"Fer now," he murmured, returning to his task, but the satisfaction in his voice was unmistakable. He'd obtained a small victory, and they both knew it. A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Me laird," a servant called through the door, "Finlay has returned and awaits ye in yer study."

Ciaran ran a hand through his dark hair. With a sigh, he straightened, pulling his laird's mantle around him once more.

The door opened, and an older woman hurried in, her gray hair neatly tucked beneath a white cap. "Me apologies, Laird MacCraith! I was tending tae Morna's bairn when ye arrived?—"

"Nay matter, Elizabeth," Ciaran said, his voice returning to the commanding tone Isolde had first heard at the ball. "See tae the lass." His eyes flicked back to Isolde. "Make sure she has everything she needs. She's me guest."

Without another word, he strode from the room, leaving Isolde with the strange sense of having glimpsed something precious and rare—a side of Laird MacCraith few were privileged to see.

The healer, Elizabeth, clucked her tongue as she gently turned Isolde's face toward the light. Her weathered hands were cool against Isolde's skin, her touch professional and brisk, unlike the laird's lingering fingers.

"The laird did this himself, did he?" she asked, examining the salve on Isolde's bruised cheek.

"Aye," Isolde replied, watching the woman's reactions carefully. Everyone she met could potentially help her leave here without the laird finding out whose daughter she was.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Elizabeth nodded approvingly.

"He's got a healer's touch when he chooses tae use it.

Learned it in the field, he did. Said a laird must learn tae tend his men himself.

" She bent closer to inspect the cut on Isolde's lip.

"Many a wounded MacCraith warrior owes their life tae him.

Strange fer such a young laird, but there ye have it. "

Isolde remained silent, filing away this information about Ciaran. A warrior with a healer's hands—an unexpected combination.

"Now then," Elizabeth said, straightening. "Let's get ye out of these torn clothes and intae something proper.”

Isolde studied the woman as she moved about the room, gathering supplies. Older, loyal to Ciaran, unlikely to help a stranger escape against his wishes. Yet there was kindness in her efficiency. Perhaps not an ally, but not an enemy either. Time will tell.

Elizabeth disappeared for a moment, then returned with a garment draped carefully over her arms. She laid it on the bed, and Isolde realized it was far finer than the simple shift she'd initially expected.

It was a gown of deep blue silk, the sleeves lined with silver embroidery and tiny freshwater pearls adorning the bodice.

"This is..." Isolde ran her fingers over the delicate needlework.

"One of Lady Sorcha's gowns," Elizabeth explained, helping her into it. "The laird's sister. Elspeth procured it."

Isolde allowed Elizabeth to help her out of her torn and dirty dress, and into the new dress. As she laced up the back of the gown, noting how perfectly it fit her form. "And where is Lady Sorcha now? She’s me size exactly."

"Married these three years past," Elizabeth replied, her fingers working deftly at the laces. "A good match, though the laird misses her fierce. They were close as bairns."

"Daes she visit often?" Isolde asked, turning to examine herself in a small looking glass on the wall. The gown was finer than anything she'd worn in years, since before her family's fortunes had turned.

"When she can. The lands are a fortnight's ride from here." Elizabeth stepped back to appraise her work. "It suits ye well me lady. Lady Sorcha would be pleased tae see it worn again."

"I'm nay lady," Isolde replied automatically, then silently cursed her loose tongue.

"Arenae ye now?" Elizabeth's shrewd eyes studied her. "Ye speak like one. Ye carry yerself like one. And the laird certainly treats ye as one."

Isolde smiled. "Perhaps I'm just a very clever tavern wench."

This earned her a snort from Elizabeth. "Come along now. Elspeth has prepared yer chambers."

As they walked through the corridors of Castle MacCraith, Isolde maintained the confident stride that her mother had drilled into her and her sisters. "Back straight, chin high—we may have lost our fortune but we will never lose our pride," she'd always said.

"Tell me, Elizabeth," Isolde said as they passed a particularly fine tapestry depicting a stag hunt, "has the laird many female guests he houses in his sister's gowns?"

Elizabeth gave her a sharp look. "The laird is selective with his attentions, if that's yer meaning."

"And yet he tends the wounds of a stranger himself? Unusual, wouldnae ye say?"

"The laird daes as he pleases," Elizabeth replied, though a hint of curiosity colored her tone. "He always has."