Page 6 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
CHAPTER FOUR
C iaran paced the length of his study, the floorboards creaking beneath his heavy stride. The fire in the hearth cast his shadow long against the stone walls covered with maps of MacCraith territory.
"Three men, ye say?", Ciaran’s good friend and advisor, leaned against the desk; arms crossed over his chest. "Bearing what markings? Did ye see anything to indicate their clan?"
"None I could discern," Ciaran replied, pausing to pour himself a dram of whisky. "But they werenae common bandits. Their weapons were fine, their mounts as well. And they mentioned someone who'd be pleased tae have her." Ciaran took a swallow of the amber liquid, feeling it burn down his throat.
Finlay's expression darkened. "The servants are already whispering of a bonnie lass ye brought back, wounded and dressed for a ball. They say her bearing speaks of noble birth."
"Let them whisper."
"And what dae ye intend tae dae with her? Ye cannae keep an unmarried woman in yer castle indefinitely. Nae if she's of noble birth." Finlay straightened, his voice lowering. "If she's truly a laird's daughter, keeping her here against her clan's wishes could spark a war."
Ciaran slammed his glass down. "A laird who cannae keep his daughter safe behind his own walls has nay business declaring war on anyone."
"Perhaps, but?—"
"She was alone, Fin. Nay guard, nay escort—riding through the night after a ball she shouldnae have been attending." He ran a hand through his hair. "What kind of faither allows such a thing?"
"One who daesnae ken she was gone, I'd wager." Finlay's shrewd eyes studied him. "The real question is why dae ye care so much. There are prettier lasses in the glen."
Ciaran scowled. "I care because she was attacked on MacCraith land. That makes it me concern."
"Aye, and I'm a Sassenach." Finlay's mouth quirked. "Shall I send scouts tae the nearby clans? Discover which is missing a daughter?"
"Nay." The word came out sharper than intended. "I want to ken who those men were. If they think they can prey on women on me lands, they'll learn the price of such boldness."
Finlay studied him for a long moment. "As ye wish, me laird. But the lass cannae stay here indefinitely without questions being raised."
"All she has tae dae is tell me her name, her clan. She's stubborn, that one."
"Reminds me of someone else I ken," Finlay muttered.
Ciaran shot him a dark look but didn't dispute the observation. "Have the men increase patrols along the eastern border. If those riders return, I want them caught."
After Finlay departed, Ciaran made his way through the corridors toward the guest quarters. The castle had settled for the night, a few servants still completing their final tasks before retiring. He nodded at those he passed, their curious glances not escaping his notice.
He reached the guest chamber just as Elizabeth was explaining something to the lass—now dressed in a blue gown of his sister's that enhanced the fire of her hair.
The sight of her stopped him short. Sorcha's gown once again transformed her from a disheveled fugitive to a vision that made his breath catch, just like she had at the ball.
The silk draped perfectly over the gentle curve of her hips, the fitted bodice accentuating her slender waist. She had a more generous figure than his sister, and the dress fitted in ways that made the fabric cling in places he shouldn’t be noticing.
The neckline revealed the graceful slope of the lass's collarbone and hinted at curves beneath.
From the corner of his eye, he watched the woman's graceful movements, the confidence in her ways despite her circumstances. No ordinary lass, this one. Noble born, without question—but from which clan?
Ciaran thanked Elizabeth and bid her good night, and the woman left the room with a quick curtsy.
"Thank ye, me laird. Ye have done more than enough," Isolde then said, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. "In only a few hours, I'll be gone, and ken forget ye ever met me."
"Will I now?" One corner of his mouth lifted despite his growing frustration. "And where will ye go, lass? Back tae the family ye won't name? On roads where men already tried tae take ye once?"
Her cheeks flushed with anger. "I told ye I can take care of meself."
"Aye, ye proved that so well earlier." The memory of her struggling against those men made his hands clench.
Ciaran forced himself to take a deep breath. This woman tested his patience like no other. "Why dae ye resist telling me which clan ye are from? I saved yer life, lass. Most would consider that worth more than a name, sweet as it is."
"I didnae ask ye tae save me," she countered, those blue eyes flashing.
"And I didnae ask ye tae drive me to madness, yet here we are." He stepped closer, the space between them charged with something beyond mere anger.
She remained silent, jaw set in stubborn defiance.
Frustration surged through him. Did she not understand the danger she'd been in? The danger she still faced? Or the impossible position she put him in by refusing to name her clan?
"Dae ye have any idea the risk ye are making me take by refusing?" he demanded, voice lowering to a growl. "I could be holding the daughter of an enemy clan beneath my roof. I could be starting a war this very moment."
When her mouth remained shut, he sighed.
"Rest fer now," he said, his voice softening despite his evident frustration. "We shall speak more at daybreak."
With that, he shut the door behind him, leaving Isolde to let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She pressed her hand against her chest, feeling her heart race beneath the fine silk of Sorcha's gown.
For all her brave words, she couldn't deny the effect the laird had on her—nor the danger of the game she was playing.
Isolde sank onto the edge of the massive bed, her fingers sinking into the plush covering.
The feather-stuffed mattress beneath was softer than anything she'd ever slept on, even during her clan's more prosperous years.
The tartan plaid and fur coverlet were thick enough to ward off even the harshest Highland winter.
"What a life it must be," she murmured, running her hand over the intricate embroidery, "tae never want fer anything."
She thought of home—of the chambers she shared with her sisters to conserve firewood, of the threadbare blankets they'd mended so often the original fabric was barely visible beneath the patches.
"Ye look troubled, lass."
Isolde startled. Elspeth stood in the doorway, a tray of steaming broth and crackers in her hands.
"Just tired," Isolde replied, watching as the woman set the tray on a table near the hearth.
"Aye, it's been quite a night fer ye." Elspeth gestured to the four-poster bed. "Different from what ye're used tae?"
Isolde hesitated, wondering if something she said might give away her clan. But then decided some truth served better than lies. "We once had fine things. Now we make dae with what remains."
"Hard times fall on many clans these days." Elspeth’s eyes were kind but shrewd. "War and weather take their toll on even the proudest houses. Here, let me help ye out of that gown."
"I can manage, thank ye. And ye? Has Castle MacCraith always been so..." Isolde gestured at the opulent chamber.
"Prosperous?" Elspeth shook her head. "When the laird's faither died, we struggled. But the young laird—he rebuilt everything. Made smart alliances. Protected our borders." Pride colored her voice. "He's a good man, though he hides it well behind that scowl."
Isolde thought of his gentle hands tending her wounds, the way his eyes had softened when she'd winced. "Perhaps."
"Rest now. I'll return at day break."
Isolde took a sip of the thick broth. It was delicious with a soothing aroma, but she was in no mood for food.
Exhaustion claimed her almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, dreams of masked dances and forest pursuits tangling in her mind. In what felt like moments later, she woke with a start, the castle eerily quiet in the predawn stillness.
This is me chance. The perfect time tae escape.
She slipped from the bed, thinking Sorcha's gown would have to do as long as she slipped in discreetly enough to change before any apart from her sisters noticed. The knife she'd taken from the desk disappeared into her sleeve. Moving silently, she eased the door open and slipped into the corridor.
The great hall was empty, the fire banked for the night.
No servants stirred yet in the kitchens.
She made her way outside to the courtyard, keeping to the shadows, guessing where the stables would be, based on the direction the stable boy had gone with Ciaran's stallion.
After two wrong turns, the neigh of a horse told her she was close.
Inside, the familiar scent of hay and horses greeted her, but her relief vanished at the sight of a stable boy slumped against the door, snoring softly.
"Blast ye, Ciaran MacCraith," she muttered. The insufferable man had anticipated her escape.
Isolde crept forward, careful to avoid the patches of straw that might crunch beneath her feet. The stable boy couldn't be more than fourteen, his lanky frame folded awkwardly against the stall door, head lolled to one side. Her mare nickered softly at her approach.
"Shh, girl," Isolde whispered, reaching out to stroke the horse's muzzle.
The boy stirred at the sound, his eyes fluttering open. When he spotted Isolde, he jerked upright, nearly toppling over in his haste.
"M'lady!" He scrambled to his feet, wiping drool from his chin.
"I'm just checking on me horse," Isolde replied smoothly. "Go back tae sleep, lad."
"Cannae dae that, m'lady." The boy planted himself more firmly before the stall, though his voice trembled slightly. "The laird said ye might try tae leave. Said I wasnae tae let ye near yer horse, on pain of—" he swallowed hard, "on pain of mucking the stables fer a month."