Page 8 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
CHAPTER FIVE
C iaran stood at the window of his private dining chamber, watching the activity down below in the courtyard. He'd slept poorly, his mind filled with thoughts of Isolde currently housed in his family wing. Which clan did she belong to? Why the secrecy?
He turned at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, straightening as the door opened to reveal Elspeth leading in Isolde. The sight of her stole his breath.
Elspeth had dressed her in emerald gown, the color making her eyes shine like a loch on a clear day. Her copper hair had been brushed until it gleamed. With her chin lifted in that stubborn manner he was coming to expect, she looked every inch the Lady of Castle MacCraith.
The thought startled him. Never had he considered any woman as mistress of his home, despite his council's constant pressure to marry for alliances. Yet here she stood, fitting the role as if born to it.
Perhaps that was it. Could she be from a clan whose laird had built wealth through trade?
It would explain her refined manners coupled with her reluctance to reveal her identity.
Highland lairds were known to embrace merchant ventures to restore their fortunes, though many of the old guard looked down on such pursuits.
If her father was such a laird, she might hide her identity out of pride. The council would actually favor such a match, combining tradition with wealth. Her beauty and spirit combined with those connections would make her a politically advantageous bride, one he might even be willing to consider.
Ciaran pushed the thoughts away. He'd consider them further later. "Ye slept well, I trust?" Ciaran asked, a knowing glint in his eye.
"Well enough."
"And yer pre-dawn explorations? Did ye find them enlightening?"
Heat rose in her cheeks, coloring them like dawn breaking over the hills. "Ye kent I would try to leave."
"I'd have been disappointed if ye hadnae." He gestured to the table laden with fresh bread, honey, and fruit. "Eat, lass. Ye'll need yer strength if ye plan tae continue defying me."
She remained standing, defiance emanating from every line of her body. The sunlight streaming through the windows caught in her hair, turning the copper strands to living flame. Ciaran found himself wondering how it would feel between his fingers.
"Sit." Ciaran gestured to the chair pulled out beside at the head of the small table.
She remained standing. The fire in her eyes stirred something primal in him. What would it be like to have that passion directed not in defiance, but in desire? "I told ye, I'm nae hungry."
Sit," he repeated, his voice lower, a current of authority running beneath the single word.
"I'd prefer to stand."
"And I'd prefer ye tell me yer clan, but it seems we both face disappointment this morning." He held her gaze, neither of them willing to be the first to look away. "Ye can stand there all day if ye wish, but ye'll find ye are not the only one who's stubborn."
Her jaw clenched, that delicate chin lifting even higher.
Ciaran's dark gaze held hers, unyielding. The command hung in the air between them.
For several heartbeats, she maintained her defiance, her eyes flashing like steel against flint. With a slight huff of irritation, she sank into the chair, though her spine remained rigid as a sword.
He noted the way her eyes widened at the array of food—fresh bread still steaming, creamy butter, honey from the castle hives, sliced apples, cheese, and cold meats.
The reaction was so brief he nearly missed it before she masked her expression, but it told him something.
Wherever she came from, such abundance was not commonplace.
Perhaps nae the daughter of a trading laird, after all.
"What must I dae tae return home, Laird MacCraith? Name yer price," she demanded.
His expression sobered. "It's nae about price. It's about protecting what's mine."
"I am nae yours," she shot back.
The words sent an unexpected pang through him. He imagined if she was, he'd grab her by that trim waist and… "Nae, but me lands are. And ye were attacked upon them."
He leaned forward, close enough to catch the scent of heather from Elspeth's soap on her skin. "Whoever those men were, they'll try again. I cannae in good conscience let ye ride off alone."
"So ye hold me prisoner instead?"
"I offer ye sanctuary." His voice softened as he gazed down at her upturned face. "Tell me yer clan, Isolde, and I'll escort ye home meself—with a guard befitting yer station."
He meant it, though the thought of parting from her so soon left a hollow feeling in his chest. What was it about this woman that had ensnared him so quickly?
They both reached for a bread roll at the same moment, their fingers brushing. The contact sent a jolt through him like lightning across the moors. She jerked back as if burned, her eyes widening slightly before she looked away.
So, he wasn't alone in this madness.
"I cannae," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ciaran's jaw tightened, frustration warring with the desire to simply pull her into his arms and end this maddening dance between them.
"Then we remain at an impasse." He straightened, forcing the mantle of laird back over his shoulders. "I have council matters tae attend. Elspeth will show ye the grounds—under guard, of course."
His eyes held a warning, though one softened by the memory of her fingers against his. "Dinnae try tae leave again. Nae all who patrol me borders are as gracious as I am."
With that, he strode from the room, needing distance before he did something foolish—like kiss those defiant lips until she yielded her secrets to him.
Isolde paced the length of her chamber until she thought she might wear a path in the fine carpet. The walls felt as though they were closing in around her with each passing hour. A prisoner in a velvet cage was still a prisoner.
After Elspeth had shown her the gardens—with two guards following at a discreet distance—Isolde had been returned to her room like a child sent to bed without supper. She needed something, anything, to occupy her restless mind.
When Elspeth brought her the afternoon meal, Isolde asked as casually as she could, "Are there books in the castle?"
"Books, m'lady?" Elspeth seemed surprised by the request.
"Tae read," Isolde clarified, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "I find meself with an abundance of time on me hands."
Elspeth's expression softened. "Aye, there's a library. Though it has nae been used much since the old lady passed."
"Could ye show it tae me?"
The library was far larger than Isolde had dared hope, tucked away in the east wing on the second floor. Shelves lined every wall from floor to ceiling, laden with more books than she'd ever seen in one place.
"I'll be back tae fetch ye for supper," Elspeth said, leaving her with a lit candle and a suspicious glance.
The moment the door closed, Isolde was lost in wonder.
Her fingers traced the spines of ancient tomes—histories, poetry, philosophy.
Books that had been rare treasures in her home were merely part of the collection here.
She pulled one down at random and settled into a worn armchair near the window.
Outside, clouds gathered on the horizon, promising a storm. Inside, Isolde found herself transported to ancient Rome, the troubles of her present situation momentarily forgotten.
The light grew dim as the storm arrived in earnest, rain lashing against the windows.
She barely noticed, moving only to light more candles as darkness fell.
Supper came and went, but Elspeth didn't return.
Perhaps she'd forgotten—or perhaps the laird had instructed her to leave Isolde to her reading.
"Just one more," she whispered to herself, spotting a volume on Highland clan histories on a high shelf. That might contain information about the MacCraiths—perhaps even something she could use to her advantage.
She dragged a small wooden stool from beside the writing desk and climbed up, stretching to reach the book. Her fingers had just brushed its spine when the stool wobbled beneath her. She tried to steady herself, but the ancient wood shifted again, and suddenly she was falling.
Instead of the hard floor, she landed against something solid yet yielding. Strong arms encircled her, a startled grunt escaping her rescuer as they stumbled back a step from the impact.
"Careful, lass. Saving ye is becoming a pattern."
The deep voice rumbled through her, and Isolde found herself staring up into the dark eyes of Laird Ciaran MacCraith.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, and not just from the near fall.
His face was inches from hers, his arms still wrapped firmly around her waist. The scent of him surrounded her—his cologne and something uniquely male.
Heat traveled from where his hands rested against her back, spreading through her like wildfire.
"I... I was just..." she stammered, acutely aware of how perfectly she fit against him. How natural it felt to be held in his arms, even as her mind screamed at her to pull away.
"Ye could have broken yer neck," he said, his voice lower than she'd heard it before. Was it her imagination, or did his arms tighten slightly around her?
"The stool was unsteady," she managed, her voice sounding strange even to her own ears.
"As are many things," he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.
The library suddenly felt too warm, too small. The storm outside couldn't match the tempest building within her. This was madness. This man was her captor, not her savior. Yet her body betrayed her, leaning into his warmth as though they were lovers reunited after a long absence.
"I should go," she whispered, though she made no move to extract herself from his embrace.
"Should ye?" His question hung between them, laden with meaning that made her breath catch.