Page 9 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
A crack of thunder broke the spell. Isolde pushed against his chest, and reluctantly, he released her. She smoothed down her gown, searching desperately for composure that had scattered like leaves in a gale.
"I—thank ye fer catching me. I was just looking fer—I mean, the history of clans seemed interesting and I thought—" The words tumbled out, one over another, her usual eloquence deserting her entirely.
Without waiting for his response, she darted past him toward the door, her face burning with embarrassment and something far more dangerous. "Goodnight, Laird MacCraith."
Only when she reached her chamber did she realize she'd left the book behind—along with any pretense that he affected her no more than any other man.
Ciaran MacCraith stood at the window of his study, watching the moon rise over the eastern hills.
Behind him, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting his shadow long across the stone floor.
The castle had settled into its nighttime rhythms—guards changing posts, servants retiring, kitchen fires banked for the morning.
And Lady Isolde MacAlpin planning her escape.
He took a sip of whisky, savoring the burn as it traveled down his throat.
"Ye're certain she'll try again tae night?", his trusted war chief Duncan asked from his position by the door, arms folded across his broad chest.
"Aye," Ciaran replied, setting his glass down on the desk. "She's been watching the guard rotations. Asking Elspeth about the stables."
What Duncan couldn't understand—what no one could—was how attuned he'd become to Lady Isolde's movements.
It was as though a thread connected them, pulling taut whenever she plotted against him.
He'd felt it earlier today, watching her gaze linger too long on the eastern gate during their walk in the gardens.
"The lass is determined, I'll give her that," Duncan said with grudging respect.
"She's reckless," Ciaran corrected sharply. "And likely to get herself killed."
His jaw clenched at the memory of finding her on the forest road, surrounded by those men.
If he'd arrived five minutes later, they would have already been gone with her. She’d fought bravely, and they'd even laughed about it, but it didn't take away the image of her wide, frightened eyes that remained branded in his mind.
"We'll follow at a distance," he said, buckling on his dirk belt. "Let her believe she's succeeded."
"Is that wise, laird? Why nae simply stop her before she leaves?"
Ciaran turned, his expression hardening. "Because she needs to understand the danger. Truly understand it. And perhaps we can find out where she is from."
And because a part of him—a part he refused to examine too closely—wanted to see what she would do. How far her courage would take her. The lass was unlike any woman he'd encountered before. Fierce and proud, with a quick mind that always seemed to plan ahead.
Except tonight. Tonight, she was in for a surprise.
"Gather the men," he ordered. "Four riders, nay more. We move silently."
Duncan nodded and left to follow his instructions, leaving Ciaran alone with his thoughts. He moved to his desk where a map of the surrounding lands lay spread open. His finger traced the path Lady Isolde would likely take—east through the forest around the area he'd found her that night.
The very path where strange men had been spotted again just the day before.
"Stubborn woman. Ye put me men in danger," he muttered. But in truth, he admired her determination.
The castle bell tolled the midnight hour as Ciaran descended to the courtyard. His men waited, horses saddled, weapons ready. No torch light betrayed their presence; the moon would guide them tonight.
"She's nae yet left her chamber," one of the men reported in a hushed voice. "But she's dressed fer travel. The window's been opened twice."
Ciaran nodded, mounting his stallion with practiced ease. "She'll use the servants' stairs tae the kitchen, then the eastern postern gate. Young Padraic is on duty there tonight."
"The lad who fancies her?" Duncan asked with a soft chuckle.
"The very one," Ciaran confirmed, his mouth tightening. He'd noticed the young guard's lingering glances, the way he straightened whenever Lady Isolde passed. A weakness she would exploit if given the chance.
They positioned themselves in the shadows of the east wall, waiting. The night air carried the freshness of pine and somewhere in the distance, an owl called to its mate. Ciaran's stallion shifted beneath him, sensing his tension.
An hour passed. Then another. Some of the men began to shift restlessly, but Ciaran remained still, patient. She would come. He knew it with inexplicable certainty.
The small door to the kitchen opened with barely a sound. A cloaked figure slipped out, pausing to scan the courtyard before darting toward the stables.
"There," Duncan whispered unnecessarily.
Ciaran raised a hand for silence, watching as Lady Isolde disappeared into the stables. Minutes later, she emerged leading her mare, keeping to the shadows as she made her way toward the eastern gate.
He couldn't hear the exchange between her and Padraic from this distance, but he could imagine it well enough. A story well-crafted to play on the young guard's sympathies, perhaps tinged with just enough fear to make him act against his better judgment.
Surely enough, the small postern door opened, and Lady Isolde slipped through with her horse.
"Now?" Duncan asked, hand on his sword hilt.
"Not yet," Ciaran replied. "Let her believe she's free."
They waited until she'd reached the tree line before following, maintaining enough distance that she wouldn't detect their presence.
Ciaran's pulse quickened despite himself.
There was something undeniably thrilling about this chase—this dance between them that had begun the moment she'd arrived at his castle.
His men spread out at his signal, two taking positions ahead to cut off her escape route, while he and Duncan followed directly. The forest grew denser, moonlight filtering through the canopy in dappled patterns that played across the ground.
He watched her figure ahead, straight-backed and proud upon her mare. She rode well, handling the difficult terrain with a confidence that spoke of long practice. Another unexpected quality to add to the growing list of things that intrigued him about her.
"She's heading straight fer the ambush point," Duncan murmured as they followed at a careful distance.
Ciaran nodded grimly. The same stretch of forest where those men had attacked. Did she not realize the danger, or was her desperation to return home so great that she would risk everything?
The thought sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the night air. He spurred his horse forward, closing the distance between them.
Ahead, he saw her halt suddenly, her hand moving to her boot where he knew she kept a dagger. A twig snapped—one of his men, moving into position.
"Who's there?" she called, her voice carrying clearly through the still night air. There was a tremor in it, but beneath that, a steel that made something in his chest tighten unexpectedly.
Ciaran signaled to his man, who stepped from the shadows onto the path ahead. Two more men appeared on either side, effectively surrounding her.
"That's far enough, m'lady," the man called, moonlight glinting off his drawn sword.
Ciaran urged his stallion forward, emerging from the darkness behind her. His eyes never left her rigid form, noting the way her hand still hovered near her concealed weapon. Ready to fight, even against impossible odds.
"Easy now," the soldier continued, stepping closer. "The laird sent us tae find ye."
"Then ye can tell yer laird I'm returning home," she replied, chin lifting in that defiant gesture he'd come to anticipate.
"Ye tell me yerself, Lady Isolde," Ciaran said, his deep voice carrying in the night stillness.
She whirled to face him, her hair escaping its braid to frame features sharp with frustration. The sight struck him with unexpected force. It wasn't just her beauty, which was considerable, but the raw determination in her eyes. Even surrounded, outnumbered, she remained unbowed.
"Ye're a stubborn woman," he said, keeping his voice level despite the unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest. "Did ye think I wouldnae notice ye were gone?"
"How did ye find me so quickly?" she demanded.
"I never lost ye," he admitted, watching her expression shift from surprise to indignation. "I've had men watching yer chamber since yer first attempt."
The truth was more complex, that he himself had watched her window each night, unable to rest until he was certain she remained safely within the castle walls. But such admissions would reveal too much, even to himself.
"Ye've no right tae keep me from returning tae me clan, Laird MacCraith."
For a moment, his guard lowered, concern breaking through his carefully maintained facade. "This is about keeping ye alive." He gestured to the dark forest around them, willing her to understand the danger she couldn't see but that he knew lurked among the shadows.
"The woods arenae safe," he continued, softer now. "Nae fer anyone, especially nae at night."
"I can protect meself," she insisted.
The stubborn set of her chin nearly drew a smile from him, despite the gravity of their situation. How could one woman be so fierce and yet so vulnerable? The contradiction fascinated him more than was wise.
"Ride ahead and ensure the path is clear," he ordered his man, turning to business to mask the unfamiliar tenderness threatening to surface. "Duncan, take the rear. We return tae the castle immediately."
"Ciaran," she said, his name on her lips sending an unexpected jolt through him. "Why willnae ye?—"
He shook his head once, sharply, silencing her question. The movement was as much to interrupt his own dangerous thoughts as her inquiry. With men dangerous enough to kill in these woods, now was not the time for explanations.
As they rode back to Castle MacCraith, Ciaran kept his gaze fixed forward, though his awareness remained centered on the woman beside him. Her safety was his duty, her protection his obligation.
That his heart quickened at her proximity was a complication he would ignore. For now.