Page 1 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
CHAPTER ONE
Castle MacAlpin, 1659
"Faither, may I be excused?" Isolde set down her spoon. "I fear I'm nae feeling quite meself tonight."
Isolde glanced at her sisters seated across the long oak table. A moment before, the dining hall echoed with the scrape of spoons against bowls. Now Isolde caught her sister's eye and tilted her head slightly toward the door. Rhona nodded, understanding immediately.
Laird Alistair MacAlpin looked up from his simple meal, concern etching his weathered face. "Aye, lass. Get some rest."
The few servants that remained at MacAlpin Castle cleared dishes in silence, their footsteps echoing in the half-empty hall. As she slipped out of her chair, a wave of sadness to flood through Isolde. She remembered when those tables had groaned with food and the hall had bustled with clansmen.
How quickly fortunes could change in the Highlands—one poor harvest, one failed alliance, one enemy too many. Their once-proud clan now clung to their lands by mere threads of ancient loyalty, their wealth as scattered as the autumn leaves. What her father wouldn't trade for just one strong son to inherit rather than five daughters, no matter how clever they might be. "I shall look after her," Rhona announced, already rising. "She was complaining of a headache earlier."
Isolde’s other sister Aileen, the youngest at sixteen, fidgeted in her seat. "May I also?—"
"Go on then," their father waved a hand, "all of ye. These old bones need peace and quiet."
The three sisters hurried from the hall, maintaining decorum until they rounded the corner. Then they broke into a run, skirts gathered in their hands, stifling giggles as they raced up the winding staircase to the east tower.
"Quickly!" Isolde burst through the chamber door. Her mother's midnight blue velvet with the silver thread gown was already laid across her bed.
Rhona locked the door behind them. "Ye're mad, ye ken that? Completely daft tae dae this."
"Stop scolding like some old woman and help me," Isolde was already tugging at her dinner dress. "I cannae miss this chance tae see him."
Aileen bounced on her toes while helping her sister with the undershirt. "What if Da discovers ye're gone?"
"He willnae if ye two dinnae mess this up. And make sure Lorna and Isla are sworn to silence." Isolde stepped into the blue gown, its style a decade old but the fabric still rich and lustrous. "Rhona, the laces!"
Rhona pulled the dress tight, snatching Isolde’s waist. "Ye've been obsessed with Laird MacCraith since ye first laid eyes on him, when he visited Da."
"Wouldnae ye be?" Isolde's cheeks flushed. "The way he carries himself, he's like a warrior king from the old stories."
"He's older than ye," Aileen whispered, eyes wide.
"And they say his clan's council would never let him marry outside powerful alliances," Rhona added.
"I'm nae proposing marriage," Isolde snapped. Her face softened at her sister's hurt expression, and she squeezed her arm affectionately. "I just want tae see him again. Tae be in the same room, even if just once more."
Rhona worked on Isolde's hair with precision, twisting the dark ginger locks into an elegant arrangement. "A laird's unwed daughter, unescorted, at another laird's masquerade... ye'll be ruined if recognized."
Isolde raised one finger, then reached for a silver mask inlaid with tiny sapphires—another relic from their mother's chest. "Nay one will ken me with this."
She fastened it and turned to look at her reflection. The mask transformed her, lending mystery to her blue eyes and high cheekbones.
"Oh my. Ye look like royalty," Aileen breathed.
"Is the secret passage still clear?" Isolde gathered a dark cloak.
"Aye," Rhona nodded. "I checked yesterday. The old hunting path beyond is overgrown but passable."
Isolde embraced her sisters fiercely. "If anyone asks?—"
"Ye're ill with a fever and sleeping," Rhona finished. "We ken."
"I'll be back before dawn," Isolde promised, slipping a small dagger into her boot.
Aileen pressed something into her hand. She looked down and saw it was a small silver charm. "Fer luck. 'Twas Maither's."
