Page 10 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
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 impossibledistance 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 thatshe 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.”
