Page 11 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Isolde studied the woman as she moved about the room, gathering supplies. Older, loyal to Ciaran, unlikely to help a stranger escape against his wishes. Yet there was kindness in her efficiency. Perhaps not an ally, but not an enemy either. Time will tell.
Elizabeth disappeared for a moment, then returned with a garment draped carefully over her arms. She laid it on the bed, and Isolde realized it was far finer than the simple shift she'd initially expected. It was a gown of deep blue silk, the sleeves lined with silver embroidery and tiny freshwater pearls adorning the bodice.
"This is..." Isolde ran her fingers over the delicate needlework.
"One of Lady Sorcha's gowns," Elizabeth explained, helping her into it. "The laird's sister. Elspeth procured it."
Isolde allowed Elizabeth to help her out of her torn and dirty dress, and into the new dress. As she laced up the back of the gown, noting how perfectly it fit her form. "And where is Lady Sorcha now? She’s me size exactly."
"Married these three years past," Elizabeth replied, her fingers working deftly at the laces. "A good match, though the laird misses her fierce. They were close as bairns."
"Daes she visit often?" Isolde asked, turning to examine herself in a small looking glass on the wall. The gown was finer than anything she'd worn in years, since before her family's fortunes had turned.
"When she can. The lands are a fortnight's ride from here." Elizabeth stepped back to appraise her work. "It suits ye well me lady. Lady Sorcha would be pleased tae see it worn again."
"I'm nay lady," Isolde replied automatically, then silently cursed her loose tongue.
"Arenae ye now?" Elizabeth's shrewd eyes studied her. "Ye speak like one. Ye carry yerself like one. And the laird certainly treats ye as one."
Isolde smiled. "Perhaps I'm just a very clever tavern wench."
This earned her a snort from Elizabeth. "Come along now. Elspeth has prepared yer chambers."
As they walked through the corridors of Castle MacCraith, Isolde maintained the confident stride that her mother had drilled into her and her sisters. "Back straight, chin high—we may have lost our fortune but we will never lose our pride," she'd always said.
"Tell me, Elizabeth," Isolde said as they passed a particularly fine tapestry depicting a stag hunt, "has the laird many female guests he houses in his sister's gowns?"
Elizabeth gave her a sharp look. "The laird is selective with his attentions, if that's yer meaning."
"And yet he tends the wounds of a stranger himself? Unusual, wouldnae ye say?"
"The laird daes as he pleases," Elizabeth replied, though a hint of curiosity colored her tone. "He always has."
CHAPTER FOUR
Ciaran 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?"
