Page 12 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Nay." The word came out sharper than intended. "I want to ken who those men were. If they think they can prey on women on me lands, they'll learn the price of such boldness."
Finlay studied him for a long moment. "As ye wish, me laird. But the lass cannae stay here indefinitely without questions being raised."
"All she has tae dae is tell me her name, her clan. She's stubborn, that one."
"Reminds me of someone else I ken," Finlay muttered.
Ciaran shot him a dark look but didn't dispute the observation. "Have the men increase patrols along the eastern border. If those riders return, I want them caught."
After Finlay departed, Ciaran made his way through the corridors toward the guest quarters. The castle had settled for the night, a few servants still completing their final tasks before retiring. He nodded at those he passed, their curious glances not escaping his notice.
He reached the guest chamber just as Elizabeth was explaining something to the lass—now dressed in a blue gown of his sister's that enhanced the fire of her hair. The sight of her stopped him short. Sorcha's gown once again transformed her from a disheveled fugitive to a vision that made his breath catch, just like she had at the ball.
The silk draped perfectly over the gentle curve of her hips, the fitted bodice accentuating her slender waist. She had a more generous figure than his sister, and the dress fitted in ways that made the fabric cling in places he shouldn’t be noticing. The neckline revealed the graceful slope of the lass's collarbone and hinted at curves beneath.
From the corner of his eye, he watched the woman's graceful movements, the confidence in her ways despite her circumstances. No ordinary lass, this one. Noble born, without question—but from which clan?
Ciaran thanked Elizabeth and bid her good night, and the woman left the room with a quick curtsy.
"Thank ye, me laird. Ye have done more than enough," Isolde then said, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. "In only a few hours, I'll be gone, and ken forget ye ever met me."
"Will I now?" One corner of his mouth lifted despite his growing frustration. "And where will ye go, lass? Back tae the family ye won't name? On roads where men already tried tae take ye once?"
Her cheeks flushed with anger. "I told ye I can take care of meself."
"Aye, ye proved that so well earlier." The memory of her struggling against those men made his hands clench.
Ciaran forced himself to take a deep breath. This woman tested his patience like no other. "Why dae ye resist telling me which clan ye are from? I saved yer life, lass. Most would consider that worth more than a name, sweet as it is."
"I didnae ask ye tae save me," she countered, those blue eyes flashing.
"And I didnae ask ye tae drive me to madness, yet here we are." He stepped closer, the space between them charged with something beyond mere anger.
She remained silent, jaw set in stubborn defiance.
Frustration surged through him. Did she not understand the danger she'd been in? The danger she still faced? Or the impossible position she put him in by refusing to name her clan?
"Dae ye have any idea the risk ye are making me take by refusing?" he demanded, voice lowering to a growl. "I could be holding the daughter of an enemy clan beneath my roof. I could be starting a war this very moment."
When her mouth remained shut, he sighed.
"Rest fer now," he said, his voice softening despite his evident frustration. "We shall speak more at daybreak."
With that, he shut the door behind him, leaving Isolde to let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She pressed herhand against her chest, feeling her heart race beneath the fine silk of Sorcha's gown.
For all her brave words, she couldn't deny the effect the laird had on her—nor the danger of the game she was playing.
Isolde sank onto the edge of the massive bed, her fingers sinking into the plush covering. The feather-stuffed mattress beneath was softer than anything she'd ever slept on, even during her clan's more prosperous years. The tartan plaid and fur coverlet were thick enough to ward off even the harshest Highland winter.
"What a life it must be," she murmured, running her hand over the intricate embroidery, "tae never want fer anything."
She thought of home—of the chambers she shared with her sisters to conserve firewood, of the threadbare blankets they'd mended so often the original fabric was barely visible beneath the patches.
"Ye look troubled, lass."
Isolde startled. Elspeth stood in the doorway, a tray of steaming broth and crackers in her hands.
"Just tired," Isolde replied, watching as the woman set the tray on a table near the hearth.
