Page 15 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
In the end, she had not only slept in his castle on the most luxurious bed she'd ever seen, but would likely spend an entire morning with him.
I need tae leave soon. Rhona can only maintain the ruse fer so long, and once Faither finds out I’m gone, he’ll be worried sick.
Every time those dark eyes fixed on her, she felt her resolve weaken like ice in spring thaw. The man infuriated her, challenged her, and—most dangerous of all—understood her in ways no one ever had.
Whatever those strange feelings toward Ciaran might be, she couldn't afford to explore them—not when duty called her home.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ciaran stood at the window of his private dining chamber, watching the activity down below in the courtyard. He'd slept poorly, his mind filled with thoughts of Isolde currently housed in his family wing. Which clan did she belong to? Why the secrecy?
He turned at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, straightening as the door opened to reveal Elspeth leading in Isolde. The sight of her stole his breath.
Elspeth had dressed her in emerald gown, the color making her eyes shine like a loch on a clear day. Her copper hair had been brushed until it gleamed. With her chin lifted in that stubborn manner he was coming to expect, she looked every inch the Lady of Castle MacCraith.
The thought startled him. Never had he considered any woman as mistress of his home, despite his council's constant pressure to marry for alliances. Yet here she stood, fitting the role as if born to it.
Perhaps that was it. Could she be from a clan whose laird had built wealth through trade? It would explain her refined manners coupled with her reluctance to reveal her identity. Highland lairds were known to embrace merchant ventures to restore their fortunes, though many of the old guard looked down on such pursuits.
If her father was such a laird, she might hide her identity out of pride. The council would actually favor such a match, combining tradition with wealth. Her beauty and spirit combined with those connections would make her a politically advantageous bride, one he might even be willing to consider.
Ciaran pushed the thoughts away. He'd consider them further later. "Ye slept well, I trust?" Ciaran asked, a knowing glint in his eye.
"Well enough."
"And yer pre-dawn explorations? Did ye find them enlightening?"
Heat rose in her cheeks, coloring them like dawn breaking over the hills. "Ye kent I would try to leave."
"I'd have been disappointed if ye hadnae." He gestured to the table laden with fresh bread, honey, and fruit. "Eat, lass. Ye'll need yer strength if ye plan tae continue defying me."
She remained standing, defiance emanating from every line of her body. The sunlight streaming through the windows caught in her hair, turning the copper strands to living flame. Ciaran found himself wondering how it would feel between his fingers.
"Sit." Ciaran gestured to the chair pulled out beside at the head of the small table.
She remained standing. The fire in her eyes stirred something primal in him. What would it be like to have that passion directed not in defiance, but in desire? "I told ye, I'm nae hungry."
Sit," he repeated, his voice lower, a current of authority running beneath the single word.
"I'd prefer to stand."
"And I'd prefer ye tell me yer clan, but it seems we both face disappointment this morning." He held her gaze, neither of them willing to be the first to look away. "Ye can stand there all day if ye wish, but ye'll find ye are not the only one who's stubborn."
Her jaw clenched, that delicate chin lifting even higher.
Ciaran's dark gaze held hers, unyielding. The command hung in the air between them.
For several heartbeats, she maintained her defiance, her eyes flashing like steel against flint. With a slight huff of irritation, she sank into the chair, though her spine remained rigid as a sword.
He noted the way her eyes widened at the array of food—fresh bread still steaming, creamy butter, honey from the castle hives, sliced apples, cheese, and cold meats. The reaction was so brief he nearly missed it before she masked her expression, but it told him something. Wherever she came from, such abundance was not commonplace.
Perhaps nae the daughter of a trading laird, after all.
"What must I dae tae return home, Laird MacCraith? Name yer price," she demanded.
His expression sobered. "It's nae about price. It's about protecting what's mine."
"I am nae yours," she shot back.
