Page 16 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
The words sent an unexpected pang through him. He imagined if she was, he'd grab her by that trim waist and… "Nae, but me lands are. And ye were attacked upon them."
He leaned forward, close enough to catch the scent of heather from Elspeth's soap on her skin. "Whoever those men were, they'll try again. I cannae in good conscience let ye ride off alone."
"So ye hold me prisoner instead?"
"I offer ye sanctuary." His voice softened as he gazed down at her upturned face. "Tell me yer clan, Isolde, and I'll escort ye home meself—with a guard befitting yer station."
He meant it, though the thought of parting from her so soon left a hollow feeling in his chest. What was it about this woman that had ensnared him so quickly?
They both reached for a bread roll at the same moment, their fingers brushing. The contact sent a jolt through him like lightning across the moors. She jerked back as if burned, her eyes widening slightly before she looked away.
So, he wasn't alone in this madness.
"I cannae," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ciaran's jaw tightened, frustration warring with the desire to simply pull her into his arms and end this maddening dance between them.
"Then we remain at an impasse." He straightened, forcing the mantle of laird back over his shoulders. "I have council matters tae attend. Elspeth will show ye the grounds—under guard, of course."
His eyes held a warning, though one softened by the memory of her fingers against his. "Dinnae try tae leave again. Nae all who patrol me borders are as gracious as I am."
With that, he strode from the room, needing distance before he did something foolish—like kiss those defiant lips until she yielded her secrets to him.
Isolde paced the length of her chamber until she thought she might wear a path in the fine carpet. The walls felt as though they were closing in around her with each passing hour. A prisoner in a velvet cage was still a prisoner.
After Elspeth had shown her the gardens—with two guards following at a discreet distance—Isolde had been returned to her room like a child sent to bed without supper. She needed something, anything, to occupy her restless mind.
When Elspeth brought her the afternoon meal, Isolde asked as casually as she could, "Are there books in the castle?"
"Books, m'lady?" Elspeth seemed surprised by the request.
"Tae read," Isolde clarified, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "I find meself with an abundance of time on me hands."
Elspeth's expression softened. "Aye, there's a library. Though it has nae been used much since the old lady passed."
"Could ye show it tae me?"
The library was far larger than Isolde had dared hope, tucked away in the east wing on the second floor. Shelves lined every wall from floor to ceiling, laden with more books than she'd ever seen in one place.
"I'll be back tae fetch ye for supper," Elspeth said, leaving her with a lit candle and a suspicious glance.
The moment the door closed, Isolde was lost in wonder. Her fingers traced the spines of ancient tomes—histories, poetry, philosophy. Books that had been rare treasures in her home were merely part of the collection here. She pulled one down at random and settled into a worn armchair near the window.
Outside, clouds gathered on the horizon, promising a storm. Inside, Isolde found herself transported to ancient Rome, the troubles of her present situation momentarily forgotten.
The light grew dim as the storm arrived in earnest, rain lashing against the windows. She barely noticed, moving only to light more candles as darkness fell. Supper came and went, but Elspeth didn't return. Perhaps she'd forgotten—or perhaps the laird had instructed her to leave Isolde to her reading.
"Just one more," she whispered to herself, spotting a volume on Highland clan histories on a high shelf. That might contain information about the MacCraiths—perhaps even something she could use to her advantage.
She dragged a small wooden stool from beside the writing desk and climbed up, stretching to reach the book. Her fingers had just brushed its spine when the stool wobbled beneath her. She tried to steady herself, but the ancient wood shifted again, and suddenly she was falling.
Instead of the hard floor, she landed against something solid yet yielding. Strong arms encircled her, a startled grunt escaping her rescuer as they stumbled back a step from the impact.
"Careful, lass. Saving ye is becoming a pattern."
The deep voice rumbled through her, and Isolde found herself staring up into the dark eyes of Laird Ciaran MacCraith.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, and not just from the near fall. His face was inches from hers, his arms still wrapped firmly around her waist. The scent of him surrounded her—his cologne and something uniquely male. Heat traveled from where his hands rested against her back, spreading through her like wildfire.
