Page 17 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"I... I was just..." she stammered, acutely aware of how perfectly she fit against him. How natural it felt to be held in his arms, even as her mind screamed at her to pull away.
"Ye could have broken yer neck," he said, his voice lower than she'd heard it before. Was it her imagination, or did his arms tighten slightly around her?
"The stool was unsteady," she managed, her voice sounding strange even to her own ears.
"As are many things," he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.
The library suddenly felt too warm, too small. The storm outside couldn't match the tempest building within her. This was madness. This man was her captor, not her savior. Yet her body betrayed her, leaning into his warmth as though they were lovers reunited after a long absence.
"I should go," she whispered, though she made no move to extract herself from his embrace.
"Should ye?" His question hung between them, laden with meaning that made her breath catch.
A crack of thunder broke the spell. Isolde pushed against his chest, and reluctantly, he released her. She smoothed down her gown, searching desperately for composure that had scattered like leaves in a gale.
"I—thank ye fer catching me. I was just looking fer—I mean, the history of clans seemed interesting and I thought—" The words tumbled out, one over another, her usual eloquence deserting her entirely.
Without waiting for his response, she darted past him toward the door, her face burning with embarrassment and something far more dangerous. "Goodnight, Laird MacCraith."
Only when she reached her chamber did she realize she'd left the book behind—along with any pretense that he affected her no more than any other man.
Ciaran MacCraith stood at the window of his study, watching the moon rise over the eastern hills. Behind him, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting his shadow long across the stone floor. The castle had settled into its nighttime rhythms—guards changing posts, servants retiring, kitchen fires banked for the morning.
And Lady Isolde MacAlpin planning her escape.
He took a sip of whisky, savoring the burn as it traveled down his throat.
"Ye're certain she'll try again tae night?", his trusted war chief Duncan asked from his position by the door, arms folded across his broad chest.
"Aye," Ciaran replied, setting his glass down on the desk. "She's been watching the guard rotations. Asking Elspeth about the stables."
What Duncan couldn't understand—what no one could—was how attuned he'd become to Lady Isolde's movements. It was as though a thread connected them, pulling taut whenever she plotted against him. He'd felt it earlier today, watching her gaze linger too long on the eastern gate during their walk in the gardens.
"The lass is determined, I'll give her that," Duncan said with grudging respect.
"She's reckless," Ciaran corrected sharply. "And likely to get herself killed."
His jaw clenched at the memory of finding her on the forest road, surrounded by those men. If he'd arrived five minutes later, they would have already been gone with her. She’d fought bravely, and they'd even laughed about it, but it didn't take away the image of her wide, frightened eyes that remained branded in his mind.
"We'll follow at a distance," he said, buckling on his dirk belt. "Let her believe she's succeeded."
"Is that wise, laird? Why nae simply stop her before she leaves?"
Ciaran turned, his expression hardening. "Because she needs to understand the danger. Truly understand it. And perhaps we can find out where she is from."
And because a part of him—a part he refused to examine too closely—wanted to see what she would do. How far her courage would take her. The lass was unlike any woman he'd encountered before. Fierce and proud, with a quick mind that always seemed to plan ahead.
Except tonight. Tonight, she was in for a surprise.
"Gather the men," he ordered. "Four riders, nay more. We move silently."
Duncan nodded and left to follow his instructions, leaving Ciaran alone with his thoughts. He moved to his desk where a map of the surrounding lands lay spread open. His finger traced the path Lady Isolde would likely take—east through the forest around the area he'd found her that night.
The very path where strange men had been spotted again just the day before.
"Stubborn woman. Ye put me men in danger," he muttered. But in truth, he admired her determination.
The castle bell tolled the midnight hour as Ciaran descended to the courtyard. His men waited, horses saddled, weapons ready. No torch light betrayed their presence; the moon would guide them tonight.
