Page 18 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"She's nae yet left her chamber," one of the men reported in a hushed voice. "But she's dressed fer travel. The window's been opened twice."
Ciaran nodded, mounting his stallion with practiced ease. "She'll use the servants' stairs tae the kitchen, then the eastern postern gate. Young Padraic is on duty there tonight."
"The lad who fancies her?" Duncan asked with a soft chuckle.
"The very one," Ciaran confirmed, his mouth tightening. He'd noticed the young guard's lingering glances, the way he straightened whenever Lady Isolde passed. A weakness she would exploit if given the chance.
They positioned themselves in the shadows of the east wall, waiting. The night air carried the freshness of pine and somewhere in the distance, an owl called to its mate. Ciaran's stallion shifted beneath him, sensing his tension.
An hour passed. Then another. Some of the men began to shift restlessly, but Ciaran remained still, patient. She would come. He knew it with inexplicable certainty.
The small door to the kitchen opened with barely a sound. A cloaked figure slipped out, pausing to scan the courtyard before darting toward the stables.
"There," Duncan whispered unnecessarily.
Ciaran raised a hand for silence, watching as Lady Isolde disappeared into the stables. Minutes later, she emerged leading her mare, keeping to the shadows as she made her way toward the eastern gate.
He couldn't hear the exchange between her and Padraic from this distance, but he could imagine it well enough. A story well-crafted to play on the young guard's sympathies, perhaps tinged with just enough fear to make him act against his better judgment.
Surely enough, the small postern door opened, and Lady Isolde slipped through with her horse.
"Now?" Duncan asked, hand on his sword hilt.
"Not yet," Ciaran replied. "Let her believe she's free."
They waited until she'd reached the tree line before following, maintaining enough distance that she wouldn't detect their presence. Ciaran's pulse quickened despite himself. There was something undeniably thrilling about this chase—this dance between them that had begun the moment she'd arrived at his castle.
His men spread out at his signal, two taking positions ahead to cut off her escape route, while he and Duncan followed directly. The forest grew denser, moonlight filtering through the canopy in dappled patterns that played across the ground.
He watched her figure ahead, straight-backed and proud upon her mare. She rode well, handling the difficult terrain with a confidence that spoke of long practice. Another unexpected quality to add to the growing list of things that intrigued him about her.
"She's heading straight fer the ambush point," Duncan murmured as they followed at a careful distance.
Ciaran nodded grimly. The same stretch of forest where those men had attacked. Did she not realize the danger, or was her desperation to return home so great that she would risk everything?
The thought sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the night air. He spurred his horse forward, closing the distance between them.
Ahead, he saw her halt suddenly, her hand moving to her boot where he knew she kept a dagger. A twig snapped—one of his men, moving into position.
"Who's there?" she called, her voice carrying clearly through the still night air. There was a tremor in it, but beneath that, a steel that made something in his chest tighten unexpectedly.
Ciaran signaled to his man, who stepped from the shadows onto the path ahead. Two more men appeared on either side, effectively surrounding her.
"That's far enough, m'lady," the man called, moonlight glinting off his drawn sword.
Ciaran urged his stallion forward, emerging from the darkness behind her. His eyes never left her rigid form, noting the way her hand still hovered near her concealed weapon. Ready to fight, even against impossible odds.
"Easy now," the soldier continued, stepping closer. "The laird sent us tae find ye."
"Then ye can tell yer laird I'm returning home," she replied, chin lifting in that defiant gesture he'd come to anticipate.
"Ye tell me yerself, Lady Isolde," Ciaran said, his deep voice carrying in the night stillness.
She whirled to face him, her hair escaping its braid to frame features sharp with frustration. The sight struck him with unexpected force. It wasn't just her beauty, which was considerable, but the raw determination in her eyes. Even surrounded, outnumbered, she remained unbowed.
"Ye're a stubborn woman," he said, keeping his voice level despite the unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest. "Did ye think I wouldnae notice ye were gone?"
"How did ye find me so quickly?" she demanded.
