Page 19 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"I never lost ye," he admitted, watching her expression shift from surprise to indignation. "I've had men watching yer chamber since yer first attempt."
The truth was more complex, that he himself had watched her window each night, unable to rest until he was certain she remained safely within the castle walls. But such admissions would reveal too much, even to himself.
"Ye've no right tae keep me from returning tae me clan, Laird MacCraith."
For a moment, his guard lowered, concern breaking through his carefully maintained facade. "This is about keeping ye alive." He gestured to the dark forest around them, willing her to understand the danger she couldn't see but that he knew lurked among the shadows.
"The woods arenae safe," he continued, softer now. "Nae fer anyone, especially nae at night."
"I can protect meself," she insisted.
The stubborn set of her chin nearly drew a smile from him, despite the gravity of their situation. How could one woman be so fierce and yet so vulnerable? The contradiction fascinated him more than was wise.
"Ride ahead and ensure the path is clear," he ordered his man, turning to business to mask the unfamiliar tendernessthreatening to surface. "Duncan, take the rear. We return tae the castle immediately."
"Ciaran," she said, his name on her lips sending an unexpected jolt through him. "Why willnae ye?—"
He shook his head once, sharply, silencing her question. The movement was as much to interrupt his own dangerous thoughts as her inquiry. With men dangerous enough to kill in these woods, now was not the time for explanations.
As they rode back to Castle MacCraith, Ciaran kept his gaze fixed forward, though his awareness remained centered on the woman beside him. Her safety was his duty, her protection his obligation.
That his heart quickened at her proximity was a complication he would ignore. For now.
CHAPTER SIX
"Get her inside. Now." Ciaran's voice cut through the night air like steel against stone as he dismounted, practically lifting Isolde from his horse in one fluid motion. She opened her mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes silenced her.
"Laird Mac—" she began.
"Nae another word." He set her on her feet with surprising gentleness despite the storm in his expression. "Hamish," he called to a guard standing at attention by the gate, "escort the lady tae her chambers and remain at her door. Nay one enters or leaves without me direct order. Yer life answers fer hers, dae ye understand?"
The guard's face paled at the implications. "Aye, me laird."
Ciaran turned back to her. "Stay in yer chambers, Isolde." His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Then, he turned to Finlay, already issuing orders to assemble a larger patrol. Isolde was led away, her questions unanswered, while Ciaran remounted his stallion, his expression hardening with each passing moment.
Once she was safely within the castle walls, Ciaran signaled to his waiting men. "Ride out. Now."
The promise of dawn was still a few hours away when Ciaran and his contingent passed through the eastern gate. His breath misted in the cold morning air as he nodded to his most trusted warriors. They'd ridden together through worse than this—border skirmishes, cattle raids, even the occasional clash with English soldiers who strayed too far north.
"Six men along the eastern perimeter," he instructed Finlay, his voice low. "Double the guard on the north and west approaches."
Finlay's weathered face revealed nothing. "Done, Laird."
"Good," Ciaran replied grimly. "Our scouts reported armed men in our territory three nights past. Two more tried to breach the outer walls after midnight."
He didn't mention the lass—didn't need to. Finlay understood the connection well enough. First the attack on Isolde, now strangers prowling MacCraith lands. Whatever was happening, the timing suggested it wasn't coincidence.
"The guard who spotted them said they carried crossbows," Ciaran added, adjusting his sword belt. "Nae the weapons of men coming tae parley."
The small party rode out through the eastern gate, their hooves clattering against the cobblestones. Ciaran's mind returned to Isolde, to the flash of defiance in her eyes when he'd brought her back to the castle. She had no idea of the danger she'd ridden into.
If only she would tell him her clan. Without knowing which Highland family she belonged to, he couldn't determine who might be hunting her or why. The men who'd attacked her that first night had been professionals—well-armed, coordinated. Not common brigands seeking easy coin.
Why daes she guard the identity of her clan so fiercely?
The question haunted him. What shame or secret bound her tongue? Did she fear his reaction, or something worse?
