Page 2 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Isolde's throat tightened. She kissed her youngest sister. "I'll be careful,mo chridhe."
Rhona opened the window to the narrow ledge beyond. "If ye're caught by our clan enemies on the road?—"
"I'll gut them meself," Isolde grinned fiercely, but when she saw her sisters’ worried expressions, she added, “I promise tae be careful and come home soon.”
Not wasting another second, she slipped through the window and disappeared into the shadows, her heart pounding with the thrill of forbidden adventure and the thought of seeing Laird Ciaran MacCraith.
Castle Murray, The Masquerade Ball
The moment Isolde entered the crowded room, her eyes were drawn to him as if by magic. Her breath caught in her throat.
Laird Ciaran MacCraith. The mere sight of him sent a rush of heat through her body, settling low in her belly.
Sweet heavens, even from across the room his presence steals my breath.
Isolde pressed herself into the shadows, her back against a stone column, her heart hammering against her ribs like a war drum.
Torches blazed from every wall, bathing the great hall in golden light. Music swirled around masked dancers who spun likeautumn leaves in a whirlwind, but Isolde didn’t notice. Her eyes were fixed on him.
Laird Ciaran MacCraith stood head and shoulders above most of the men in the room. His dark hair was pulled back from a face half-covered by a black mask. He moved with the confidence of a man who commanded respect without asking.
A circle of admirers surrounded him—daughters from clans powerful enough for their ambitious lairds to hover like hawks, their eyes gleaming with the hope their daughter would be the one to capture the dashing Ciaran McCraith's attention.
Isolde's fingers tightened on her goblet, taken from a passing servant's tray as her attention remained fixed on Laird Ciaran. Two years. Two long years since that day he'd arrived at their castle.
She'd been on the gallery above the great hall when he strode in with his men, his deep voice washing over her like the finest Highland whisky—rough with the brogue of his people yet smooth with the refinement of a learned man. She'd pressed herself behind a pillar, stretching her neck to observe him as he awaited her father.
What would ye think if ye kent I've been dreaming of ye fer two long years?
And tonight, attending this masquerade, would add to her collection of secret memories. To drink him in with her eyes, to hear his laugh echo across the chamber would be enough.
Knowing the impossibility of their clans' alliance, she sought no introduction, expected no acknowledgment. She'd remain a shadow at the edge of his world, content merely to exist in the same space, to breathe the same air, if only for those stolen hours.
She watched him lead a blonde woman to the dance floor. His movements were fluid, controlled. Even in dance, he moved like a warrior.
Just one glimpse of ye was all I wanted.
For over an hour, Isolde watched hawk-eyed from the shadows. She studied his hands as they clasped those of noblewomen, imagining how they might feel against her own skin—rough from the dueling, yet gentle in their guidance across the dance floor.
When he laughed at something a lass said, Isolde's eyes traced the strong column of his throat to the slight dimple that appeared on his left cheek.
She sipped sweet wine, letting it linger on her tongue, wondering if his kiss would be as intoxicating.
When his path brought him near where she stood, she pressed deeper into the shadows, turning away but watching him through lowered lashes. Her breath caught as he passed close enough that she could detect a whiff of leather and his cologne.
The evening wore on. Candles burned lower in their sconces. The musicians played faster, more passionate reels that sent couples spinning in dizzying circles. Isolde watched, imagining Ciaran McCraith's arm around her waist, guiding her through those same steps, his breath warm against her hair.
Dinnae be a fool, Isolde. Men like him dinnae notice women from fallen clans. Ye've had enough daydreaming.
The midnight bell would soon toll, and she would have to return before dawn exposed her deception. She set down her goblet, preparing to leave.
That was when the music changed.
A slow, haunting melody rose from the musicians' corner. Dancers separated, seeking new partners. In that moment of shifting alliances, Laird Ciaran MacCraith turned.
Across the crowded hall, through the sea of masks and finery, his gaze locked directly with hers.
Isolde froze. The room stilled around them, the music fading to a distant hum until the only thing she could hear was her own thundering heart. She should look away—flee—but she was trapped in the intensity of his stare.
