Page 20 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
The forest loomed dark before them. His men spread out at a signal from his hand, each taking their assigned section to patrol. Ciaran and Finlay followed a deer trail to their right, their horses picking their way carefully over the uneven ground.
They'd gone perhaps half a mile when Finlay raised his hand in warning. Ahead, barely visible in the dim light filtering through the canopy, a dark shape lay across the path. Ciaran dismounted, hand on his sword hilt as he approached.
The body of a young MacCraith clansman stared sightlessly at the lightening sky, his throat cut with brutal efficiency. Alec MacTavish, barely twenty summers old, who'd taken to guard duty with eager diligence. His right hand still clutched his dirk, unused.
"He never even had time to draw his sword," Finlay said quietly, crouching beside the body.
Cold fury settled in Ciaran's gut. "Cut down from behind like a coward's victim."
They found two more bodies further along the trail—Jon Reid and his younger brother Connor, both experienced fighters who wouldn't have fallen easily. Their wounds told a grim tale: ambush, multiple attackers, no chance to raise an alarm.
"This was no random patrol," Ciaran said, kneeling beside Jon’s body. A piece of parchment protruded from the dead man's jerkin. He pulled it free, unfolding it carefully.
The message, written in a careful hand, contained just three words: "Send the woman."
Ciaran crushed the parchment in his fist, rage burning through his veins. "They know she's here."
"But who are they?" Finlay asked, scanning the surrounding forest with renewed wariness.
"That's what I intend tae find out," Ciaran replied, his voice hard. "Someone wants her badly enough to kill fer her. And I need to find out why."
The motive for the attack on Isolde was clear. She wasn't merely a noble lass who'd wandered into danger—she was being hunted. But by whom? And for what purpose? Without knowing her clan, he couldn't begin to unravel the mystery although he had some suspicions.
"We need to get back," Ciaran said, remounting his stallion. "Send men tae bring our dead home. And Finlay—make sure none of the men speak of this. I don’t want any rumors scaring the clansmen. And make sure everyone stays within the walls."
As they rode back toward the castle, its stone walls glowing amber in the early light, Ciaran's thoughts darkened with each hoofbeat. The danger was no longer theoretical, no longer something he could shield her from with half-truths and vague warnings.
He would have to discover the truth—about Isolde, about her clan, about why armed men would kill his clansmen to get to her. But first, he had to secure the castle against further incursions.
Ciaran MacCraith stood at the window of his study, watching the dawn light chase away the last remnants of the storm. He hadn't slept more than an hour, his mind consumed with the ambush in the forest.
The image of his fallen men, their blood seeping into soil, would haunt him for many nights to come. And then there was her—the copper-haired woman who'd nearly slipped through his fingers.
He turned as Finlay entered, his captain's face grim with unspoken concerns.
"The men are in position," Finlay reported, his voice low. "Twelve of our best, spaced along the route tae the village. They'll keep out of sight but close enough tae reach ye within seconds if needed."
Ciaran nodded, satisfied. "And the stable?"
"As ye ordered. Only yer stallion saddled, none fer the lady."
"Good." Ciaran returned to his desk, fingers drumming against the oak surface. "Any word of search parties crossing our borders? Messengers inquiring after a missing noblewoman?"
"None, me laird." Finlay hesitated. "It's... unusual."
"Aye." More than unusual. It was deeply troubling. What clan wouldnae search for a daughter of noble bearing? Unless they didnae ken she was missing. Or unless there was more tae Isolde's story than she'd revealed.
"Shall I question her, me laird?" Finlay asked.
"Nay." Ciaran shook his head. "I'll handle the lass meself."
After Finlay departed, Ciaran sat behind his desk, ostensibly reviewing clan matters while he waited. He'd sent for her earlier, instructing Elspeth to provide her with the forest green riding habit. The color had been a deliberate choice to compliment her eyes. A trivial detail, perhaps, but one that pleased him nonetheless.
The soft knock at his door came sooner than expected. He schooled his features, picked up his quill, and bent his head over a parchment, feigning absorption in his work. When he looked up to find Isolde standing in the doorway, the sight of her stole his breath away.
The riding habit fit her well, though it was slightly snug across her shoulders. Her copper hair was neatly arranged, practical yet becoming. She carried herself with her unmistakable bearing of nobility—shoulders straight, chin lifted in subtle defiance. The shadows beneath her eyes told him she'd slept as poorly as he had.
"Ye slept well?" he asked, setting aside his quill, watching her intently as she stepped into his domain.
