Page 21 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"A little," she admitted, that hint of defiance still lingering in her voice.
He rose from behind his desk, noting how her eyes widened slightly as she took in his riding attire.
"After yer midnight adventure, I'm surprised ye slept at all," he said, studying her face for any sign of remorse. He found none. "The lad will be mucking stables fer a fortnight thanks tae yer silver tongue."
She lifted her chin higher. "I was returning home, nae running from justice. Me family will be worried sick. Surely if yer own sister were missing fer days, ye'd scour the entire Scottish Highlands tae find her."
The comparison struck home. When Sorcha had failed to return from a visit to a neighboring clan years ago, he'd indeed ridden through the night with a dozen men until he'd found her safe at a farmstead where she'd taken shelter from a storm.
"Aye, I would," he agreed softly. "Which makes it all the more curious that nay search parties have crossed into MacCraith lands seeking ye. Nay messengers inquiring after a copper-haired lady." He watched the color rise in her cheeks. "Strange, wouldn't ye say? Fer a lady such as yerself tae vanish without causing alarm?"
What was she hiding? Why had her clan not sent riders? Was her family truly so indifferent, or did they not know she was missing? The mystery only deepened his fascination with her.
Her expressive eyes revealed her wariness, yet she said nothing further.
"The storm has passed," Ciaran moved around the desk, careful to maintain a respectable distance despite his desire to standcloser. "I thought ye might appreciate some fresh air beyond the castle walls."
She narrowed her eyes. "Am I tae be paraded through town as yer latest conquest?"
His expression hardened, the playfulness vanishing as quickly as morning mist under a harsh sun. "While ye stand here trading barbs, the families of me fallen men prepare tae bury their dead."
The words hung between them, sharp as a blade. He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous timbre.
"Three good men, one barely a man, lie dead in the ground because of whatever secret ye're keeping, lass. Their blood is on MacCraith soil because someone wants ye badly enough tae kill fer it."
He watched her face pale, satisfaction and regret warring within him at her reaction. As laird, his first duty was to his clan—to their protection and survival. Her mystery threatened both.
"I never meant fer anyone tae lose their life," she whispered, her earlier defiance faltering. Her eyes met his with a flicker of genuine remorse. "If I'd known the cost..."
"Yet here we stand," he cut her off. "And still ye keep yer secrets."
"I regret what has happened, but if ye just let me return tae me clan… surely a laird has more important duties than entertaining unwilling guests," she said, her voice smaller now.
"Since ye ken so much about a laird's life, then ye ken the best time fer clan business is early morning or late at night." He held her gaze steadily, his eyes cold. "Fer solving threats tae me people. And right now, lass, ye're the biggest threat within these walls."
He turned toward the door. "Come." The word was not an invitation but a command. "We ride tae the village. Perhaps seeing the widows and children of the men who died protecting ye will loosen yer tongue."
He wouldn't give her the chance to refuse. Today she would ride with him, close enough that he could ensure she wouldn't attempt another escape. Close enough that he might finally unravel the mystery of who she was—and why her secret was worth the lives of his clansmen.
The path to the stables was walked in stony silence. Ciaran felt Isolde's resentment radiating from her in waves, but he would not be moved by it. Three men dead. Families grieving. A clan looking to their laird for protection and answers. Her comfort was far down his list of concerns.
At the stables, his stallion waited, already saddled as he'd ordered before dawn. Mormaer was a massive beast, coal-black and battle-trained. The horse pawed at the ground impatiently, sensing his master's tension.
"Where's me horse?" Isolde's words cut through the morning air. There was suspicion in her voice, but also a hint of uncertainty he hadn't heard before.
"There isn't one." He kept his tone flat, leaving no room for debate. "Ye'll ride with me."
"I most certainly willnae." The defiance was back, her spine straightening.
Ciaran turned to her, his expression unyielding. "I've buried enough men this month, lass. I'll not add more because ye managed tae slip away again." He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "I've nay doubt ye'd try tae escape the moment ye have the chance. The forest is crawling with whoever killed me men tae get tae ye. I'll nae have ye riding alone tae yer death—or worse, leading our enemies back tae me gates."
He saw the color drain from her face at the mention of enemies. Good. Let her understand the gravity of the situation.
"I'm an excellent rider," she protested, though with less conviction. "I hardly need?—"
"It's nae yer riding skill I doubt, but yer destination." His tone brooked no argument, yet he found himself softening despite his resolve. "This isn't a negotiation, Isolde."
Around them, stable hands and guards carefully avoided looking in their direction, sensing the tension between their laird and the mysterious woman.
