Page 22 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
What Isolde couldn't see were the dozen armed men already positioned strategically along their intended route to the village. Finlay had handpicked the most skilled warriors of clan MacCraith. Men who could blend with the landscape while maintaining a protective circle around their laird and his guest.
He watched conflict play across her face. Pride warred with uncertainty. Or fear, perhaps. Or simple practicality. When she finally agreed with a clipped "Fine," he felt an unexpected surge of relief. He'd been prepared to physically put her on the horse, if necessary, but was glad it hadn't come to that.
A stable boy brought forward a mounting block, but Ciaran waved him away with a sharp gesture. He placed his hands at her waist, lifting her to the saddle with ease. As usual, touching her sent an unwelcome heat coursing through him. Her waist was so small he could nearly span it with his hands, yet there was nothing fragile about her spirit.
He mounted behind her in one fluid motion, his body instantly aware of the intimate proximity. As he reached around to take the reins, the scent of roses from her hair filled his senses. Every subtle movement of the horse pressed her closer against him, her back to his chest, and Ciaran had to do everything in his power to maintain control.
"Keep yer back straight," he instructed, his tone clipped. "Mormaer responds tae the slightest pressure."
As they rode through the castle gates, he could feel the tension in her shoulders, the rigidity of her spine where it pressed against him. She was holding herself as far forward as possible, creating what little distance she could within the confines of their shared saddle.
The road beyond the castle dipped sharply downward toward the village. Isolde swayed slightly at the sudden decline.
"Relax," he murmured near her ear, his voice softer despite himself. "I willnae let ye fall."
"I didnae think ye would," she replied, the words carrying a meaning beyond their simple ride. He heard it, and so did she. Neither of them spoke only of horseback riding.
The road steepened, and he tightened his arm around her waist instinctively, drawing her more securely against him. He felt her breath catch, felt the slight tremor that ran through her body at his touch. His thighs framed hers, and he was grateful for the layers of clothing between them that concealed the effect her proximity had on him.
"Ye're too tense," he said, his mouth close to her ear. "Why will ye nae understand ye're safe with me?"
Trust had never been something he'd needed to ask for. As laird, it was given freely by his people. But from her, he found himself wanting it with an intensity that unsettled him.
She exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing by degrees. "Better," he approved as she finally yielded, her body relaxing back against his as they continued their descent.
The weight of her against his chest felt right somehow, as though she belonged there. Ciaran fought to push the thought aside. He was laird of Clan MacCraith, duty-bound to make a politically advantageous match, not to be enthralled by a copper-haired lass with wit as sharp as her tongue.
His men had died protecting her. His clan looked to him for leadership, not reckless entanglements with mysterious women. Yet as they rode, his arm secure around her waist, Ciaran found his resolve weakening. Even as his mind remained focused on the threat she represented, his body betrayed him with each breath, each subtle shift of her weight against him.
Somewhere in the forest surrounding them, his men watched, ready to defend them with their lives. Somewhere in the village ahead, widows mourned husbands who would never return.
And here, trapped between duty and desire, Ciaran MacCraith rode with a woman who represented both threat and temptation; a mystery he was determined to solve before she cost him more than he was willing to pay.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The village of Craigmhor spread before them, nestled in the valley below Castle MacCraith. Unlike the struggling hamlets around her father's lands, this settlement thrived with activity. Stone cottages with neat thatched roofs lined cobbled streets. Smoke rose from the blacksmith's forge, the rhythmic ping of hammer on metal carrying through the morning air.
As they rode down the main thoroughfare, Isolde couldn't help but notice how different this was from the last time she'd visited a village. No hollow-cheeked children, no desperate eyes. Instead, the people moved with purpose, their clothing worn but whole, their baskets full from the market.
"MacCraith! Hail the laird!" came a call from a barrel-chested man outside the tavern.
Heads turned at the greeting, and Isolde found herself the object of curious stares as clansmen realized their laird rode with anunknown woman before him. Yet there was no disdain in their gazes, only respect for Ciaran and curiosity about her.
"Good day, Ronan," Ciaran called back, his chest rumbling against her back as he spoke. "The roof holds against the storm?"
"Aye, thanks tae the new thatch ye provided."
This pattern repeated as they continued—Ciaran greeting his people by name, inquiring after specific concerns, the clan members responding with a mix of deference and genuine warmth. A woman thrust a small basket of fresh bread toward them, which Ciaran accepted with thanks. A group of bairns ran alongside their horse for a stretch, laughing as the laird tossed them each a small coin.
These weren't subjects cowering before their master. These were people who respected—perhaps even loved—their laird. Isolde thought of her father, once beloved by his clan in the same way, now rarely leaving the castle.
Ciaran guided the stallion to a halt before a shop with a polished wooden sign bearing a needle and thread. Unlike the humble cottages around it, this establishment boasted glass windows through which fine fabrics could be glimpsed.
"Mistress Kenna makes the finest gowns in three counties," Ciaran said, dismounting in one fluid motion before reaching up to help her down.
His hands lingered at her waist a moment longer than necessary after her feet touched the ground. He towered over her, his face leaning forward as their faces stood mere inches apart.
"I want tae buy ye a dress or two so ye willnae have tae wear me sister's old clothes." He said this while fighting the urge to brush a stray copper strand from her cheek.
