Page 23 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Just something of ye own until ye leave, lass."
Pride flared hot in Isolde's chest, and she took a step backward. "I have clothes of me own, Laird MacCraith. Lots of clothes. I dinnae need yer charity. I need ye tae let me go home."
The sharpness in her tone surprised him. There was pride in her reaction—a rawness that spoke of deeper wounds.
Ciaran looked down at her, his expression softening. "I mean nay injury tae yer pride, lass. Ye can take them with ye when ye leave, or they'll be here if ye come visiting again." His voice dropped lower. "But I'd like tae indulge ye, just this once."
She turned away sharply, but not before he caught the sudden shimmer in her eyes. The reaction puzzled him—such a simple offer to bring such emotion.
When she faced him again, her expression had hardened with determination. "If I told ye me clan," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "would ye stop this madness and let me go home?"
His heart quickened at her words. Finally—the answer he'd been seeking since she had arrived. With that information, he would begin immediately to find possible ways to form an alliance with her clan.
"Aye," he said, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice. "This very minute, I or one of me most trusted men will take ye tae yer clan and family. Just tell me, lass."
She opened her mouth. "I am—" she began, then stopped, frustration darkening her features. "I cannae," she groaned, turning abruptly and marching toward the dressmaker's shop. "Just know that someday, ye'll regret nae simply letting me go when ye had the chance."
Ciaran watched her retreating back, torn between disappointment and renewed curiosity. What could possibly make her so reluctant to name her clan? What secret could be worth such determined silence?
Whatever it was, he was more determined than ever to discover it—and to understand the mystery that was Isolde.
Despite herself, Isolde was not surprised at the tears that stung her eyes. When had anyone last wanted to indulge her? Her father, consumed by grief and their clan's decline, hardly noticed what his daughters wore anymore.
For years, she'd mended and altered, making do with what remained of their finery, taking her mother's dresses in to fit her own more slender frame.
The thought of new gowns—made for her, not handed down or altered—struck a chord of longing so deep she nearly gasped with it.
"Ye dinnae have tae accept," Ciaran said, long strides catching up to Isolde easily.
Isolde stopped at the entrance, composing herself before facing him again. "Thank ye. That's very... kind."
Something shifted in his expression as he studied her face. Had he noticed her tears? The thought mortified her.
"Let's go inside," he said simply, offering his arm.
She took it, grateful he'd chosen not to comment on her momentary weakness. As they entered the shop, the bell above the door announcing their arrival, Isolde allowed herself to imagine, just for today, what life might be like if circumstances were different—if she were truly the woman on the arm of the MacCraith laird, rather than his reluctant guest with too many secrets between them.
A plump woman with graying hair hurried from the back room. Her eyes widened at the sight of Ciaran, hands fluttering to her hair.
"Laird MacCraith!" she exclaimed. "What an unexpected pleasure! It's been an age since ye graced me humble shop."
"Mistress Kenna," Ciaran greeted her with a slight smile. "I trust ye've been well?"
"Well enough, me laird." Her curious gaze shifted to Isolde, eyes traveling from her borrowed riding habit to her copper hair. "And who might this lovely lass be?"
"A guest of Castle MacCraith," Ciaran replied smoothly, offering no further explanation. "She's in need of some gowns."
Mistress Kenna's eyes sparkled with interest. "It's been too long since we've had a lady to dress at the castle. I still send Lady Sorcha her gowns, of course—three just last month fer the MacKenzie summer festivals. She always writes such lovely notes of thanks."
"I require four gowns fer me guest," Ciaran said, his hand resting lightly at the small of Isolde's back. "Fer different occasions. Spare nay expenses fer the lady."
"Of course, me laird!" Mistress Kenna looked as though Hogmanay had arrived early.
"I have business tae attend tae," Ciaran told Isolde, his voice lowering slightly. "I'll return shortly. Choose whatever pleases ye."
Before she could protest, he was gone, the bell tinkling cheerfully as the door closed behind him.
"Now then," Mistress Kenna said, producing a measuring cord from her pocket, "let's take yer measurements, dearie."
