Page 24 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Isolde stood patiently as the woman worked, calling out numbers to a young apprentice who appeared from the back room to note them down.
"Ye're nae from Clan MacCraith, are ye?" Mistress Kenna asked, measuring Isolde's waist. "I ken most of our clan families, and I've never seen such lovely copper hair among them."
"Nae," Isolde replied cautiously, "I'm nae."
"The laird has many admirers, ye ken," the seamstress continued, moving to measure Isolde's hips. "Lasses from every clan in the Highlands have set their caps fer him. Even some English noblewomen when he traveled tae Edinburgh last spring." She tutted. "But he’s never brought a lass tae me shop before. Nae once in all the years since he became laird."
Isolde felt heat rise in her cheeks. "We're nae—he's merely being courteous."
"Of course, dearie," Mistress Kenna replied, in a tone that suggested she believed no such thing. "Arms out now. That's it."
As the seamstress prattled on about the laird's many supposed conquests, Isolde tried to appear disinterested. Yet each mention of a woman who had caught Ciaran's attention sent an unwelcome pang through her chest.
"I need me chalk," Mistress Kenna announced, bustling toward the back room. "Look at the fabrics on the table, dearie. The blue wool would suit yer coloring beautifully."
Left alone, Isolde wandered through the shop, fingers trailing over bolts of fabric finer than anything she'd touched in years. In the corner stood a dress form draped with a gown that stole her breath—cream silk overlaid with delicate lace, tiny pearls scattered like dew drops across the bodice. It was the kind of gown that belonged in tales her mother once told, of fairy courts and enchanted princesses.
Without thinking, she reached out to touch the sleeve. The silk felt cool and smooth beneath her fingertips.
"Beautiful, isnae it?" Mistress Kenna's voice startled her. The woman's shrewd eyes noted Isolde's fascination. "It's a display piece. The latest cut from France. But..." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "It may size ye. Would ye like tae try it on?"
"Oh, I couldnae?—"
"Nonsense! It would be a crime nae to see such a gown on a lass who could dae it justice." She was already unfastening the back of Isolde's riding habit. "Come, behind the screen. Let's see how it looks."
Before Isolde could protest further, she found herself being guided behind a painted screen in the corner of the shop. The riding habit fell away, and the cool silk of the light gown settled over her skin like water.
"There now," Mistress Kenna said, fastening the tiny pearl buttons that ran down the back. "Let's have a look at ye."
She led Isolde to a tall looking glass—a luxury Isolde had never encountered.
The woman she saw staring back was a stranger—regal, ethereal, like something from another time. The gown's fitted bodice emphasized her slender waist before flowing into a skirt that seemed to float around her. The cream silk made her skin glow, her hair a vivid flame against the pale fabric.
"We'd need tae take it in here," Mistress Kenna said, pinning the fabric at Isolde's waist, "and let out the bust a wee bit. But my, my—" She stepped back, admiring her work. "Ye're perfection, lass."
For the first time in years, Isolde felt like the lady she was born to be. A Highland lady worthy of fine things, of admiration, of...
The bell above the door chimed. In the mirror, she saw Ciaran enter, freezing mid-step as his eyes found her. The expression that crossed his face stole her breath—pride, yes, but something darker, hungrier, that made her pulse quicken with pleasure.
"Well now," Mistress Kenna said with a knowing smile, "I believe the laird approves."
"Indeed," Ciaran said, his voice deeper than usual. His eyes never left her, moving slowly from the delicate pearls at her neckline to the way the silk draped over her hips. "Ye look..."
He seemed to search for words, the intensity of his gaze making Isolde acutely aware of how the gown's fitted bodice revealed more than the high-necked riding habit had. Heat crept up her neck, spreading across her cheeks.
She cleared her throat, turning away from his dark eyes before her face betrayed more than she wished to reveal. "Mistress Kenna, would ye help me remove this? It's nae appropriate fer me tae be wearing a gown I can scarcely afford tae pay fer."
The dressmaker looked between them, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Of course, dearie. Though if ye ask me, it seems a shame tae take it off when it suits ye so well."
When Isolde emerged from behind the dressing screen, back in her riding habit, she found Ciaran waiting alone in the shop's front room, the dressmaker having disappeared discreetly into the back.
He gestured to a small bench by the window. "Sit with me a moment. The village will still be there when we're done."
After a moment's hesitation, she joined him, careful to maintain a proper distance between them.
"In all our conversations," he said, "I see a strong sense of duty and family, but I dinnae hear ye speak of yerself. What makes ye happy, Isolde? What brings ye joy?"
The unexpected question left her momentarily speechless. When had anyone last asked about her happiness?
