Page 25 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Books," she admitted finally. "I've always loved tae read. Me maither taught me letters when I was barely old enough tae hold a quill." A small smile softened her features at the memory. "She believed daughters should be educated, nae just sons."
"A wise woman," Ciaran observed.
"She was." Isolde looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. "When she passed, many things changed. Me faither... he's never been the same."
Ciaran remained silent, giving her space to continue if she wished.
"I was fifteen," she said softly. "Suddenly responsible fer me younger sisters, fer the household. The servants began to leave when the money grew scarce."
"Yet ye managed."
She looked up, surprised by the admiration in his voice.
"Aye. I did what needed daeing. I learned tae keep ledgers, tae stretch provisions, tae mend what couldn't be replaced." Her voice grew stronger. "I taught me sisters what Maither had taught me—that circumstances may change, but who we are daesn't have tae."
"And who are ye, Isolde?" he asked, his dark eyes searching hers.
The air between them seemed to still, charged with something neither could name.
"I am me maither's daughter," she said finally. "Too stubborn tae surrender tae fate and too proud tae accept pity."
"Is that what ye think this is?" He gestured to the cream gown still displayed on the form. "Pity?"
"What else would ye call it?"
"What about recognition," he said simply. "Have ye thought that perhaps I see ye as a woman who deserves fine things, not because she needs them, but because they complement what's already there."
Isolde felt heat rise in her cheeks at his words. "Ye have a silver tongue, Laird MacCraith."
"Ciaran," he corrected gently. "And I speak only truth. Ye've carried burdens few women of yer station could bear yet maintained yer dignity throughout. That deserves recognition, not pity."
Something shifted between them in that moment—a door opening to understanding that neither had anticipated. For the first time since coming to Castle MacCraith, Isolde felt truly seen, not as a mystery to solve or a responsibility to bear, but as herself.
And in Ciaran's eyes, she saw not only of the most powerful lairds of the Highlands, but a man capable of unexpected kindness and insight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The clash of steel against the training post echoed across the empty yard as Ciaran worked through his sword forms. He'd risen early, unable to sleep with thoughts of Isolde and the danger that stalked his lands occupying his mind. Physical exertion had always cleared his thoughts, restored his focus when duties and decisions pressed too heavily on his shoulders.
He was midway through a complex series of strikes when he sensed her presence—a shift in the air, the faint scent of heather carried on the morning breeze. He continued his practice for several moments, aware of her watching from the shadows of the armory doorway.
"I ken ye're there, lass," he said finally, lowering his blade. He turned to find her half-hidden in shadows, her copper hair catching the early light like burnished gold.
She stepped into the sunlight, a slight flush coloring her cheeks at being discovered. "Ye've a keen ear."
"Keen everything," he corrected, unable to suppress the smile that tugged at his lips as he took in her appearance. With several urgent matters needing his attention, Ciaran had not seen Isolde for days, but now, even in a simple day dress, she looked graceful and noble, "What brings ye tae me training yard?"
Her hesitation intrigued him. Whatever had brought her here clearly required some courage to voice.
"Would ye teach me tae defend meself?" she finally asked. "I've no brothers who might have shown me."
The request surprised him. Most highborn ladies preferred to rely on men for protection. That Isolde sought to defend herself spoke to a spirit he found increasingly compelling.
He studied her for a long moment, recalling how fiercely she'd fought those attackers in the forest despite her lack of formal training. "Ye've some knowledge of where tae strike a man already, I think."
"Nae enough." Something haunted flickered in her eyes. "Nae nearly enough."
Ciaran nodded once, decision made. He retrieved a wooden practice sword from a nearby rack, weighing it in his palm before offering it to her. "We'll start with the basics."
