Page 26 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Over the next several days, he found himself looking forward to their training sessions with unexpected eagerness. Sheapproached the lessons with the same determination she brought to everything—focused, persistent, refusing to yield even when her muscles trembled with fatigue.
Teaching her required a proximity he both craved and dreaded. Each time he adjusted her stance, his hands at her waist or guiding her arms through proper form, he felt the warmth of her beneath his fingers. Each correction brought her scent to him—heather and something uniquely her own—testing his resolve to maintain the proper distance between laird and lady.
"Ye're a quick study," he told her on the fifth day, impressed by her progress. The wooden sword no longer looked awkward in her grip, and her movements had begun to flow with genuine grace. "Now, try tae land a hit."
They circled each other in the dusty yard, wooden swords at the ready. He deliberately held back, giving her openings a trained fighter would never allow, yet she struggled to breach his defenses. Her determination showed in the furrow of her brow, the intensity of her focus.
"Read me movements, nae me eyes," he instructed as he easily parried another attack. Teaching her properly meant maintaining an instructor's detachment, however difficult that proved.
"Yer eyes are distracting," she muttered, the words clearly escaping before she could catch them.
His lips quirked with amusement, something warm unfurling in his chest at her inadvertent confession. "Are they now?"
For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to enjoy her flustered expression—a mistake. She feinted left, then struck right with surprising speed, the wooden blade connecting with his upper arm. A simple hit, hardly painful, but the look of triumph that lit her face sent a jolt through him more powerful than any physical blow.
Instinct took over. Before her celebration could properly begin, he moved with the speed that had kept him alive through countless skirmishes, backing her against a training post, his practice sword at her throat.
"Never celebrate too early," he murmured, suddenly acutely aware of how close they stood.
Her breath came in short gasps, her eyes wide with surprise that quickly transformed into something else. His body pressed against hers, solid and warm. Her lips parted slightly, head tilting back in unmistakable invitation, and for one mad moment, he nearly surrendered to the hunger that had been building since the night he'd found her in the forest.
Every instinct urged him forward, to claim that mouth that had challenged and fascinated him in equal measure. His free hand moved of its own accord, fingers nearly brushing her cheek.
Reality crashed back with cold clarity. He was laird of Clan MacCraith. She was a lady of unknown clan that might be allyor enemy. Until he knew, this attraction was a dangerous luxury neither could afford.
With effort that left him shaking, he stepped back, putting distance between them. "Dangerous game ye're playing, lass," he said, his voice rough even to his own ears.
Without another word, he turned and walked away, needing distance before he did something both of them would regret.
Ciaran strode through the corridors of Castle MacCraith, his thoughts a storm. The training session with Isolde had tested his control beyond measure. The feel of her body pressed against his, the invitation in her eyes—it had taken every ounce of his willpower to walk away.
Hours later his thoughts were still a whirlwind, so Ciaran decided there was only one thing left to do. He had to speak with her, to explain why he couldn't act on the hunger that grew between them daily. Not without knowing who she was, what clan she belonged to. The politics of the Highlands were dangerous, alliances fragile. One wrong move could mean war.
At her door, he knocked with every confidence years of running a clan had given him. When no answer came, he pushed it open, thinking perhaps she'd fallen asleep early.
"Lass, I need tae speak with?—"
The words died in his throat. Isolde sat in a tub near the hearth, her back to him, her copper hair piled atop her head with a few wayward strands clinging to her damp neck. Steam rose around her like morning mist over the lochs, and the firelight danced across the curve of her bare shoulder.
Ciaran felt the blood drain from his face, only to return in a scalding rush. He should have left—immediately—but his feet seemed rooted to the floor, his eyes unable to look away from the graceful line of her spine as she reached for the cloth draped over the tub's edge.
Finally, he managed to turn, facing the door as he cleared his throat. "Me apologies. I should have waited fer yer answer."
A splash and startled gasp told him she'd noticed his presence. "Me laird! What are ye doing here?"
"I came tae speak with ye." The formal words sounded ridiculous in the circumstances. "I'll return later."
"Wait," she said. "Hand me that robe, if ye please. The one on the bed."
God help him. He retrieved the silk robe, keeping his eyes averted as he extended it behind him. The brush of her fingers against his as she took it sent a jolt through him.
Long moments passed—the rustle of fabric, the soft pat of bare feet on stone. Then: "Ye can turn around now."
She stood before the fire, wrapped in the robe, her hair still piled high though a few more strands had escaped to curl damply around her face.
"What did ye wish tae speak about?" she asked, seemingly composed, though a blush stained her cheeks.
Ciaran struggled to collect his thoughts, acutely aware of her state of undress despite his best efforts to be a gentleman. He fixed his gaze firmly on her face, determined not to let his eyes wander.
