Page 27 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"There's tae be a gathering tomorrow night." The words came out stiffly, masking his inner turmoil. "Naething grand. Ye will attend with me."
Her eyes widened in surprise. " With other clan members present?"
"Aye," he nodded. "Just the neighboring ones. Naething elaborate, mind ye. Just music, good food, perhaps some dancing."
She shook her head, water from her damp hair sprinkling downward. "What if someone recognizes me?"
"And who would recognize ye here, so far from yer home?" He stepped closer, drawn by some force he couldn't name. "Unless ye're willing tae admit yer clan isn’t far at all?"
As he spoke, Ciaran noticed droplets of water falling from her long hair onto the silk robe. Each drop seemed to darken the fabric, the water spreading slowly across the delicate material. With growing awareness, he realized the silk was becoming increasingly translucent where it clung to her skin.
With growing consternation, he noticed the firelight behind her rendered the now-wet silk nearly transparent, outlining her form in golden light. The curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the shadow between her thighs, the tips of her breasts—all visible through the clinging fabric.
Ciaran swallowed hard. He should have looked away. Told her. But he was a man, not a saint, and the sight before him drove all honorable thoughts from his mind.
"Ciaran?" Her voice brought him back to himself, the confusion in her tone making him aware of his prolonged silence—and his stare.
She followed his gaze, looking down at herself. Her eyes widened in horror as she realized what he could see, arms crossing over her chest as her blush deepened to crimson.
"Get out!" she gasped, backing away. "Now!"
This time, his feet obeyed. With a hasty bow, he retreated to the corridor, pulling the door firmly shut behind him. He leaned against the wall, heart hammering, knowing sleep would be impossible.
"Christ," he muttered, running a hand over his face. The image of her, illuminated by firelight, would be seared into his memory until his dying day.
CHAPTER NINE
Ciaran circled the training yard, sword in hand, his focus sharp despite the sleepless night. The image of Isolde in that firelit robe had haunted him until dawn—a distraction he could ill afford.
"Yer left guard is weak," Finlay remarked, swinging his blade in a quick arc.
Ciaran parried just in time, the dulled training swords connecting with a sharp blow. "Me guard is fine."
"Aye." Finlay pressed his advantage, forcing Ciaran back several steps.
With a sudden surge, Ciaran twisted his blade, disarming his friend with a move he'd perfected years ago. "See? I'm perfectly meself."
Finlay retrieved his sword, shaking out his stinging hand. "Ye've been in an odd mood all morn."
When Ciaran did not respond, Finlay smirked. "It's the lass, isn't it? Are ye developing feelings fer her?" Finlay asked, interrupting his thoughts.
"Of course nae!" Ciaran replied with unnecessary vehemence. "I know me duties as a laird. Any alliance must benefit the clan."
"Heaven smile on ye and make her the daughter of a laird with enough wealth and power tae match yer standing," Finlay said, only half-joking.
Ciaran allowed himself a small smile. "That would be convenient."
"The council will ask questions eventually," Finlay warned.
"And that is why I need tae learn who she is," Ciaran replied.
"And how dae ye plan tae discover that? She's been quite determined tae keep her secrets."
Ciaran thought of the cream silk gown, of how Isolde's eyes had lit up at the sight of it in the dressmaker's shop. "Everyone reveals themselves in time, when given the right opportunity."
"Ye're up tae something," Finlay observed, narrowing his eyes. "That's why ye're in a better mood today."
"Perhaps." Ciaran sheathed his sword and reached for his water skin. "Taenight I am preparing a surprise fer Lady Isolde." Ciaran's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "And perhaps, with her guard lowered by a pleasant evening, she'll finally reveal who she is."
