Page 29 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"One night," Old Fergus agreed reluctantly. "But if ye cannot discover who she is by morning, the council will vote on what's tae be done with her. And me laird—" his voice softened slightly, "fer both her sake and yers, I hope she's worth the danger she's brought tae our door."
As the council members filed out, Finlay approached Ciaran's side. "Well handled," he murmured. "Though now ye have but hours tae accomplish what ye haven't managed in days."
Ciaran stared out the window, where dark clouds gathered on the horizon like an omen. "Then me plan fer tonight cannae fail." He turned to his friend, determination hardening his features.
But as he strode from the hall, Ciaran thought about how that night was his last chance. He intended to discover if there was any chance for them before his council tore that chance away forever.
Morning light filtered through the window, waking Isolde from fitful dreams. Memories of the previous night flooded back—Ciaran standing in her doorway, his eyes widening as he realizedwhat the firelight revealed through her wet robe. Heat rushed to her face at the recollection.
When Elspeth arrived with breakfast, Isolde feigned illness.
"Please tell the laird I'm indisposed this morning."
"Are ye truly ill, lass?" Elspeth asked, her weathered hand cool against Isolde's forehead.
"Just... tired," Isolde replied, avoiding the woman's knowing eyes.
For hours, she remained in her chamber, alternating between pacing and staring out the window at the activities in the courtyard below. Once, she spotted Ciaran crossing toward the stables, his broad shoulders squared beneath his dark cloak. Her heart quickened traitorously at the sight.
A knock at midday preceded Elspeth's return, this time with a tray of food and a concerned expression.
"The laird asked me tae check if ye're truly unwell," she said, setting down the tray. "He seemed... concerned. So, I made ye some broth."
Isolde sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "I'm well enough in body."
Elspeth sat beside her, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight. "But nae in spirit?"
"The laird affects me in ways I dinnae understand," Isolde admitted, the words escaping before she could reconsider. "He stirs unfamiliar emotions in me. I've never felt so..." She gestured helplessly, unable to articulate the storm of emotions that Ciaran stirred within her.
"Ye're a woman of age tae fall in love," Elspeth said gently. "But nae all attractions are true love. Ye must give everything it's time tae bloom. But our laird is a good lad. I've seen him change since ye got here."
"I'm nae his type," Isolde said, thinking of the vast gulf between a MacCraith laird and the daughter of a failing clan.
Elspeth's eyes widened slightly. "Nae his type? Lass, have ye looked in a mirror?"
Isolde realized the misunderstanding—Elspeth thought she meant by looks, not status. "I only meant?—"
"The laird has a mind of his own, dear," Elspeth interrupted with a pat to her gnarled hand. "Always has."
Standing, the older woman moved to stoke the fire. "There's tae be a small gathering taenight. Naething grand, but the laird asked that ye join them early."
Panic flared in Isolde's chest. ""I feel unsure still. What if?—"
"Nonsense. A hot bath first tae calm yer nerves." Elspeth was already moving toward the door. "I'll have the water brought up."
Despite her unease, Isolde soon found herself soaking in scented water, Elspeth's efficient hands washing her hair. The woman's chatter provided a welcome distraction from thoughts of Ciaran and the upcoming evening.
When she finally emerged from behind the dressing screen, wrapped in a clean shift, she stopped short. Laid out on the bed was the cream silk gown from the dressmaker's shop—the one she'd tried on, the one that had made Ciaran speechless.
"How did this—" she began, reaching out to touch the delicate pearls adorning the bodice.
Elspeth smiled, a rare look of girlish excitement lighting her face. "The laird had it delivered taeday. Fer tonight's gathering."
"But it must have cost a small fortune," Isolde protested weakly, even as her fingers traced the exquisite embroidery.
"Apparently the laird paid fer it. He must have wanted ye tae have it."
Elspeth winked, gathering up the bath linens. "I'll send the lass tae dae yer hair."
