Page 30 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Isolde stood before the looking glass, hardly recognizing the woman who stared back. The cream silk gown fit her perfectly, as though created for her alone rather than altered.
Its neckline, edged with pearls, framed her collarbone, while the fitted bodice gave way to a skirt that seemed to float with each movement. Elspeth’s hair had been arranged in an intricate style, with soft curls framing her face and pearl pins catching the candlelight.
"The laird will be speechless," Elspeth remarked, adjusting one final curl.
"Where exactly is this gathering?" Isolde asked, nervous energy making it difficult to stand still.
"The laird said he'd come escort ye himself."
As if summoned by the words, a knock sounded at the door. Elspeth hurried to open it, revealing Ciaran in formal Highland dress. He wore a finely tailored black jacket over a white shirt, a MacCraith tartan draped over one shoulder and secured with a silver brooch bearing his clan's crest. His dark hair was combed back from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his features.
His eyes widened slightly at the sight of her, that now-familiar heat kindling in their depths.
"Ye look..." he began, then seemed to think better of whatever he'd been about to say. Instead, he extended his hand. "Will ye join me?"
Isolde placed her fingers in his, ignoring Elspeth's knowing smile as they departed. His hand was warm around hers, the calluses from years of swordplay a reminder of the warrior beneath the laird's finery.
"I owe ye an apology," he said as they walked. "Fer last night."
"There's nay need," she replied quickly, heat rising in her cheeks at the memory. "It was an accident."
"Aye, but one that caused ye discomfort." He glanced down at her, his expression serious. "That was never me intention."
They descended a staircase she'd never taken before, leading deeper into the castle than she'd yet explored. Torches illuminated their path, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.
"Where are we going?" she asked, curious despite herself. "I thought ye said there was tae be a gathering."
"There is." A hint of a smile played at his lips. "Just nae where ye might expect."
They passed through a heavy oak door and emerged into the night air. Isolde gasped softly as she took in the sight before her.The castle gardens, which she'd seen only briefly during daytime walks with Elspeth, had been transformed into something from a fairy tale.
Hundreds of candles in glass lanterns hung from the branches of ancient trees, their golden light reflected in small pools and fountains. The stone pathways were lined with torches, creating a warm glow that held the spring night's chill at bay. In the center of the garden, a small area had been cleared, with a table set for two beneath a canopy of flowering branches.
"Ciaran," she breathed, unable to find words adequate to express her wonder.
"Ye've been forced tae stay here," he said softly. "I thought ye deserved one night of beauty."
From inside his jacket, he withdrew a small velvet pouch. "I have something fer ye."
Isolde watched, transfixed, as he tipped the contents into his palm. A delicate strand of pearls gleamed in the lantern light, each one catching and holding the golden glow like captured moonlight.
"Turn around," he murmured.
Her hands trembled as she obeyed, lifting her hair away from her neck. The warmth of his fingers brushed against her skin ashe fastened the clasp, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the evening air.
"There," he said, his voice low. His hands lingered at her shoulders, gentle as a whisper.
Isolde's fingers rose to touch the pearls at her throat, feeling like a queen, like the lady she'd been born to be. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the MacAlpin name and its burdens, to be simply a woman adorned by a man who looked at her as though she were precious.
"I cannae accept such a gift," she protested weakly, though her fingers still caressed the smooth surface of the pearls.
"Enjoy it fer the evening," Ciaran replied, his eyes softening as he watched her. He stretched out a hand, running it lightly over her copper tresses. "They pale beside yer beauty, but they'll serve tae remind ye of this night."
The tenderness in his gaze made her breath catch. No man had ever looked at her this way—as though she were not just a laird's daughter, not just a political alliance to be made or rejected, but a woman to be treasured for herself alone.
"Thank ye," she whispered, the words wholly inadequate for the storm of emotions within her breast.
Four musicians sat to one side, playing a gentle melody on fiddle, harp, and flute. The music seemed to rise and fall with thenight breeze, weaving through the garden like another form of light.
