Page 31 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
As he led her toward the table, set with the finest silver and crystal, Ciaran paused. From inside his jacket, he withdrew a familiar object—the silver and blue mask she'd worn the night of the ball.
"Ye dropped this," he said, holding it out to her. "The night those men attacked ye."
Isolde stared at the mask, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Ye kept it?"
"I thought I would keep it as a memory of the fiery lass who almost fought off three strong men on her own." His dark eyes held hers, searching. "I never imagined she would return tae me castle with me."
She took the mask with trembling fingers, the weight of it familiar yet now laden with new meaning. She'd worn it to hide her identity that night, but it had ultimately led her there— to that enchanted garden, to that man who looked at her as though she were precious.
"Will ye wear it again?" he asked. "Fer tonight?"
The request surprised her. "Ye wish me tae hide me face?"
"Nay," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I wish tae recreate the moment I first saw ye—but this time, without interruption."
With gentle fingers, Isolde secured the mask once more, the silver filigree cool against her flushed skin. The world seemed different now through its openings—more focused, more vibrant, as though the mask enhanced rather than concealed.
"Wine?" Ciaran offered, the crystal decanter catching and fracturing the candlelight.
"Please," she replied, watching as he filled two goblets with deep red wine .
The table before them held an array of delicacies arranged with artistic precision—smoked salmon with herbed butter, venison roasted with forest herbs, tender spring vegetables glazed with honey. Crystal bowls contained berries and cream, their scent mingling with the garden's flowering branches.
"Ye've gone tae extraordinary lengths," Isolde observed as he held her chair.
"Naething extraordinary about wanting tae see ye smile." His fingers brushed her shoulder as he moved to his own seat, the brief contact sending warmth cascading through her.
They dined beneath the stars, the music weaving through their conversation. Ciaran spoke of his childhood at Castle MacCraith,of his sister Sorcha and their adventures climbing the ancient oak that still stood sentinel by the north wall.
Isolde found herself sharing stories too—carefully edited tales of her sisters that revealed nothing of their clan, yet conveyed the love between them.
The wine loosened her tongue and warmed her blood. When Ciaran stood and extended his hand, she took it without hesitation.
"Will ye dance with me?"
The musicians, noticing his gesture, transitioned to a slower, more intimate melody. He led her to the small clearing among the lantern-lit trees, one hand at her waist, the other holding hers aloft.
Unlike their first dance at the ball, constrained by formal steps and watching eyes, they moved together with natural grace. His hand at her waist drew her closer with each turn, the heat of his palm burning through the silk of her gown. The scent of him enveloped her as surely as his arms.
"I've dreamed of this," he admitted, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Since that night at the ball, when ye ran from me."
"I didn't run because I wanted tae," she confessed, emboldened by wine and moonlight.
"Why then?"
The honest answer—that she'd feared recognition, feared the disappointment in his eyes when he discovered she was a MacAlpin—caught in her throat.
"Fear," she said instead, a partial truth.
"And now?" His steps slowed until they were barely moving, swaying in place beneath the canopy of light. "Dae ye still fear me, lass?"
"Nae ye," she whispered. "What happens next."
His hand released hers to trace the edge of her mask, his touch feather-light against her skin. "May I?"
Heart hammering against her ribs, she nodded.
Slowly, reverently, he removed the mask. The night air kissed her exposed skin as his eyes held hers, dark and intent. Time seemed suspended between them, fragile as a soap bubble, shimmering with possibility.
