Page 32 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Then his lips found hers, and the world fell away.
The kiss was gentle at first, a question rather than a demand. But when she responded, her hands sliding up the solid wall of his chest to link behind his neck, something broke free within him.His arms encircled her waist, drawing her flush against him as the kiss deepened into something hungry and wild.
Isolde gasped at the flood of emotions—desire and fear and something dangerously close to love all tangled together in her breast. She'd imagined that moment countless times since first seeing him at her father's castle two years prior, but reality eclipsed fantasy in ways she couldn't have anticipated.
When they finally parted, breathless, Ciaran rested his forehead against hers. "Tell me who ye are," he whispered. "Nay more secrets between us."
The moment of truth had arrived. With his taste still on her lips and his arms still around her, Isolde could no longer maintain the deception.
"Me name is MacAlpin," she whispered, the name falling from her lips like a stone into still water. "I am Lady Isolde MacAlpin, eldest daughter of Laird Alistair MacAlpin."
She felt him stiffen, his breath catching. Slowly, he drew back, his eyes searching hers as though seeing her truly for the first time.
"MacAlpin," he repeated, his voice unreadable.
The name echoed in Ciaran’s his mind like distant thunder. "Ye're a MacAlpin."
He took a step back, hands falling away from her waist as though burned.MacAlpin.
One of the oldest Highland clans, once powerful, now... His mind raced through what he knew of their current state. Lands still extensive but poorly managed. Wealth diminished. Allies few. A clan his council had specifically named as having nothing to offer in alliance.
"I—ye—" Words failed him as he struggled to reconcile the woman before him with this new knowledge.
Isolde's eyes clouded, the joy of moments before replaced by something that looked painfully like resignation. "I should have told ye sooner," she said quietly. "But I knew this was exactly what would happen when I did."
Ciaran knew Isolde expected a response from him. And he wanted to reassure her. But only he uttered that one word.
"MacAlpin.”
Something shuttered in her eyes, and she stepped further away, gathering her skirts in one hand. "Good night, Laird MacCraith," she said formally, the sudden distance between them measured not in steps but in worlds. "Thank ye fer a lovely evening. Nowye ken me clan, ye have nay further use of keeping me here. I will prepare tae leave in the morning."
"Wait," Ciaran called, but it came out a mere whisper, not even loud enough for Isolde to hear, strangled by the conflict raging within him.
He called louder, "Isolde, wait!"
But she was already turning down the garden path, the cream silk of her gown ghostly in the lantern light, leaving him alone among the candles and uneaten desserts.
CHAPTER TEN
Ciaran stood at the eastern tower window, watching the sun break across the mist-shrouded glen. He hadn't sought his bed after Isolde's revelation, instead pacing the battlements until his boots wore paths in the stone.
MacAlpin.
Each time the name echoed in his mind, duty and desire warred anew within his chest. His council would never approve. His clan needed strength, not charity. Yet when he closed his eyes, he saw only her face the moment before she'd walked away—pride and resignation mingled with disappointment.
The betrayal in her eyes had cut deeper than any blade. He'd earned her trust during their ride to the village and the subsequent trip to the store. He had felt her body relax against his the previous night, heard the softness creep into her voice the moment before she decided to tell him her clan—only to shatter it all with his cold reaction afterward.
She'd finally revealed her truth after his consistent grinding, and instead of him trying to understand, he'd responded by withdrawing.
The memory of her wounded expression haunted him just as deeply as the lives of his fallen men.
The MacAlpins had once been among the most powerful clans in the Highlands, their history stretching back to ancient kings. Now they were reduced to managing dwindling resources and diminishing influence.
"Fuil na féinn!" he cursed under his breath, invoking the blood of ancient warriors. "Of all the lasses in the Highlands, why did she have tae be a MacAlpin? The Fates themselves must be laughing at such crossed fortune."
But what if there was more to consider than ledgers and fighting men? Ciaran thought with a growing sense of hope. MacAlpin lands bordered the fierce MacFarlanes to the east and Wallace territory to the south. The same direction from which armed strangers had been encroaching on MacCraith lands. The same direction from which Isolde had fled that night at Castle Murray. This positioning made the MacAlpins strategic indeed. The MacFarlanes would more than likely stand with them, if he negotiated an alliance with MacAlpin, especially since Wallace had been itching for battle for decades.
Ciaran's eyes narrowed.
