Page 33 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Could those men lurking about his borders, the ones who'd murdered his clansmen, be targeting the MacAlpins through ye, Isolde?Is Wallace involved in this?
Perhaps they'd been trying to capture her as a way to force an alliance.
Or perhaps Isolde herself was she seeking an alliance with MacCraith to protect her clan from Wallace? It would explain why she'd risked personal safety to attend the masquerade, and why she'd been so reluctant to reveal her identity too early.
Ciaran strode to his private study. There, he unrolled the clan maps across his table, fingers tracing territorial boundaries. The MacAlpin lands were extensive, though not prosperous as in years past. Their position at the crossroads of four clan territories—including the often-hostile Wallace clan and the opportunistic MacFarlanes—made them strategically invaluable despite their current weakness.
Even weakened, the MacAlpins held strategic positions—mountain passes, vital river crossings. Their alliance could create a formidable buffer against growing threats. If Wallace was indeed targeting them, perhaps seeking to absorb their territories, an alliance with the MacCraiths would strengthen both clans.
Ciaran stood straighter, new resolve hardening his features. The council would not see it at first—they would focus only on the MacAlpins' current weakness. But a laird had to look beyond immediate challenges, towards future possibilities.
And perhaps, a small voice whispered in his mind, perhaps there was a way to fulfill both duty and desire after all.
Decision made, Ciaran pulled the cord that hung beside the fireplace. The small bronze bell in the servants' quarters would summon his steward. Within moments, a knock sounded at his chamber door.
"Enter," Ciaran called, moving to his desk.
His personal steward since boyhood appeared with a bow. The older man's eyes widened slightly at the sight of his laird still in yesterday's formal attire, but his expression remained professionally neutral.
"Send word to Finlay to summon the council," Ciaran ordered. "Full attendance, no excuses. In one hour."
"At once, me laird." The servant bowed again and withdrew, no doubt already planning which servants to dispatch to each council member.
Ciaran remained at the window a moment longer, watching golden light spill across the valley. He couldn't dismiss the memory of Isolde in the garden—the moonlight on her copper hair, the sweet surrender of her lips beneath his, the way her body had fit against his. Then the shock in her eyes when he'd stepped away. The hurt she'd masked with dignity. He'd longed for the revelation of her clan. Planned for it even, and yet when it had come, it had fallen between them like a blade.
Ciaran was still deep in thought when the knock sounded at the door of his chambers. "Me laird, the council has assembled as requested," came the voice of his steward.
"I will be there in five minutes."
The council chamber fell silent as Ciaran entered. Five pairs of eyes tracked his movement, their expressions reminding him he should have at least changed from his formal clothes, now creased from a night without rest. He ran a hand over his jaw line, realizing he should have also taken time to shave the dark stubble from his jaw.
He caught Finlay's concerned glance from the corner of the room where his friend stood, arms crossed.
Ultimately, what they thought of his appearance was of little concern to him. He grabbed a territorial map from a shelf before he took his seat at the head of the ancient oak table.
"Me laird," Old Fergus's gravelly voice broke the silence. "What matter demands our presence with such urgency?"
Ciaran looked from one lord to the next. He noted the concerned looks on each face. These were good men who understood the depth of their responsibility to the clan, as well as to its laird. "I've discovered the clan of our guest."
Laird Murray leaned forward. "And what clan is that?"
"She is Lady Isolde MacAlpin, eldest daughter of Laird Alistair MacAlpin."
A collective intake of breath swept the chamber. Murmurs broke out among the men.
"MacAlpin?" Angus, the youngest council member, couldn't hide his disbelief. "The clan that can barely maintain its own boundaries?"
"Precisely," Ciaran replied, spreading the territorial map across the table. "Which is why I propose we consider a formal alliance."
"An alliance?" Old Fergus's bushy eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "With the MacAlpins?"
"Consider their position," Ciaran said, finger tracing the boundaries where four clan territories met. "They hold the crossroads between MacCraith, Wallace, and MacFarlane lands. Their passes control access to the northern reaches."
"Aye, and what good is holding such passes when ye can't defend them?" countered Laird Murray. "The MacAlpins haven't fielded a proper fighting force in a decade."
"Which makes them vulnerable," Ciaran pressed. "If Wallace absorbs their territory, we'll have a hostile neighbor pressed against our flank."
Angus snorted. "No clan has sought alliance with the MacAlpins in twenty years. Their coffers are empty, their army mere farmers. What benefit would such a match bring us?"
