Page 37 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Her fingers closed around the jewelry pouch.Because he cares fer ye,Elspeth had said. Yet not enough to fight for her. Not enough to see past the MacAlpin name to the woman beneath.
"It daesnae matter," she whispered to herself. "It was never possible anyway."
Isolde moved to the window, needing a moment to breathe. Her hand touched the latch as she watched the bustling courtyard below. A rider crossed beneath her window—tall, broad-shouldered, with that same purposeful stride. Just like the day he'd first walked into her father's hall.
Her hand froze on the latch. The memory rushed over her like winter wind.
"Welcome tae Castle MacAlpin, Laird MacCraith," her father's voice boomed from below as he entered the hall to meet Ciaran and his men.
She had tae find out where they were going. When her father turned to lead Ciaran to the great hall, she darted from behind the pillar, slippered feet silent on stone as she followed. At the corner, she presses herself against the wall, straining to catch every word.
"We've heard reports of rebel men tracking near our borders," Ciaran's voice flowed like dark honey, deeper than she expected. "How fare yer defenses?"
"The MacAlpins have endured fer centuries without any clan's concern," her father replies, pride evident in his tone.
"Aye, and alone ye may fall," Ciaran counters gently. "These are changing times, Alistair. Old enemies grow bold."
"What would ye have me dae, Laird Ciaran? Bow tae the MacCraiths?"
"I would have ye consider?—"
Isolde leaned further around the corner, desperate to see his face as he speaks. Their eyes almost locked. She fled to the gallery, heart thundering.
"Watching soldiers again?" Rhona appeared beside her, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"I meant nay?—"
"He's too old fer ye, ye ken that?" Rhona whispers. "Too grand fer the likes of us."
"I wasnae?—"
"Ah, but ye were." Rhona's grin is wicked. "The great Laird MacCraith has cast his spell on our Isolde."
Later, after their visitor departed, she followed her father to his study. "What did Laird MacCraith want?"
Alistair didn’t look up from his accounts. "Tae meddle in MacAlpin affairs."
"He seemed concerned fer our clan."
"Concern from a MacCraith comes with a price, daughter." His quill scratched against parchment. "Remember that."
She watched him, noting the slight tremor in his hand, the new lines on his face. When did he become so grey? "Faither, are we... are we safe?"
"We are MacAlpins," he said firmly. "We bow tae nae one."
But his eyes didn’t meet hers, and she wondered if he believed his own words.
Isolde pressed her forehead against the cold glass. That day marked when everything changed—when she couldn't stop thinking of those dark eyes, of a voice that spoke concern rather than scorn, of a presence that filled a room in a way only Laird Ciaran MacCraith could.
And now, two years later, she was leaving him behind. Just as Rhona had said—too grand fer the likes of us.
Three sharp raps on the door startled Isolde from her reverie. Ciaran, she thought, straightening her spine, and quickly rubbing at her cheeks before opening the door.
"Finlay?" Her voice cracked slightly at seeing Ciaran's trusted man. "I'd expected?—"
"The laird will come shortly." Finlay's hand gripped his sword belt, knuckles white. "Might I have a word?"
Isolde stepped back from the threshold. "Of course."
