Page 38 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"I wanted tae..." He shifted, boots scraping stone.
Her chin lifted slightly, waiting.
"I came tae apologize," Finlay said carefully. "Fer everything that's happened."
Isolde's brow furrowed. "Ye've done nothing tae me, Finlay."
"Precisely." The eyes that met hers were sincere. "Sometimes daeing nothing is daeing wrong."
She studied the warrior before her—usually quick with a laugh, now standing uncomfortably.
"Come in," she said finally, stepping aside. "Ye need nae stand in the corridor."
Finlay entered slowly, maintaining distance as she closed the door. He remained standing as she perched on the edge of her chair, creating a careful space between them.
"I've known Ciaran since we were lads throwing stones at birds," he began.
"And what daes that matter now?" Isolde kept her voice gentle.
"It matters because..." Finlay ran a hand through his blond hair. "He's never spoken about any lass the way he speaks about ye. And the way he's been particular about yer comfort since ye been here. " Finlay said, the words hanging in the air between them.
Isolde's head jerked up. "I'm nae his first guest?" Isolde's fingers tightened on her skirts.
"First?" Finlay barked a laugh. "Hardly. He's had noblewomen stay—lairds' daughters seeking alliances. Did ye ken he once forgot one's name mid-conversation? But ye? He's never forgotten a single detail about ye."
Her chin trembled slightly. "Details dinnae matter. I saw his reaction when he kent me clan."
Finlay stared at her with something close to pity. "When we were lads, he jumped intae the frozen loch tae save me dog. Nearly died fer a mutt." Finlay's eyes held hers. "Ciaran—he'd defy his own council fer ye, if he could."
"But he cannae."
"Nay. He cannae." He hesitated. "If ye need help with anything..."
Isolde rose, moving to her packed belongings. She lifted her cloak, holding it like armor between them. "I thank ye fer yer kindness, but I'll face whatever comes."
Finlay studied her a moment longer. "Aye. I see now what he sees in ye, lass. Take care of yerself."
After he left, Isolde let out a sigh and moved to the washstand. She studied her reflection—red-rimmed eyes, chin lifted with MacAlpin pride. Whether Ciaran came to say goodbye or not, she would take it standing tall.
The knock that came was firm, and without waiting the door handle turned.
Ciaran stood in the doorway, tall, imposing, every inch the laird of MacCairth. The morning sun caught the stubble on his jaw. His eyes swept the chamber, taking in her packed belongings, then finally landing on her.
For a heartbeat, his gaze searched hers— and her own eyes sought desperately for traces of the previous night—the man who'd danced with her beneath lanterns, who'd touched her face with surprising tenderness, who'd kissed her with a hunger that matched her own.
Just a glimpse of him.
But his expression revealed nothing—no pity, no regret, no desire. Just the hard mask of a laird facing his duty.
Her heart stuttered. He didn't need to speak a word; his silence spoke volumes.
"Me laird," she managed, voice steady despite the trembling in her knees.
Isolde watched as his jaw tightened. "We leave at midday."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The words tasted like ash on his tongue. He watched Isolde's face crumble for one betraying heartbeat before she caught herself—that fierce MacAlpin dignity lifting her chin even as her eyes dulled. The laird in him welcomed it; better she hated him than hope.
