Page 4 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
One corner of his mouth hitched higher. "Ye lie very prettily."
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering there with unmistakable intent. "Such bonnie lips shouldnae be wasted on falsehoods when they could be put tae far more... pleasurable uses." He pulled her closer, his meaning impossible to misinterpret as his own lips hovered mere inches from hers.
Heat flared in Isolde's cheeks. She pulled back sharply, missing a step in the dance. Her pulse quickened with indignation at his boldness. No man had ever dared speak to her so brazenly before
"Ye dare tae presume..." she started, her voice trembling slightly.
"I presume naething, lass," he countered, his brogue deepening. "I merely observe what's before me."
"I am a lady, Laird MacCraith, nae one of your tavern wenches tae be toyed with." Her chin lifted, eyes flashing fire behind her mask. "I thought ye were a man of honor, nae one who would speak tae a woman of noble birth as if she were... were..."
"Fascinating?" he offered, seemingly more intrigued than chastened by her outburst.
"Indecent," she finished, stepping away from him as the dance came to an end. The other dancers were already pairing off for the next set, but Isolde had endured enough. Her heart couldn't bear another moment pressed against him, desire warring with dignity.
"Ye think me a conquest then?" she challenged, backing away.
The MacAlpin name might have lost its wealth and its standing, but she would not let it lose its honor. Even as her traitorous body yearned for his touch, her father's daughter would not be made sport of by a man who could take whatever—and whomever—he wanted. "I think ye a mystery I intend tae solve,"he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. "Ken, lass, this isnae finished between us."
She dropped into a curtsy, deliberately formal and cold. "Good evening, m'laird. Thank ye fer the dance."
Without waiting for his response, she turned and moved swiftly through the crowd, ignoring his call of "Wait!" that followed her.
Her cheeks burned with equal parts anger and embarrassment. She had fantasized about this moment for two years, and now that insufferable man had spoiled it entirely with his arrogance.
The great Laird MacCraith—so proud and presumptuous, treating her as though she were merely another conquest to be claimed like land in battle. For all his fine reputation, he was no better than the rest of them—those Highland lairds who believed their power gave them right to whatever they desired.
Mother would have called him 'a wolf in fine wool,' and now Isolde could see why. Yet, even as disappointment burned in her breast, something else smoldered alongside it—something dangerous that sought expression.
The cool night air hit her face as she pushed through a side door into a small courtyard. Stars dotted the black sky above. She gulped down breaths, willing her racing heart to calm.
She heard the door behind her open, and pressed herself into the shadows of a stone archway, holding her breath. Ciaran's tallfigure appeared, his silhouette unmistakable as he looked left and right across the courtyard.
"Me laird!" A voice called from inside. "The lairds are gathering in the library to discuss the alliance."
Ciaran hesitated, looking once more into the darkness before turning back. "Aye, I'm coming."
When the door closed behind him, Isolde sagged against the cold stone. What a fool she'd been. This entire adventure had been madness from the start. She pushed away from the wall, gathering her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
It was time to go home. She'd had her glimpse of Laird Ciaran MacCraith—far more than a glimpse. Perhaps it was for the best he'd revealed his true nature. Now she could finally purge him from her thoughts, her dreams, her very being. The man she'd built in her imagination had crumbled to dust, replaced by this arrogant beast with hungry eyes. Perhaps it was the cure she'd needed all along.
A few minutes later, Isolde was urging her horse faster along the narrow path. The forest was thick there, branches reaching like spectral fingers across the trail. She'd tarried too long at Castle Murray—dawn would break in mere hours, and she had to be back in her bed before the household stirred.
"Come on, Brígh," she whispered to her mare, leaning forward in the saddle. The path dipped sharply, forcing her to slow as theydescended toward the valley that would lead her to the MacAlpin lands.
The snap of a branch froze her blood.
Isolde pulled Brígh to a halt, listening. The night was too quiet—no owls, no rustling creatures. She reached slowly for the dagger in her boot, fingers just brushing the hilt when thundering hoofbeats erupted behind her.
"Yah!" She dug her heels into Brígh's sides. The mare surged forward, but the path was too narrow for speed. Three riders crashed through the underbrush, cutting across the forest to intercept her.
The first rider appeared ahead, blocking the path. Isolde yanked the reins, veering Brígh sharply left into the trees. Branches clawed at her face and gown as they plunged through the darkness.
"There she goes!" a gruff voice shouted. "Dinnae let her reach MacAlpin land!"
They ken who I am.
Panic surged through her veins. Brígh stumbled on the uneven ground, nearly sending Isolde flying. Before she could regain control, a rope whistled through the air, catching her around the waist and yanking her from the saddle.
