Page 40 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
His man scurried to obey.
Minutes passed in silence as they waited. Finally, the sound of footsteps echoed across the courtyard. Ciaran forced himself to turn.
Isolde approached wrapped in a dark traveling cloak, Elspeth at her side. She held herself straight, though shadows darkened beneath her eyes.
"The horses are ready, me lady," he announced formally.
She nodded, accepting a stable boy’s help mounting without a glance toward Ciaran.
"Ride out!" Ciaran commanded, swinging into his saddle.
The guards fell into formation. As they passed through the castle gates, curious faces appeared in windows. Servants paused their morning tasks to watch their laird departing with his guest.
The morning mist clung to the glen as they rode the winding path away from Castle MacCraith. Isolde maintained her position three horse-lengths behind him. Close enough for propriety, distant enough to sting.
At the clan border, marked by ancient standing stones, Ciaran raised his hand.
"This is where we part," he told the guards. "Return tae the castle. Report tae Finlay before noon.
The guards hesitated, glancing between their laird and the woman.
"Now," Ciaran barked.
They wheeled their horses, soon disappearing into the morning fog.
Ciaran and Isolde remained at the boundary stones. The silence between them stretched like a drawn bowstring—taut with things unsaid, duty and desire.
Ciaran nudged his stallion forward, then glanced back. "Stay close, Lady MacAlpin. The faster I take ye, the faster we ken get all this behind us."
He watched her nod once before turning his horse toward a winding trail.
The path grew treacherous as they descended into Glen Arach. Ciaran's stallion picked his way carefully over loose stones, hooves scraping against rock. Behind him, Isolde's mare whinnied nervously at a particularly steep section.
Clan first.The words echoed in his mind like a military cadence.Always clan first. Bloody hell.
A sharp cry pierced the morning air. He turned to see Isolde's mare dancing sideways along the narrow ledge, white-eyed with fear.
"Hold steady," he called, his voice clipped as he wheeled his stallion back. "Give her the reins. Let her find her own footing."
"I ken how tae ride," Isolde replied sharply.
Her mare gained control, but Ciaran couldn't take his eyes off her—the morning light caught fire in her hair as she controlled her mount with practiced skill.
Beautiful.
The thought invaded without permission.
Take her back and forget ye ever kent her.
They continued in silence, the distance between them measured not just in horse-lengths but in everything unsaid. His horse’s steady gait marked time like a heartbeat—a forward motion that carried them further from the possibilities of the dinner and dance they had shared.
The path widened slightly where a stream crossed their route. The water ran swift and deep from spring rains.
"This crossing requires care," he announced, dismounting. "Stay mounted. I'll check the depth."
His stallion's hooves splashed into the rushing water as he tested the current.
Safe enough though tricky for her smaller mare.
