Page 41 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Come forward," he commanded. "Slowly. The stones are slick."
Her horse hesitated at the water's edge, tossing its head.
"Really?" She looked at him, exasperation clear in her eyes. "I believe I was riding these paths the night we met, me laird."
For a heartbeat, he caught her gaze—that spark of defiance he'd first glimpsed at the ball. A smile threatened despite himself. He turned away quickly, hardening his features.
"Then ye ken tae be careful," he barked gruffly, urging his stallion forward across the stream.
They cleared the water without incident. The morning sun climbed higher, burning off the mist. Each clip of hoof against stone counted down the miles between Castle MacCraith and whatever future awaited them in MacAlpin lands.
The path narrowed as they entered a dense copse of pines. Ciaran's hand moved to his sword hilt, a prickle of awareness raising the hair on his neck. Something wasn't right.
"Stay close," he murmured to Isolde.
Four men materialized from behind the trees, blocking the path ahead. Dressed in rough plaids with blackened faces, they carried an assortment of dirks, axes, and a rusted sword.
"We dinnae want trouble with ye, MacCraith," the leader called. "Just hand over the lady, and we'll be on our way."
"Ye started trouble the moment ye walked onto me land," Ciaran replied, his voice deadly calm. He recognized the stance of trained fighters. These men belonged to someone. "Tell yer master Laird MacCraith daesnae take kindly tae trespassers."
The leader laughed. "All's fair in claiming what ye want, aye? The lady has value beyond what ye ken."
Ciaran felt rather than saw Isolde stiffen behind him. His stallion, trained for battle, shifted beneath him.
"Four men," Ciaran said, measuring distances with his eye. "Poor odds—fer ye."
Ciaran's gaze flicked briefly to Isolde, positioned safely behind his right shoulder. Her face remained composed, though her knuckles whitened on her reins.
"Position yerself against that oak," he murmured, nodding toward a massive tree trunk five paces back. "Dinnae move unless I fall. And then ride as hard as ye can tae escape."
The men advanced slowly, weapons drawn. Ciaran remained mounted, his stallion perfectly still beneath him. One hand casually rested on his sword hilt while the other held the reins loosely.
"Last chance," the leader called, now close enough that Ciaran could see the scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
Ciaran straightened in his saddle, drawing his claymore in one fluid motion. The massive blade gleamed above his head as he unleashed the ancient battle cry of his clan—"FUUUUIIIIIL 'S CLAIDHEAMH MHÒR!"—the Gaelic words tearing from his throat with primal fury as he spurred his stallion forward directly into their midst.
The first man raised his weapon, but he was too late. Ciaran's downward stroke cleaved through his raised arm and into his chest with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across Ciaran's boots as he wrenched the blade free.
Without pausing, he wheeled his mount sharply left. The second attacker scrambled backward, but the stallion's iron-shod hooves caught him squarely in the chest. Bones shattered beneath the impact, the man's scream cut short as he crumpled to the forest floor.
Ciaran's gaze darted back to Isolde. She was still safe, her mare dancing nervously but holding position. Relief coursed through him for a heartbeat before he turned to face the remaining two men.
The third attacker lunged with an axe, aiming for Ciaran's leg. The claymore met the axe handle mid-swing, splintering wood and severing fingers. Before the man's howl could reach full volume, Ciaran's backhand stroke separated head from shoulders, the body collapsing in a spray of crimson.
The fourth man turned to flee. Ciaran slid his claymore into its sheath across his back, instead drawing the dirk from his belt. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the blade spun through the air, burying itself between the fleeing man's shoulder blades. He fell face-first onto the heather path, legs twitching as life fled.
Four bodies lay scattered across the blood-soaked ground. The entire fight had lasted only a few minutes.
He guided his stallion back to Isolde, who remained exactly where he'd positioned her. Her face had paled, but her blue eyes were wide with something beyond fear. Her gaze moved from the carnage to him, taking in the blood spattered across his plaid, the controlled power in his posture.
"Are ye hurt?" he asked, scanning her for injury.
"Nay. Are ye?" When he shook his head, she continued, awe filling her voice. "Ye... ye killed four men in the time it takes tae draw breath."
"Men who meant ye harm." He dismounted to retrieve his dirk, wiping the blade clean on the dead man's plaid. Even with his back to her, he remained acutely aware of her presence, of her gaze following his movements.
When he turned, he found her studying him with new eyes—not with horror at the violence, but with something that looked unsettlingly like admiration.
