Page 42 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Where did ye learn tae fight like that?" she asked softly.
"A laird must protect what's his." The words slipped out before he could catch them.
Something in her steady gaze pulled words from him he rarely shared.
"I was sent away when I was twelve," he said, his voice lower now as he mounted his stallion again. "Me faither believed a future laird should learn warfare from those who practiced it daily."
"Twelve?" The shock in her voice was evident. "That's barely more than a child."
A humorless smile crossed his face. "The MacCraith alliance with the northern clans required payment in gold or fighters. Me father chose tae send his only son rather than empty the clan's coffers." He adjusted his blood-spattered plaid. "I spent eight years fighting in skirmishes that weren't me own, learning tae hunt and tae kill efficiently so I might someday return home."
"And did ye? Return home, I mean?"
"Only when word came that me faither had died." Something dark flickered across his features. "By then, killing had become as natural as breathing." Her eyes met his, something flaring between them that had nothing to do with the danger they'd just survived. For a heartbeat, formality crumbled.
Ciaran broke the gaze first, his expression once again composed. He remounted with practiced ease. "We should move. There may be others."
As they rode away, he caught Isolde stealing glances at him with a reassessment that made his blood warm despite himself. He kept his eyes forward, his spine straight.
He was a laird, not a common mercenary seeking approval. Yet her admiration settled in his chest warm, dangerous, and entirely too pleasant. Akin to whisky.
They'd ridden two more hours when Ciaran raised his fist, signaling a halt. His stallion's ears pricked forward, alert.
"What is it?" Isolde whispered, instinctively reaching for the dagger in her boot.
"Fresh tracks." He studied the ground, dismounting to examine the prints. "Three men, probably armed."
Her heart quickened. "How recent?"
"Hours, maybe less." His eyes scanned the surrounding trees. "They crossed our path here, heading west."
"Toward MacAlpin lands?"
Instead of answering, he remounted with deadly grace. "Stay behind me. We're riding faster."
For the next mile, tension strung tight between them like a drawn bowstring. Every snap of twig, every shifting shadow made Ciaran's hand twitch toward his sword. Despite his cold manner all day, she noticed how he positioned himself between her and any potential threat.
When they discovered the hastily abandoned campsite—still-warm embers and scattered belongings—Ciaran's jaw clenched visibly.
"They fled recently." He kicked dirt over the smoldering fire.
"Ye think they are still hunting me?"
The eyes that met hers, for the first time since their ride began, were not distant or cold. "Nae while I breathe."
The admission hung heavy between them before duty's mask slammed back into place. "Mount up. We dinnae stop until we reach the glen."
The shadows lengthened as they reached a sheltered glen, a natural clearing protected by ancient oaks. Ciaran raised his hand.
"We'll rest here." He swung down from his stallion, ground-tying the reins before unbuckling saddlebags.
"The border cannae be far now." Isolde dismounted stiffly, stretching muscles long cramped by the saddle.
"Another day's ride." Ciaran gathered kindling from beneath the trees. "These woods are safe enough. The MacAlpins still patrol here, aye?"
"When we can." She tended to her mare's girth, loosening the strap. "Faither sends men when the weather permits."
He nodded. "Finlay will have me men surrounding us from a distance, even though I told him nae tae. He willnae risk his laird's life."
