Page 43 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Smart man, yer Finlay."
Surprised by the response, Ciaran looked up from setting the kindling. "Aye."
Within minutes, he had a fire crackling, the smoke carrying the fresh scent of the woods. From his saddlebag, he produced a leather hide, unrolling it before the flames.
"Sit." He gestured to the makeshift seat. "The ground will be cold."
She hesitated, then lowered herself carefully onto the hide. He spread a second leather on the opposite side of the fire, creating proper distance between them.
From his saddlebag, he produced strips of dried venison—what the clan called "travel meat," cured with salt and herbs to keep for weeks.
"Here." He tossed her a portion. "It's tough, but filling."
She caught it deftly, tearing into the meat with her teeth. They ate in silence, the fire popping between them.
"These men who chased ye," Ciaran said finally, breaking off a piece of oatcake, "ye never did say which clan they belonged to."
Her chewing slowed. "I told ye, I dinnae ken."
"Ye dinnae ken, or ye cannae say. Because they kent ye clearly." He studied her over the flames. "Enough tae hunt ye through moonlit woods."
"These are dangerous times." She shrugged, but her fingers tightened on the meat.
Ciaran reached for the water skin, taking a long draught. "Me scouts have been bringing in reports. Armed men crossing clan boundaries without permission. I think Wallace may be involved in this."
"Many clans grow bold when they see weakness, some more than others." Her voice remained carefully neutral, but he knew that she was silently acknowledging what he had said.
"Aye." He passed her the water. "Is that what they see in the MacAlpins? Weakness?"
Her eyes flashed dangerously in the firelight. "Me clan has endured longer than most. We may nae field armies as grand as the MacCraiths, but we still stand."
"I meant nay insult." He held up a hand. The fire crackled in the gathering darkness. Night birds called from the surrounding woods, their cries echoing Isolde's earlier words back to him. Overhead, the first stars emerged through the canopy.
"I've bedding in me pack," he said, rising to fetch it. "Ye should take the softer ground by the fire."
They prepared for sleep in practiced silence—boots off, cloaks spread, weapons within reach. Ciaran banked the fire to last through the night while Isolde arranged her makeshift bed.
As they settled on opposite sides of the dying flames, the glen fell quiet save for the crackle of embers and the soft snore of horses.
Then Isolde's voice cut through the darkness: "Tell me, Laird MacCraith, did learning me name truly change everything between us so completely?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ciaran's jaw tightened visibly, his eyes flickering to hers before returning to the fire. For a heartbeat, something raw and unguarded crossed his face—and Isolde thought it looked like pain—before his expression hardened once more.
The words hung in the night air between them, weighted with all she'd left unspoken. Isolde leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening in her lap as she waited for him to speak. The crackling fire illuminated the hard angles and shadows of this face, where for the past days there had been warmth.
How could a single word—MacAlpin—transform him so utterly? Just two nights before, his lips had sought hers beneath the lantern light with a hunger that matched her own. Now he sat before her like carved granite, every trace of that man locked away behind a laird's mask of duty.
She searched his face across the flames, desperate for even a flicker of the connection they'd shared. This distance between them felt impossible to cross—wider than glens, deeper thanlochs. Yet she had to try, had to know if what she'd glimpsed between them had been real, or merely a dream she'd foolishly allowed herself to believe.
"After everything between us," Isolde leaned forward, the firelight casting shadows across her determined features, "ye'll answer with naething but silence?"
Ciaran's gaze remained fixed on the dancing flames, as though they held answers she couldn't provide.
"Why?" she pressed, voice rising with each word. "Why daes one word—MacAlpin—erase everything that came before? Were yer emotions so shallow that ye cannae even look at me now that ye have learned me name?"
"Watch yer tongue, Lady MacAlpin." Ciaran's voice was controlled, measured, each syllable pronounced with deliberate formality.
