Page 44 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
The night seemed to hold its breath around them. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl called, its lonely cry echoing Isolde's unspoken pain.
"Nay." Her voice was quiet but determined.
Ciaran's head jerked up, surprise flickering across his features before the mask slipped back into place. He sat up straighter, shoulders squaring. "Nay? Ye dare defy me command?"
"Nay. I willnae defy yer command as a laird. But I dare tae defy yer command as a man who I ken cares fer me." Her voice softened on his name. "Ciaran..."
The plea spilt from her lips, but she could sense the wall between them still standing. The deliberate distance stung like a physical blow.
"What would ye have me say tae ye, Lady MacAlpin?" The formal tone and stiff body language made his retreat complete.
Isolde recoiled before anger surged through her veins, hot and clarifying.
"I would have ye speak truth fer once!" she snapped, fists clenching at her sides.
"Truth?" Ciaran's laugh was harsh in the darkness. "Ye want truth? The truth is I am laird before I am man."
"Ye are above such an answer," Isolde fired back, the fire between them flaring as if responding to her anger. "Ye were laird as well, were ye not? When ye danced with me, and kissed me beneath the stars—were ye nae laird then too?"
Ciaran's jaw tightened. "Aye. And I was wrong."
"Wrong?" Her voice caught. "Was it wrong tae see me as something other than my clan name?"
"It was wrong tae indulge meself and forget me duty." He straightened, his voice hardening with each word. "The MacCraith council exists fer a reason. Political alliances through marriage must strengthen the clan."
"And the MacAlpins have nothing tae offer?" The words tasted bitter on her tongue.
His silence was louder than any words he could have answered.
Isolde rose to her feet, unable to remain still beneath the weight of his dismissal. She paced around the fire, the flames casting her shadow long against the surrounding trees.
"So that's all that matters? Gold in coffers? Fighting men? Nae character or courage or?—"
"It matters that I keep me people safe!" His voice rose to match hers. "Every laird who was ever worth the name puts his clan above himself. Marrying a daughter of a wealthy, powerful clan means protection, trade, alliances that keep our borders secure."
"And ye think I dinnae understand duty?" She whirled to face him. "Who dae ye think has managed the MacAlpin household these past five years while me faither grieved? Who stretches every coin, mends every garment, ensures me sisters have enough tae eat when winter stretches long?"
Ciaran remained seated, but Isolde noticed his knuckles had whitened where they gripped the hilt of his dirk.
"If ye understand duty so well," he said, voice dangerous in its softness, "then ye ken why I must dae this. Would ye nae dae the same fer yer clan? Fer yer sisters?"
The question struck true. Isolde's steps faltered. She would sacrifice anything for her family—had already sacrificed her youth, her freedom, every small comfort.
"Aye," she admitted finally. "Fer me sisters, I would."
Something shifted in Ciaran's expression—a flicker of understanding, of shared burden.
"Then ye ken why there cannae be anything between us."
"But that's where ye're wrong," she countered, moving closer. "There are different kinds of strength than just gold and swords. The MacAlpins may have fallen on hard times, but our lands are still strategically valuable. We control the passes between four clan territories—yours, Wallace's, the MacFarlanes', and our own. Whoever holds those passes controls trade and military access tae the northern Highlands."
Ciaran's brow furrowed slightly. For the first time since revealing her name, he looked at her directly—truly looked at her.
"I ken that, lass. I like that ye think strategically of yer clan."
"I speak like a woman who's spent her life learning tae survive." She knelt beside the fire, closer to him now. "The MacAlpins and MacCraiths shared ancient alliances, did ye ken that? Our clans stood together centuries ago."
"Aye," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Me faither spoke of it. The first MacCraith laird and the MacAlpin king forged a blood oath during the ninth century."
