Page 45 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Our ancestors fought side by side," Isolde said, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "In times when both clans were legendary."
"Ancient history now. As ye will find with most Highland alliances." Was that the ghost of a smile on his face?
"Too ancient tae matter, apparently." She couldn't help the challenge in her voice.
To her surprise, Ciaran's laugh escaped—brief and rough, but genuine. "Yer tongue remains as sharp as the day I met ye, Isolde MacAlpin."
The sound of her name without the formal "Lady" sent warmth coursing through her. "I've always been told that," she muttered, "usually just before someone tells me to hold it. Ye ken, ye're the only man who never told me tae stay in me place."
"Nay. I like that ye speak yer mind."
Their eyes met, a moment of connection rekindling between them like an ember brought back to life. For the briefest moment, they were just a man and woman sharing a joke beneath the stars, the weight of clan names temporarily lifted from their shoulders.
"Tell me of yer maither," Ciaran suddenly changed the subject, catching Isolde off-guard.
The flames between them danced lower now, casting a gentler light across his features. Something in his tone had shifted. He was less the commanding laird, and simply a man inquiring.
Isolde studied him for a moment before answering. "She was remarkable. Born to the MacDonald clan, she brought their fierceness with her tae the MacAlpins." A smile touched her lips at the memory. "She could read and write in three languages, kept the ledgers with more skill than any steward, and still found time tae teach us girls everything from household management tae Highland history."
"She sounds like a formidable woman." Ciaran's voice held genuine respect.
"She was. The clan respected her judgment almost more than Faither's in some matters." Isolde's fingers absently traced patterns in the dirt beside her. "When traders came from Edinburgh or even France, she could haggle in their own tongues. They never expected it from a Highland lady."
"Me maither was similar," Ciaran offered, surprising her. "Though she died when I was young—eight summers old."
Isolde's eyes met his across the fire. Both had shouldered responsibilities too young, both knew what it meant to lose the foundation beneath their feet.
"The worst was watching Faither after me maither died," she added softly. "He's never truly recovered."
Ciaran nodded, the firelight catching on the angles of his face. "It changes a man, losing the one who holds his heart."
Isolde wondered if he spoke only of her father, or if the words held deeper meaning. The silence that followed felt comfortable rather than strained, as if some small barrier had crumbled between them.
Ciaran reached for the water skin, taking a drink before offering it to her. As she took it, their fingers brushed—a brief, accidental touch that sent a jolt through her body like summer lightning.
Their eyes met, held, and for a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Ciaran withdrew his hand as if burned, the fragile connection between them severing just as quickly as it had formed.
"Yer sisters," he said, his voice rougher than before. "Ye spoke of them with such affection. Each one different, ye said?"
Isolde understood the retreat, even as she mourned it. Still, she found herself answering, telling him bits she hadn't shared with Elspeth or any outsider—Rhona's fierce independence, Lorna's quiet wisdom, Isla's adventurous spirit, little Aileen's uncanny ability to calm even the most skittish foals.
As she spoke, she watched his face. The formal mask had softened, his eyes reflecting genuine interest in her words. No longer the unyielding laird, but something closer to the man who had danced with her beneath garden lanterns.
"So ye see," Isolde said softly, "despite Highland culture, a lass with wit and knowledge of strategy can be as valuable tae her clan as any sword arm, purse of gold or even a lad. When me maither saw her fourth and fifth children were lasses, she taught us that, so naebody will make us feel less valuable. MacAlpins have always kent this truth, even when others forget it."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hoofbeats thundered across the path as Ciaran urged his stallion forward, setting a punishing pace. Isolde's mare kept stride just behind.
Sleep had eluded him through the night. Isolde's words had echoed in his mind long after they'd retreated to opposite sides of the dying fire.
A lass with wit and knowledge of strategy can be as valuable tae her clan…
Indeed, she had proven herself more capable than many lads he'd met in his lifetime—quick-witted, strong-willed, possessed of both intelligence and spirit. Yet that changed nothing between them. Duty remained, immutable as the ancient stones that marked clan boundaries.
The morning had begun in tense silence, neither willing to resume the previous night's argument. They'd broken campefficiently, their movements around each other a careful dance of avoidance. When their fingers had brushed accidentally while dousing the fire, Ciaran had withdrawn as if burned, ignoring the flash of hurt in her eyes.
Now, leagues stretched behind them, eaten by their relentless pace. The MacAlpin borders lay ahead—perhaps by midday he would be free of her, this vexing woman who had somehow worked her way beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn't extract.
