Page 47 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Villagers scrambled in frantic disarray—men and women forming desperate water chains from the nearby burn, passing leather buckets hand to hand. Children wailed, huddled together beneath a massive oak at the village edge, their tear-stained faces smudged with soot.
Near the well, the injured lay on blankets—an old man with badly burned arms, a woman cradling a bloodied head, a boy no more than ten clutching a wound at his side.
"Sweet Mother of God," Isolde gasped behind him. "Wallace…"
Ciaran's jaw tightened. "Ye dinnae ken that fer certain, lass."
"I ken it in me bones," she replied, already sliding from the horse before he could stop her.
The village square was thick with smoke and desperation. A mother clutched a child to her chest, tears cutting clean trails through the soot on her face. Men formed a line from the burn to the nearest building, passing buckets with grim determination.
"Where's yer headman?" Ciaran called out, dismounting in one fluid motion.
An older man with singed eyebrows stepped forward. "I'm Floyd. And who might ye be?"
"Laird Ciaran MacCraith," he answered, already removing his cloak. "What happened here?"
"Men came at first light," Floyd said, voice rough with smoke and exhaustion. "Ten, maybe more. Torches and dirks. They'd been coming fer weeks, saying we were tae pay tribute tae Laird Wallace or suffer the consequences." His eyes dropped to the ground. "We had naething tae give."
Isolde flinched at the confirmation, guilt washing over her. These were her people, suffering when they should have been protected.
"Water willnae be enough fer the smith's," a young lad shouted, pointing to a building where flames licked higher than the rest.
"There are folk still inside the chapel!" a woman cried from across the square.
Ciaran's eyes met Isolde's for one brief moment—enough to communicate without words. He nodded, then turned to the village men.
"Ye lot, keep working on the homes that can be saved," he commanded with the natural authority of a laird. "Ye three, with me."
As he ran toward a burning building, flames already licking at its timber roof, Ciaran glanced back to see Isolde gathering her skirts, organizing women at the well. Her voice carried clear and strong above the chaos: "Bring anything that ken carry water! Buckets, pots, anything!"
Pride swelled in his chest, unexpected and fierce. The lass had mettle.
Inside, screams guided him to a trapped family—a mother clutching two small children behind a fallen beam. Ciaran heaved against the burning wood, ignoring the searing pain against his palms as he created just enough space for them to crawl through.
"Go!" he shouted to the village men. "Get them out!"
The smallest child, a wee lass no more than four, trembled too violently to move. Without hesitation, Ciaran scooped her into his arms, shielding her face against his chest as he charged through the thickening smoke toward daylight.
Outside, he surrendered the child to her weeping mother, his lungs burning with each ragged breath. There was no time to rest. He immediately turned his attention to the spread of the flames, directing men to tear down a small shed to create a firebreak.
For hours they fought against the relentless flames. Ciaran worked alongside farmers and craftsmen, his fine clothes forgotten, his status as laird meaningless against nature's fury. What mattered was saving lives, protecting homes.
Twice he caught glimpses of Isolde—once comforting an injured elder, and later organizing children to help carry water. Her fine dress—the one he'd gifted her—was now ruined with smoke andsoot, yet somehow she looked more regal than any noblewoman he had known.
As dusk fell, the worst was over. Of the twelve buildings in the village, five were completely destroyed, three damaged but standing, and four had been spared. Miraculously, no lives had been lost, though the village healer was tending to burns and smoke-filled lungs.
Ciaran's entire body ached with exhaustion. His hands, blistered from the burning beam, throbbed painfully. Yet what weighed heaviest was the knowledge that that had been no accident—it had been Wallace's deliberate cruelty.
He found Isolde sitting on an overturned bucket, a cup of water clutched in trembling hands. Even streaked with soot and sweat, her beauty struck him anew. This was no pampered noble daughter, but a woman of strength and compassion.
"Ye did well today," he said, his voice rough from smoke.
She looked up, her blue eyes startlingly bright against her soot-darkened face.
"As did ye," she replied softly. "These people..." she gestured to the villagers gathered in small groups, some weeping, others silent with shock, "they're me faither's responsibility. Me responsibility."
Ciaran crouched beside her, his voice low. "Wallace is growing bolder. He means tae take everything."
