Page 52 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
A recognition that went deeper than mere attraction passed between them. They had faced ruin and death together that day and had emerged changed. The battle had stripped away pretense between them, leaving something raw and honest in its place. Something inevitable.
As Floyd led them toward the cottage, Isolde felt Ciaran's gaze on her. The rain was falling harder now, turning the muddy village paths treacherous, but she barely noticed. All she could think about was the way he'd looked at her across the battlefield, the way his eyes had found hers when the fighting was done.
"'Twas nae as bad as it could have been," Ciaran observed, his hand reaching out to hold her gently by the waist. "Only two cottages lost, and the grain stores mostly saved."
"This time," she said quietly, trying hard to remain normal despite the sensations running through her at the way his fingers gently, but firmly pressed into her flesh. Ciaran's touch was like that. Insistent, yet not rushed. "But Wallace willnae stop here."
Ciaran studied her face in the moon light. "Tell me about Wallace. What daes he want with yer clan?"
Isolde was quiet for a long moment, then decided there was nothing to hide anymore. "He wants tae force a marriage that gives him control of everything we have." Her voice grew bitter. "Me faither has nay sons, ye see. Only daughters. And Wallace kens that if he can wed one of us, he gains claim tae all MacAlpin holdings."
"But surely yer faither wouldnae?—"
"Me faither grows weaker each year," she interrupted. "The clan council grows more frightened. If Wallace keeps attacking our people, burning our villages..." She shrugged helplessly. "How long before they decide 'tis better tae sacrifice one daughter than lose everything?"
Ciaran frowned. "Why would Wallace go tae such lengths? It's not like Wallace daesnae have land of its own."
"Greed. We may nae have the largest territory, but we control the mountain passes between the Lowlands and the western isles." Her eyes flashed with anger. "And Wallace has the men and arms tae wage this kind of war."
"And yer clan cannae?"
"Nae in the way that matters against men like Wallace."
The pieces began falling into place in Ciaran's mind. "The night we met," he said slowly. "When those men attacked ye?—"
"Aye." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "They were Wallace's men. He must have been watching, waiting fer one of us tae venture beyond our borders." She met his gaze steadily. "Any one of the MacAlpin daughters would have been sufficient as bride, but I was the fool who gave him his chance."
Ciaran's jaw tightened. "Ye werenae a fool fer wanting a moment of freedom."
"Wasnae I? Look where it's led." She gestured toward the tavern door, beyond which lay the damaged village. "He's been hunting us ever since that night. Every attack, every burned cottage—it's all because I escaped him."
"Nay." Ciaran's voice was firm, dangerous. "It's because he's a bastard who preys on those he thinks cannae fight back."
"This isnae yer fault, lass." His hand squeezed her waist.
Isolde stared down and Ciaran felt the slight tremor that ran through her. "Sometimes I think... maybe I should have let him take me that night. Maybe then none of this would have happened."
"Dinnae." The word came out harsher than he intended. "Dinnae ever think that. Ye did what any person with courage would dae—ye fought fer yer freedom."
She looked up at him then, something vulnerable and grateful in her expression. "Why dae ye care so much? These arenae yer people he's hurting."
Ciaran was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing her side. "Maybe nae by blood," he said finally. "But any man who would terrorize innocent folk tae force a marriage..." His green eyes hardened. "That makes him me enemy too. Besides, now there’s ye… "
Silence stretched between them at the implication of his words.
"What will ye dae now?" he asked.
"Go home. Try tae convince me faither that we need tae fight instead of hiding." Her laugh held no humor. "Though I doubt he'll listen tae his daughter's counsel over his advisors' fears."
"And if he daesnae?"
Isolde met his gaze steadily. "Then I'll find another way tae protect me clan." She shook her head.
By now they were at the door of the tavern. Ciaran caught her hand.
"Isolde," he said quietly. "Whatever ye're thinking of daeing—dinnae face it alone."
Inside, the tavern was humble but clean, its stone walls thick enough to keep out the worst of the Highland weather. Angus MacLeod, a man of perhaps sixty with silver threading through his dark hair, opened the door before they could knock.
