Page 53 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Come in, come in," he said, his weathered face creasing into a smile. "Ye're both soaked tae the bone."
His wife Margaret appeared behind him, a small woman with kind eyes and flour dusting her apron. "Oh, me lady, look at the state of ye! And me laird! Ye've been fighting fer us today." She clucked her tongue like a mother hen. "Come away from that door before ye catch yer death."
Isolde stepped into the warmth of the cottage, immediately struck by its cozy simplicity. A peat fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on whitewashed walls. The scent of fresh bannocks and mutton stew filled the air, making her stomach clench with sudden hunger.
"We've two rooms upstairs," Margaret said, already bustling about. "Nothing grand, mind ye, but clean and dry. Angus, help his lordship with his cloak."
"There's no need tae fuss—" Ciaran began, but Margaret waved him silent.
"Nonsense. Ye've saved our village today. 'Tis the least we can dae." She turned to Isolde with motherly concern. "Me lady, I'll have hot water brought up for washing, and there's a clean shiftthat belonged tae me daughter before she married and moved north. It'll dae until yer own clothes dry."
"Ye're too kind," Isolde murmured, touched by their generosity despite having lost so much that day.
"Kindness is repaying a debt," Angus said gruffly. "Without his lairdship's sword, we'd have lost more than buildings taeday."
Margaret disappeared into what Isolde assumed was the kitchen, already calling for her young servant girl to heat water and gather linens. The efficiency of their hospitality, even in the face of disaster, was something to behold.
"The rooms are just up the stairs," Angus said, gesturing toward a narrow wooden staircase. "Naething fancy, but the beds are soft and the blankets warm."
Ciaran's eyes met Isolde's across the small room, and she felt that same electric current that had sparked between them all day. Two rooms. Separate rooms. It was proper, respectable, exactly what should happen.
So why did her heart sink slightly at the thought?
An hour later, Isolde sat clean and warm in Margaret's borrowed shift, her damp hair falling loose around her shoulders. The servant girl had brought up a tray of food—thick mutton stew, fresh bannocks, and sweet butter.
"Could ye tell me," she asked the girl quietly, "has his lairdship eaten?"
"Nay, me lady. He asked fer the food tae be left outside his door. Said he wasna hungry."
Isolde frowned. Why would he refuse food after such a fierce battle? Something was wrong.
She rose from the small wooden chair. Outside, the corridor was dim, lit only by a single candle in a wall sconce. Ciaran's door was shut, and she could see the untouched tray sitting on the floor beside it.
"Me laird?" She knocked softly. "Are ye well?"
"Aye." His voice was rough. "Just need some rest. Have ye eaten, lass?"
But there was something in his tone that made her push the door open despite propriety. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his leine and plaid discarded, candlelight flickering across the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.
"Ye're hurt," she said, moving toward him.
"It's naething," he dismissed, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed him.
"Let me see." Her tone brooked no argument as she stepped closer, reaching for his arm.
For a moment, he remained stubbornly still. Then, with a resigned sigh, he extended his arm.
"Naething?" she echoed incredulously. "Ye call this naething? If this isnae tended properly, it'll fester."
Without waiting for permission, she positioned the basin of water beside them. Their eyes met briefly before he looked away.
"I've had worse," he said, his voice low.
"That daesnae make this less serious," Isolde replied, gently cleaning the wound with water and soap. The cut was deep but clean. "How did this happen?"
Ciaran gave a carefree shrug, barely wincing as she worked. "A blade caught me when I turned tae check on ye."
The words settled between them, heavy with implication. He'd been wounded because he'd looked back to ensure her safety. A rough hand unexpectedly covered hers, stilling her ministrations.
