Page 54 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Ye fought well today," he said quietly. "Few lasses would have stood their ground against trained warriors."
"I'm nae most lasses," she replied, resuming her work on his wound.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Nay. Ye're definitely nae."
She tore a clean strip from the cloth and began wrapping his arm, watching his face for any sign of pain. His features remained stoic, though she noticed the slight tightening around his eyes with each turn of the bandage.
"Why are ye being kind tae me again?" The question escaped her lips before she could snatch it back.
His eyes darkened. "Have I been unkind, then?"
"Ye ken fine what I mean," she pressed, her fingers stilling on his arm. "Since I told ye me clan name, ye've been a different man. Cold. Distant. Yet here—" she gestured to his wound, to the small space between them, "—ye look at me as ye once did."
Something like regret flickered across his face before he quickly mastered his expression. "The battlefield changes things."
"Daes it?" she asked softly.
His eyes darkened as he watched her hands continue their gentle work on his wound. "Aye. It strips away pretense. Shows a man what truly matters." His voice grew rougher. "Shows him what he's willing tae fight fer."
"And what would that be?"
"When I saw ye standing against Wallace's men today," he said, his gaze intense, "fighting with the courage of ten warriors, I knew." His free hand came up to catch a strand of her damp hair, twisting it gently around his finger. "I am MacCraith, but I fought fer ye, lass."
She stilled, looking up at him with wide eyes.
"I reacted badly before," he continued, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Pushed ye away when I shouldnae have. But that daesnae change what's been true since the moment we first danced." His thumb traced along her jawline. "What's been growing between us whether I wanted it or nae."
"Ciaran..." she breathed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
His eyes found hers, dark and full of conflict. For a heartbeat, the mask of the dutiful laird slipped, revealing the man beneath—the one who'd danced with her beneath lantern light, who'd looked at her in that cream silk gown as though she were the only woman in the Highlands.
"Isolde," he breathed, her name both warning and plea.
She finished binding his arm, her fingers lingering on his skin. Her pulse quickened at the warmth of his flesh, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. "The laird who keeps me at arm's length wouldnae be looking at me the way ye are now."
Ciaran's hand covered hers, stilling her movement but not pushing her away. "What happened taeday doesnae change what must be."
"Daesnae it?" She leaned closer, emboldened by the heat in his gaze. "We fought as one today. Ye saw me as I truly am, nae just a MacAlpin."
"I've always seen ye," he admitted roughly. "That was never the problem."
"Then what is?" she challenged, her fingers still trapped beneath his larger hand. "If ye've always seen me, why let a name stand between us now?"
The firelight caught the conflict in his eyes, and for one breathless moment, Isolde thought he might finally speak the truth that hung between them.
Instead, Ciaran withdrew his hand, his expression shuttering once more. "Let it be, Isolde. "
"Always running from what ye cannae control," she muttered, frustrated by his retreat.
"I'm laird first," he replied. "Me people depend on me making decisions with me head, nae me—" He stopped abruptly.
"Yer heart?" she finished for him, her voice softening.
Ciaran didn’t react to her words, still his muscles tensed beneath her touch, then gradually relaxed. The firelight played across his skin, highlighting the powerful contours of his shoulders, thestrength in his arms that had wielded a claymore as though it weighed nothing.
When she moved around to face him, her heart stuttered in her chest. His torso was evidence of years of warfare and training. He was lean and hard, with dark hair tapering down to disappear beneath his kilt. Another scar, this one longer and paler with age, curved across his ribs.
