Page 60 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
“Aye." Ciaran pressed.
Isolde nodded. "And we're vulnerable," she added, the words tasting bitter. "We've nae the men nor the gold tae defend ourselves properly, not since the drought three years past when half our tenants left fer the Lowlands."
They rode in silence for several moments, the only sounds the soft thud of hooves on the forest floor and the distant call of birds. Isolde wondered if he was judging her clan's weakness, comparing the struggling MacAlpins to his own prosperous lands.
"Why has yer faither nae sought allies against him?" Ciaran finally asked, his tone careful but direct.
Isolde's shoulders stiffened. The question struck at the heart of her frustrations with her father, ones she rarely voiced aloud. "Me faither is proud. Too proud, perhaps. He remembers when the MacAlpins were among the strongest clans in the Highlands, when other lairds came tae us fer protection." Her voice softened. "He cannae bear the thought of appearing weak before those who once sought our favor."
"Even if that pride costs him everything? I was there, at yer clan that day tae discuss border security with him, but he wouldnae have any of it."
The question about her father's pride hung between them. Isolde recalled how her father had dismissed Ciaran when he visited, stating he'd had ulterior motives.
Before she could respond, the dense woodland began to thin, sunlight breaking through in larger patches until they emerged from the forest onto a rise overlooking the valley below.
"We are close," she said, reining her mare to a halt beside an ancient standing stone that marked the boundary.
Below them spread the heart of her clan's territory. Rolling hills that once covered with prosperous farms now partially reclaimed by nature. Several fields lay fallow, stone cottages abandoned, their roofs caved in from neglect.
In the distance, smoke rose from the chimneys of the remaining crofts, but even from here, Isolde could see how few they were compared to her childhood.
The contrast with the MacCraith lands they'd left behind was stark. Where Ciaran's territory had bustled with activity—fields heavy with crops, roads busy with commerce—her homeland seemed half-asleep, half abandoned.
"When I was a bairn," she said, her voice softening with memory, "every field ye see was tended. Every cottage had a family, and the harvest celebrations would last fer days." She gestured toward a distant ridge. "The sheep used tae cover those hills like clouds. We exported the finest wool in the Highlands."
Ciaran remained tactfully silent, though she could feel his assessment in his gaze. The warrior in him would see the strategic weaknesses, the laird would calculate the economic struggles. But what did the man see?
"I ken it's nae impressive compared tae what ye're used tae," she admitted, unable to mask the defensive edge in her voice. "But this land has weathered more storms than most and still stands."
"I dinnae see weakness here," Ciaran said unexpectedly. "I see land that could thrive again with the right care."
His words warmed her spirit. "That's what I've always believed. If we could just survive these lean years, protect what remains..." She hesitated, then pressed on. "I have plans drawn up, ways tae restore the southern fields and tae rebuild the mill by the river. The cloth trade could bring prosperity again."
"Ye've the mind of a laird," he observed.
"I've the heart of a MacAlpin," she corrected, lifting her chin. "We dinnae surrender what's ours, even when the fight seems hopeless." The passion in her voice surprised even her. "These failures are temporary. One day, these lands will thrive again, even if I must rebuild them with me own two hands."
They rode down the slope toward a small burn that cut through the valley. A lone farmer looked up from his work as they passed, offering a respectful nod to Isolde. She returned the gesture with the easy familiarity of someone who knew every face in her clan.
"The people stay loyal," Ciaran noted.
"The MacAlpins have always valued our people above gold," she replied. "When the drought came, me faither forgave their rents fer two seasons. Many left anyway, seeking better fortune elsewhere, but those who remained..." Her voice filled with quiet pride. "Those who remained are true MacAlpins."
As they forded the shallow burn, Isolde caught Ciaran studying a cluster of abandoned cottages, his expression unreadable.
"Ye're thinking we cannot defend ourselves," she said bluntly. "That Wallace could sweep through here like a summer storm."
"I'm thinking ye've endured more than most clans could without breaking," he replied. "There's strength in that, Isolde. Dinnae mistake me concern fer dismissal."
She held his gaze for a long moment, searching for pity and finding only respect, and it felt more precious than gold.
"We may be fewer," she said finally, "but a MacAlpin stands as tall as any Highlander. Never doubt it."
The path curved around a weathered stone outcropping, and there before them, MacAlpin Castle rose against the afternoon sky. Unlike the imposing fortress of Castle MacCraith with its multiple towers and formidable walls, her ancestral home was smaller, nestled into the hillside as though it had grown from the very rock.
Ivy climbed its ancient stones, and the western tower, which was the oldest part of the structure, leaned ever so slightly as if tired after centuries of standing watch.
Isolde studied Ciaran's face as he took in the sight, searching for disappointment but finding none. They reined their horses to a halt on the ridge overlooking the final approach.
