Page 63 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Nightmares," Isolde decided. "I thrashed about and scraped against the bedpost."
They spent the next hour refining details of their deception, planning Isolde's gradual recovery with the precision of military tacticians. As the sun began its descent toward the western hills, Lorna rose to prepare Isolde's bedchamber while Isla fetched clean nightclothes.
Aileen lingered behind. "I was so frightened," she admitted, her composure finally cracking. "First ye disappear, then Rhona. I thought I might lose ye both."
Isolde pulled her sister into a fierce embrace. "Ye'll nae lose either of us, I swear it. We'll find Rhona and bring her home safely."
"Dae ye truly believe Laird MacCraith will help us?" Aileen asked, her voice muffled against Isolde's shoulder.
"I dae," Isolde replied, surprised by the certainty in her own voice. "He's a man of honor, Aileen. When he gives his word, he keeps it."
The young girl pulled back, studying her sister's face. "Ye care fer him, and more than in yer previous dreamy manner," she said, not a question but a simple observation.
Isolde opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. There was no point lying to Aileen, who had always seen through her better than anyone. "It's complicated," she finally said.
"Most important things are," Aileen replied with wisdom beyond her sixteen years.
Lorna returned, breaking the moment. "Yer chamber is ready. We should move ye there before the servants begin dinner preparations."
As Isolde followed her sisters through the familiar corridors of her childhood home as secretively as they could, she felt like a stranger. The girl who had snuck away to attend a masquerade ball had vanished, replaced by a woman who had fought beside warriors, faced death, and discovered strengths she'd never known she possessed, all while growing emotionally attached to a laird.
Whether that woman could find her sister and protect her clan while navigating the treacherous waters of her feelings for Ciaran MacCraith remained to be seen.
Ciaran MacCraith rode through the main gates of Castle MacAlpin the following morning, his stallion's hooves echoing against the cobblestones of the outer courtyard.
The castle rose before him, its stones bathed in morning light. He remembered his first visit two years before, when he'd gone seeking alliance against border raiders. Then, the fortress had impressed him with its strategic position, despite showing the signs of a clan in decline.
Now, the deterioration was more evident. One section of the curtain wall had been hastily repaired. Several of the outbuildings stood empty, their thatched roofs sagging. Most telling was the number of guards. A castle this size should have had at least twenty men visible on the walls and in the yard. He counted only seven.
Yet pride remained in how the guards carried themselves, the MacAlpin banner flying defiantly from the highest tower. These were people holding onto their dignity despite diminished circumstances.
A grizzled man with the bearing of a senior guard approached, offering a formal bow.
"I’m Laird MacCraith, I seek audience with Laird MacAlpin," Ciaran said.
"Laird MacCraith. Ye honor us with yer presence."
"Me men and I crossed paths with Wallace raiders near yer borders yesterday. I thought it prudent tae bring word directly," Ciaran said, dismounting with fluid grace.
"If ye'll follow me, I'll inform Laird MacAlpin of yer arrival."
Ciaran handed his stallion's reins to a stable boy, noting how the lad's clothes hung loosely on his thin frame. Even the servants showed signs of the clan's hardships.
They were led through the main hall, where tapestries depicting MacAlpin victories hung proudly on stone walls. Ciaran remembered a formal dinner hosted there many, many summers back—the hall filled with clansmen, the atmosphere warm and welcoming despite the already-dwindling resources.
Now the great hearth held only a small fire, and the long tables that had once accommodated feasts stood bare.
The guard escorted them to a smaller chamber off the main hall—the laird's study, judging by the shelves of leather-bound ledgers and the massive oak desk positioned before a narrow window.
"Wait here, me laird. I'll fetch Laird MacAlpin."
Ciaran nodded, using the opportunity to assess the room. The desk surface held several maps with markings that suggested defensive considerations. A half-written letter lay abandonedbeside an inkwell, the handwriting strong but uneven, as if written by someone fighting fatigue or illness.
He moved to examine a worn tapestry depicting what appeared to be the castle in its glory days, surrounded by prosperous farmlands and forests teeming with game. How different from the reality he'd seen on his approach.
"Laird MacCraith."
Ciaran turned at the familiar voice. Alistair MacAlpin stood in the doorway, his imposing height undiminished by age, though he leaned almost imperceptibly on an ornately carved walking stick. The last two years had left their mark. Silver now dominated his once-auburn hair, and new lines etched his face. Yet his eyes remained sharp as he assessed his unexpected visitor.
