Page 64 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Laird MacAlpin." Ciaran offered the traditional bow between equals. "Fergive me unannounced arrival."
"Few come tae the MacAlpins these days," Alistair replied, moving to take his seat behind the desk. The motion was careful, controlled, as if hiding discomfort. "What brings the Laird of Clan MacCraith tae our door?"
Ciaran noted the subtle emphasis on titles—a reminder of the formal nature of their relationship.
"Me men and I encountered Wallace raiders near your eastern border yesterday," Ciaran explained, maintaining the cover story he and Isolde had agreed upon. "Men attacking a village that I believe falls under MacAlpin protection."
Alistair's expression darkened. "Braehead. Did ye intervene?"
"We did. The men fled, but not before burning cottages and hurting several villagers. I believe at least two may be dead."
"And ye rode directly here tae inform me?" Alistair's tone held skepticism. "Most unusual fer a MacCraith, least of all the laird himself tae concern himself with MacAlpin troubles."
"Highland troubles concern all clans," Ciaran replied evenly. "Wallace grows bolder by the day. His incursions have begun along my southern borders as well."
"So this is about protecting MacCraith interests." There was no accusation in Alistair's voice, merely acceptance of political reality.
"Partly," Ciaran acknowledged. "But also about addressing a common threat. Wallace will not stop with border raids."
Alistair studied him for a long moment. "Ye speak as if ye have insight into his plans."
"I've intercepted his men on several occasions now. Their movements suggest organization beyond simple raiding. He's testing defenses, probing for weaknesses."
"And ye find mine lacking." It wasn't a question.
Ciaran recognized the pride in the older man's bearing. It was the same pride he'd seen in Isolde when she'd shown him her clan's struggling lands. "I find yours targeted," he corrected carefully. "Which suggests Wallace sees something valuable in MacAlpin territory."
Something shifted in Alistair's expression. It was a flicker of concern quickly masked. "What else did ye observe during this... intervention?"
Ciaran maintained his neutral expression. "The villagers mentioned increased Wallace patrols along your eastern border. They fear more attacks may come."
"Me clan matters are me own concern, Laird MacCraith." Alistair's voice cooled perceptibly.
"Of course," Ciaran agreed smoothly. "I merely thought the information might be of value."
Tension stretched between them, unspoken questions hovering in the air. Ciaran wondered how much Alistair suspected—about Isolde's connection to him, about Wallace's true intentions, about the real purpose behind Ciaran's presence at his castle.
Finally, Alistair sighed, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. "Ye've ridden far tae bring this news. MacAlpin hospitality demands we offer rest and refreshment at minimum."
"I would be honored," Ciaran replied, recognizing the formal offer for what it was. Not genuine welcome, but adherence to ancient Highland customs that transcended clan rivalries.
"Ye and yer men may stay the night if ye wish. We dine at sundown." Alistair gestured to a servant who had appeared silently in the doorway. "Show Laird MacCraith and his men to the guest chambers in the west wing."
"Ye're most generous," Ciaran said. "But I am here alone. But I would be more than happy tae dine with ye and yer family."
Alistair's gaze sharpened.
"Very well." Alistair's noncommittal reply was belied by the suspicion in his eyes. "If ye'll excuse me, Laird MacCraith, clan matters require me attention."
As Ciaran followed the servant from the study, he felt Alistair's gaze on his back. Calculating, wary, protective. The older laird sensed something amiss, though he couldn't know the truth of how his eldest daughter and the Laird of Clan MacCraith had come to be connected.
Now all that remained was to find a way to speak with Isolde privately as soon as he could—to coordinate their stories and plan their next steps together.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The MacAlpin great hall stood transformed by candlelight, shadows concealing the tapestries and faded grandeur that daylight revealed. Ciaran surveyed the scene from his position at Alistair MacAlpin's right hand, the place of honor that tradition demanded for a visiting laird.
Silver gleamed on the high table, though he noted it was concentrated near their settings while simple pewter served the lesser tables. A calculated display of wealth where it would be most noticed.
