Page 7 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Me castle is less than an hour's ride. Ye can rest there, tend that cut properly, and I'll have me men escort ye home, but only if ye tell me which clan ye belong tae." When she hesitated, he added softly,
"I cannae?—"
"Ye can and ye will," he said, his voice taking on the tone that silenced arguments in his council chamber. "Fer if ye think I'll stand here debating while ye bleed on forest leaves, ye're sorely mistaken."
Her shoulders squared. "Ye cannae command me, Laird MacCraith. I am nae one of yer clan."
"Then from which clan are ye?" he challenged.
Silence stretched between them. She glanced toward the path she'd been following, calculating. Ciaran watched her, fascinated by the play of thoughts behind those expressive eyes.
"I willnae tell ye me name or me home," she finally said. "But neither can I remain in these woods."
"Then we have only one option." Ciaran moved toward his horse, which had remained calm throughout the skirmish, trained for battle as it was. "Ye'll come tae Castle MacCraith."
"I willnae."
He turned back to her, amusement fading. "Fight me all ye want, lass, but ye're coming with me. One way or another."
Something in his tone must have convinced her of his resolve. She stared at him for a long moment, measuring him as one might an opponent across a battlefield.
"Until dawn," she conceded finally. "I will stay until dawn, and then I must go."
Triumph rose in Ciaran's chest. But it was not enough. "Nay, lass. I’ll nae let ye go until ye tell me yer clan and I can see ye safely tae yer home."
He approached his horse, a massive black stallion that towered over her slight frame, and tied the mare’s reins to its saddle, so itwould follow him. Before she could protest, he placed his hands at her waist and lifted her effortlessly onto his saddle.
The contact sent a jolt through him, like the ones he felt while dancing with her.
Careful, man. Ye ken naething about her.
As he lifted her, the silk ribbon of her mask caught on his sleeve. The delicate covering fell away, revealing her face in the moonlight. Her gasp was immediate, her hand flying up to cover herself, but it was too late.
His breath caught in his throat, heat surging through his veins. The lass was bonnie beyond measure—her high cheekbones flushed with color, those fierce blue eyes that had haunted him now framed by long lashes that swept against her skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, full and slightly parted in surprise, the bottom one bearing the smallest cut from her ordeal.
"So, the mystery lass finally shows her face," he teased, attempting to make light of the moment.
Ciaran bent down, retrieving the fallen mask from the forest floor, his eyes never leaving her now-exposed features. She leaned slightly forward, causing a cascade of dark ginger hair to tumble over her shoulder, drawing his eye to the gentle curve where it stopped just above the swell of her breast. The thin fabric of her torn gown clung to her body, revealing hints of soft curves he had felt while dancing.
Christ!
The word a prayer and curse combined as desire crashed through him. This was no mere appreciation of beauty—this was hunger, primal and demanding.
There was something vaguely familiar about her face that tugged at his memory, though he couldn't place it. Instinctively, he slipped the mask into his cloak pocket. "Ye sure we havenae met, lass? Something about ye…"
But she cut him off. "Let’s go. By dawn ye’ll likely forget ye ever saw me." Now that the mask was off, he could see her expression and she seemed slightly alarmed.
I’ll ken what ye’re hiding before daybreak.
Yet as he swung up behind her, his chest pressed against her back, arms encircling her to take the reins, Ciaran knew he was treading dangerous ground. Something about this woman called to him in a way no other had.
"Hold tight," he murmured, his breath stirring the fine hairs near her ear. He felt her slight shiver and smiled to himself as they set off through the moonlit forest.
'The warrior in silk' sat rigidly at first, trying to maintain distance where none was possible. Gradually, as the horse navigated the uneven terrain, her body yielded to the rhythm of the ride, softening against him. The scent of her hair—sweet roses mingling with night air—filled his senses with every breath.
What in the devil's name is wrong with ye, man?
Ciaran had had beautiful women from powerful clans across the Highlands presented to him like prized mares at auction. Daughters of lairds and chieftains had smiled and flirted, offering political alliances along with their dowries and bodies, yet none had affected him like this nameless lass.
