Page 71 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Both, perhaps." Isolde allowed herself a small smile. "But first, he'll help us find Rhona."
The mention of their missing sister sobered the room instantly.
"Dae ye think he truly can?" Aileen asked, her youthful bravado cracking to reveal the frightened girl beneath.
Isolde pulled her youngest sister into an embrace. "If anyone can, it's Ciaran. He already has men watching Wallace's borders. They'll be questioned this morning if they've seen anyone matching Rhona's description."
Lorna, ever practical, nodded her approval. "But what of Faither?"
The question brought Isolde up short. She had been so consumed with Ciaran, with her own feelings, with plans for finding Rhona, that she had scarcely considered her father's role in what was to come.
"I'll have tae speak tae Faither before Ciaran departs. She realized aloud. "Immediately. He needs tae ken I'm truly recovered before Ciaran leaves. Perhaps..." She hesitated, an idea forming. "Perhaps I can even encourage him tae be more receptive tae MacCraith's overtures."
"Without revealing that ye've already been thoroughly... receptive?" Isla suggested with a wicked grin.
"Isla!" Lorna scolded, though her lips twitched despite herself.
"Help me dress," Isolde said, ignoring the jibe as she moved to the basin to wash. "I'll need tae look improved but still somewhat fragile. And me hair?—"
Her sisters moved with practiced efficiency, transforming her into Lady Isolde MacAlpin, eldest daughter and acting lady of the castle. Lorna brushed her hair into a simple braid while Isla selected a pale blue dress that would emphasize the lingering pallor appropriate for someone recovering from lengthy illness.
"Remember tae walk slowly," Lorna instructed as they finished. "Ye're meant tae be weak from being in bed."
"And cough occasionally," Aileen added. "Nae too much, just enough tae seem improving."
"And fer heaven's sake," Isla whispered as she opened the chamber door, "try nae tae glow quite so obviously when speaking of Laird MacCraith."
With these less-than-reassuring admonitions, Isolde made her way carefully through the familiar corridors of her childhood home. Servants she passed expressed delight at her improved condition, offering curtsies and well-wishes that stoked her guilt over the deception.
Outside her father's study, she paused to collect herself. As a child, she had played beneath its massive oak desk while her father conducted the affairs of their people. As she grew, the space had transformed into a place of learning as Alistair and his wife, progressive for their time, had insisted his daughters understand clan management as thoroughly as any son might.
After her mother's death, the study had become Isolde's study too, as she worked alongside her father to keep their failing clan afloat. Every difficult decision, every painful concession, every desperate measure to maintain appearances—all had been discussed within these walls.
She knocked softly.
"Enter." Alistair's voice, once powerful enough to carry across the great hall without effort, now sounded diminished, though no less commanding.
Isolde pushed open the heavy door, steeling herself for her father's reaction. She found him seated before the fire, wrapped in the MacAlpin plaid despite the moderate temperature. The changes in him struck her like a physical blow—his once-auburn hair now predominantly silver, his broad shouldersslightly stooped, lines etched more deeply into his face than she remembered.
"Faither," she said, keeping her voice deliberately soft.
Alistair's head jerked up, his eyes widening. "Isolde! Ye're out of bed!" He started to rise, struggling slightly before finding his balance.
"Please, dinnae rise," she said quickly, moving to his side. "I'm much improved, but still regaining me strength."
His weathered hand caught hers, squeezing with surprising strength. "Me girl," he said, voice gruff with emotion. "Ye had me worried."
Guilt twisted in her chest at the genuine concern in his eyes. How much anxiety had her absence caused him, masked by her sisters' well-intentioned deception?
"The fever has broken," she said, the rehearsed words falling easily from her lips. "Lorna's tonics did their work."
"Ye should still be resting," he admonished, though his eyes drank in the sight of her as though afraid she might disappear again.
"I heard we have a guest," she replied, carefully taking the seat opposite him. "Laird MacCraith. I thought I should at least make an appearance before he departs."
Something flickered across her father's face—suspicion, perhaps, or simply the wariness of a laird discussing another clan's leader. "Aye. A most unusual visit."
"How so?" she asked, keeping her tone innocently curious.
