Page 72 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"The MacCraiths have rarely concerned themselves with our troubles," Alistair said, adjusting his plaid. "Yet he arrives speaking of Wallace's raids as though they were a shared burden."
Isolde chose her next words with extreme care. "Perhaps the changing times call for changing alliances."
Her father's sharp eyes studied her face. "Ye've always had an interest in politics beyond most lasses. Tell me, what would ye make of a MacCraith suddenly extending his hand tae a MacAlpin?"
"I would consider the potential benefits before dismissing it," she replied honestly. "Wallace grows bolder by the day. We cannot stand against him alone."
A shadow crossed Alistair's face, and for a moment he looked every one of his years. "Ye speak truths I've been reluctant to face." His fingers tightened around his walking stick. "While ye were ill, we lost three more families to the Lowlands. The southern fields lie fallow fer lack of hands tae work them."
Isolde's heart ached at this confirmation of what she'd observed on her journey home. "And Wallace?"
"His men come closer each week. They take a sheep here, burn a croft there. Testing us." Alistair's jaw clenched. "I can spare very few men fer patrols without leaving the castle vulnerable."
She leaned forward, covering his hand with hers. "Then perhaps Laird MacCraith's interest comes at a fortunate time."
"Perhaps." Her father didn't sound convinced. "Though I wonder what brought him tae our door in truth. Men like Ciaran MacCraith dinnae act without purpose."
Isolde swallowed hard, knowing she walked a treacherous line between truth and deception. "Has he spoken of any intentions?"
"Only of Wallace's aggression along his own borders, and of raiders he encountered near Braehead." Alistair's eyes narrowed slightly. "He asked after ye all. Suggested ye join us fer dinner. But ye… then Rhona… "
At the mention of her sister's name, genuine pain flickered across Isolde's face. "I am sad tae hear Rhona has come down with a fever. Perhaps she caught it tending tae me needs. "
Alistair's shoulders seemed to cave inward, the proud laird momentarily eclipsed by a father's fear. "Perhaps. Two of me oldest daughters taken ill at the same time. More than a man canbear. And tae think I could only pray fer ye. I couldnae even visit due tae me condition..." His voice faltered.
"She'll recover, Faither. As ye see I have recovered," Isolde said with more conviction than she felt. "Rhona is strong. She'll fight until she finds her way back to us."
Her father nodded, though the worry never left his eyes. "She insisted she will be the one tae mainly go in and tend tae ye, ye ken. And now… "
The simple statement hit Isolde like a blow. Though her sisters had told her as much, hearing from the extent to which it had affected her father made Rhona's disappearance feel suddenly, terribly real—and directly connected to her own choices.
Isolde's hands twisted in her lap, shame burning in her chest. "Faither, there's something I must tell ye."
His attention snapped back to her face, suddenly alert. "What is it?"
"Me illness..." She took a deep breath. "It was nae entirely as it seemed."
"Go on," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
Isolde looked down at her hands, seemingly wrestling with her words. "I ken ye were worried. But Rhona… gave herself fer me."
Her father's expression softened. "Aye, she barely left yer side."
She met his eyes, her own bright with unshed tears. "Then I owe her everything. And now that I'm well again, I need tae make sure she's fine too. Whatever it takes—I have tae be there fer her the way she was there fer me."
"Of course," Alistair said, though something in her tone puzzled him. "That's what sisters do for each other."
"Aye," Isolde whispered. "That's exactly what sisters dae. They protect each other, nay matter the cost."
He reached over and squeezed her hand. "I'm proud of how much ye care fer each other. After yer maither... having ye girls look after one another gives me great comfort."
Isolde nodded, not trusting her voice. Her father understood the surface meaning, but she knew the deeper truth—Rhona had sacrificed her freedom, possibly her life, to save her. And now it was Isolde's turn to do whatever it took to save her sister in return.
"I promise we'll get her back," she said, the words catching in her throat. The true nature of her relationship with Ciaran and his feelings for her, and hers for him would have to wait to be announced to him until Rhona was safe and Wallace's threat addressed.
As they stood facing each other, Isolde truly saw her father perhaps for the first time. In the unforgiving morning light, the changes in him were impossible to ignore. The strong hands that had once swung her high above his head now bore prominent veins and age spots. The shoulders that had seemed impossibly broad to a child's eyes now curved slightly inward. The face that had commanded respect across the Highlands now showed every year of struggle and sacrifice.
When had Alistair MacAlpin become an old man? The question pierced her heart with sudden clarity. During her childhood, he had seemed ageless, invincible—the mighty laird whose word was law throughout their lands. Even after her mother's death, when grief had etched new lines into his face, his strength had remained undiminished.
