Page 73 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Now, watching him struggle to maintain the appearance of the formidable leader she remembered, Isolde realized that time had continued its relentless march during her absence. Her father was mortal—a man fighting age and circumstance with the same stubborn pride that had defined his leadership.
"Ye look so like her," Alistair said suddenly, his fingers brushing a stray lock of copper hair from her face. "Yer maither. She had the same determined set to her chin when she'd made up her mind about something."
"What was she like?" Isolde asked softly. "Not as the clan's lady, but as herself?"
She sought a different understanding—woman to woman, rather than child to parent.A smile softened her father's weathered features. "Fiery. Brilliant. Stubborn." His eyes grew distant with memory. "She could discuss politics with Edinburgh lords, then turn around and patch a tenant's roof with her own hands. Never saw distinctions where others placed them."
"Like ye," Isolde observed. "Ye never treated us as less because we were daughters rather than sons."
"That was her influence," he admitted. "She would have haunted me from beyond the grave if I'd limited me girls tae needlework and household management." His hand tightened on hers. "She would be proud of ye, Isolde. Of the woman ye've become."
The simple words filled an emptiness Isolde hadn't realized she carried. Tears pricked at her eyes, surprising her with their sudden appearance.
"Now," Alistair said, straightening in his chair with visible effort, "tell me what ye make of our visitor. Laird MacCraith seems an unusual ally fer our troubled times."
Isolde returned to her seat, composing her features to hide the leap of her heart at Ciaran's name. "We haven't met," she reminded her father. "But his reputation speaks of honor and strength. If he offers friendship, perhaps we should consider it."
"Friendship from a MacCraith," Alistair mused, skepticism evident in his tone. "These are strange days indeed."
"Strange days may call fer unexpected alliances," she suggested carefully. "Wallace threatens us both. Together, perhaps we stand a better chance."
Her father studied her face, his gaze unusually penetrating. "Ye seem remarkably open tae such notions."
Heat crept up Isolde's neck. Had she revealed too much? "I've had ample time tae think about our clan's position," she said, choosing each word with care. "And about what Maither would advise in such circumstances."
"And what would she advise, dae ye think?"
Isolde met her father's gaze steadily. "She would say that pride makes a poor shield against those who would take everything we have."
Something flickered in Alistair's eyes—recognition, perhaps, or reluctant agreement. Before he could respond, a knock at the study door interrupted them.
"Enter," Alistair called, his voice strengthening into the laird's commanding tone.
The door opened to reveal Lorna, her expression carefully neutral. "Fergive the interruption, Faither. Laird MacCraith has requested an audience before his departure. He awaits at yer convenience in the great hall."
"Very well." Alistair began the process of rising, waving away Isolde's offered assistance. "Tell him I shall attend him shortly."
As Lorna departed, Alistair turned to Isolde. "Will ye join us? If ye're truly well enough to leave yer bed, perhaps meeting our visitor would be instructive."
Isolde's pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Ciaran again so soon, in the formal setting of the great hall with her father watching their every interaction. Could she maintain the fiction that they were strangers to each other? Would her face betray the intimacy they had shared mere hours ago?
"Of course, Faither," she said, proud of how steady her voice remained. "I would be honored tae accompany ye."
As they moved toward the door, with Alistair slowly walking, and Isolde matching her pace to his, she felt the weight of secrets and promises pressing upon her shoulders.
Ahead lay a performance she must execute flawlessly: the laird's daughter meeting a neighboring clan's leader for the first time, hiding that she had already given him her heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ciaran stood at the center of the MacAlpin great hall, the morning light filtering through narrow windows to cast long shadows across the flagstones.
Footsteps in the corridor drew his attention. The great oak doors swung open to reveal Laird Alistair MacAlpin, moving with deliberate dignity despite the walking stick that supported his right side. But it was the figure beside him that caused Ciaran's breath to catch in his throat.
Isolde walked at her father's elbow, her hair braided simply, wearing a pale blue dress that emphasized her slender frame. She looked both familiar and strange—the woman who had lain in his arms mere hours ago now transformed back into Lady Isolde MacAlpin, eldest daughter of a Highland laird.
"Laird MacCraith," Alistair called, his voice stronger than it had been during their previous meeting. "I trust ye found yer accommodations satisfactory."
"Most comfortable," Ciaran replied formally, inclining his head in the traditional gesture between equals. "MacAlpin hospitality lives up tae its storied reputation."
