Page 75 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Finlay's brow furrowed. "And ye suspect Wallace involvement?"
"She's been taken, it seems" Ciaran confirmed grimly. "And we need tae ken before we can plan her recovery."
Finlay nodded, understanding immediately. "Macallum," he called, gesturing to one of the riders who had accompanied him. "Ride tae our southeastern outpost. Tell Donnan tae send his best scouts into Wallace territory—we seek information about a young woman, a MacAlpin, possibly taken captive within the last week. Discretion is essential, nay MacCraith colors past the border!"
The rider nodded sharply, wheeling his horse without question and galloping back the way they had come.
When the messenger had disappeared over the ridge, Finlay turned back to Ciaran, his expression grave. "This complicates matters. If Wallace holds a MacAlpin daughter, he may use her tae force concessions from Alistair."
"Or worse," Ciaran said darkly, "tae force a marriage alliance that would give him legal claim tae their territories."
Silence fell between them as they continued to ride. "Is there something else on yer mind, me laird?" Finlay enquired as they crossed a swift-running burn. His friend had drawn his mount alongside Ciaran's, falling back from the others just enough to allow private conversation.
"I have much tae consider," Ciaran replied, his eyes scanning the horizon from habit, alert for any sign of danger.
"The MacAlpins," Finlay ventured, watching Ciaran's face carefully. "Their situation is worse than we thought, isn't it?"
"Aye." The simple word carried the weight of all he'd witnessed—abandoned fields, thinly spread defenders, a once-great clan holding onto dignity despite dwindling resources. "They stand on the edge of a blade, Finlay. Another season of Wallace's encroachment could push them beyond recovery."
"And the lady?" Finlay asked, his voice dropping further. "Did ye see her?"
Ciaran's fingers tightened around his reins. "Briefly."
Finlay's eyes narrowed at the deliberate evasion. "And?"
"And I mean tae help her," Ciaran said, meeting his friend's gaze directly. "Both with finding her sister and with securing her clan's future."
"The council will never agree tae an alliance," Finlay warned, though there was no judgment in his tone. "Ye ken that as well as I dae."
"The council will find it is a different laird from days ago. Besides, their duty is tae serve the laird," Ciaran replied, his voice hardening. "Nae the reverse."
They rode in silence for several moments, the only sounds the steady rhythm of hooves against earth and the calling of birds overhead. When Finlay spoke again, his voice had softened with concern.
"Ye care fer her." It wasn't a question.
Ciaran considered denial, then abandoned the pretense. Finlay knew him too well. "More than I thought possible."
"Enough tae risk yer position? Yer clan's support?"
The question hung between them, weightier than any council debate. Ciaran had been raised from birth to prioritize clan welfare above personal desires. The MacCraith had prospered under his leadership precisely because he had always madethe practical choice, the strategic alliance, the decision that benefited the many rather than the one.
"If it comes tae that," he said finally, "I'll find another way. But I willnae give her up, Finlay. “His friend studied him for a long moment before a slow smile spread across his face. "Then I suppose we'd better find a way tae convince the council that this alliance offers advantages they haven't recognized."
Ciaran glanced sharply at him. "Ye'll support me in this?"
"I've followed ye into battle against impossible odds," Finlay replied with a shrug. "Why would matters of the heart be any different?"
The simple loyalty in his friend's words eased something tight in Ciaran's chest. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he would not face them alone.
Hours later, Castle MacCraith rose against the evening sky, its stone walls catching the last golden rays of sunset. After two days of hard riding, the sight of home should have brought comfort. Instead, Ciaran felt only impatience—each moment here represented time away from Isolde, delay in finding Rhona, opportunity for Wallace to press his advantage.
The contrast between his own castle and the MacAlpins' struck him anew as they rode through the gates. Where Alistair's home showed signs of struggle, Ciaran's domain thrived—storehouses full, training yards bustling with warriors, smithy fires burning late into the evening. The prosperity he had always taken pridein now seemed almost excessive when compared to Isolde's circumstances.
"Welcome home, me laird," his steward greeted him in the courtyard. "The council has been notified of yer return and awaits yer convenience tomorrow."
"Tell them we meet at midday," Ciaran instructed, dismounting with fluid grace despite the long journey. "And send word tae our scouts along the Wallace border. I want reports by morning."
As the castle settled into evening routines around him, Ciaran retreated to his private chambers. The rooms felt strangely empty now, though nothing had changed in his absence. The massive oak bed, the desk where he conducted private business, the weapons displayed on the wall—all remained exactly as he had left them. Yet something fundamental had shifted within him, rendering the familiar suddenly foreign.
