Page 8 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
With each breath, her back pressed against his chest. With each stride of the horse, her hips shifted between his thighs. The heat of her body seeped through the layers of their clothing, igniting something primal within him.
He became acutely aware of every curve where they touched, the delicate line of her neck mere inches from his lips, the way her breath quickened when his arms tightened around her to navigate a steep descent.
When she turned slightly to glance at the passing landscape, the moonlight caught the pulse fluttering at her throat. Ciaran fought the sudden, overwhelming urge to press his mouth to that pulse point, to taste the salt of her skin, to feel her heartbeat quicken against his tongue.
Bloody Hell, man. Compose yerself. Ye're a laird, nae some young lad with his first woman.
Yet there was something intoxicating about her—thats mysterious, fierce creature who fought like a wildcat and whose body now melted against his own. Perhaps it was the contradiction of her refined speech and savage defense, or the way she'd challenged him when most cowered.
Whatever the cause, the effect was undeniable: blood rushing hot through his veins, his body responding in ways that would soon become impossible to hide if she pressed any closer.
They rode in silence, the forest giving way to rolling moorland. Fingers of mist curled around the horse's legs as they climbed a gentle rise. Ciaran heard her take in a sharp breath as Castle MacCraith appeared on the horizon, its towers silhouetted against the star-strewn sky.
"Home," he said simply, unable to keep the pride from his voice.
The castle stood upon a rocky outcrop, ancient stone walls rising from the cliff face as if they'd grown from the very mountain. Torches lined the approach, their flames dancing in the night breeze, guiding them home.
"It's magnificent," she whispered, the first words she'd spoken since they'd begun their journey.
As they approached the gatehouse, a guard's voice called down from the battlements. "Who goes there?"
"Yer laird, ye blind fool," Ciaran shouted back, amusement coloring his tone. "Open the gates."
"At once, m'laird!" came the immediate response, followed by shouted orders to raise the portcullis.
The heavy wooden doors swung inward. They rode into the torch-lit courtyard where a stable boy rushed forward to take the reins.
Ciaran dismounted first, then reached up for her. His hands spanned her waist as he lifted her down, allowing her body to slide against his for a moment longer than necessary before setting her on her feet. Her cheeks flushed, visible even in the flickering torchlight.
"Laird MacCraith." A woman with iron-gray hair and a severe expression hurried across the courtyard. "We werenae expecting ye back taenight." Her eyes widened at the sight of Isolde, taking in the torn gown and disheveled appearance.
"Elspeth," Ciaran nodded to his housekeeper. "We have a guest who requires attention. She was attacked on the road."
"Saints preserve us," Elspeth muttered, already assessing Isolde's injuries with a practiced eye. "I'll prepare a chamber and send fer the healer."
"Nay need fer the healer," Ciaran said. "Bring me the herbs and ointments."
Elspeth's eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, but she knew better than to question her laird. "As ye wish. I'll ready the blue chamber in the guest wing."
"Nay," Ciaran said, surprising himself. "The Dun room."
A moment of shocked silence followed. The MacKenzie room was reserved for only the most honored guests—or family. Elspeth's mouth opened, then closed, before she nodded and hurried away.
Several of his household warriors had gathered at a discreet distance, curious about the unexpected arrival and the unknown woman at their laird's side. Ciaran could already see the questions in their eyes, the seeds of gossip that would spread through the castle by morning.
"Callum," he called to his captain of the guard. "Double the watch taenight. There may be riders about in our territory."
"Aye, m'laird." The burly man bowed slightly, his hand going instinctively to his sword hilt. "Shall I send scouts tae the borders?"
"At first light," Ciaran replied. "And send word tae Finlay. Tell him I require his counsel on an urgent matter."
As the men dispersed to carry out his orders, Ciaran turned to find his mysterious guest watching him with those penetrating blue eyes, a question in their depths. The torchlight playedacross her features, highlighting the proud tilt of her chin despite her bedraggled state.
"Come," he said, offering his arm. "Let's tend tae that wound."
She hesitated, then placed her gloved hand lightly on his forearm. "Ye need nae bother yerself, m'laird. I'm perfectly capable?—"
"I've nay doubt ye are," he interrupted, leading her toward the keep. "But humor me. I rarely get to practice my healing skills on someone who isnae a blood-soaked warrior twice yer size."
