Page 81 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Me faither speaks of alliance, of bonds between our clans. He mentioned marriage as a way tae seal such an agreement, nae kenning that me heart has already chosen. I pray this letter reaches ye swiftly. Time is nae our friend.
With all me love and desperate hope,
Yer Isolde
She sealed the letter with trembling hands, her heart laid bare in ink and parchment. It was vulnerable, perhaps foolishly so, but it was honest. If Ciaran came, it would be because he loved her, not out of cold political calculation.
"Hamish!" she called, and when the servant appeared, she pressed the letter into his weathered hands.
"Our fastest rider, and tell him his life depends on speed. This must reach MacCraith lands before another sunset passes."
As Hamish hurried away, Isolde touched her fingers to her lips, remembering Ciaran's kiss, and their nights together. She whispered a prayer that love might be stronger than war.
Darkness began to fall over the castle, and Isolde moved around it, lighting torches in the courtyard just as another group of refugees stumbled through the gates. These survivors looked even worse than the morning's arrivals, with hollow-eyes, bloodstained, some barely able to walk.
Isolde met them at the entrance, though her legs felt like they might buckle beneath her. She'd been on her feet since dawn, tending wounds, distributing food, and trying to find space for people where none existed.
"How many more?" she asked quietly as Morag appeared beside her with what little bread remained from their evening meal.
"A dozen or so, me lady."
As she turned to head inside, a commotion erupted from the battlements above. A guard's voice rang out across the courtyard:
"Me lady! Fires on the western horizon!"
Isolde's heart stopped. She rushed to the stairs leading up to the wall walk, her tired legs carrying her faster than she thought possible. At the top, she could see them—orange flames flickering in the distance like fallen stars.
"How far?" she asked the lookout, though she dreaded the answer.
"Hard to say in the dark, me lady. But if I had tae guess..." He paused, swallowing hard. "They'll be at our gates by noon tomorrow."
The fires seemed to pulse in the darkness, growing brighter as she watched. Wallace wasn't just coming—he was already here.
Time had run out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Laird!" Finlay called from behind him. "The horses need rest!"
Ciaran pulled up reluctantly, his destrier snorting and prancing beneath him. Steam rose from the animal's flanks, and he could see the exhaustion in its eyes. Around him, his men's mounts were equally spent, their heads hanging low.
"Ten minutes," he said grimly, dismounting. "Water them, but keep the saddles on."
Duncan approached, his weathered face creased with concern. "Me laird, I ken ye're worried about the lass, but we'll be nay good tae her if we kill our horses getting there."
"Wallace could attack at any moment," Ciaran said, pacing restlessly as the horses drank from a small stream. "Every minute we delay could be the minute that—" He couldn't finish the thought.
"She's strong," Finlay said quietly. "From what ye've told us, Lady Isolde isnae one tae give up easily."
"Mount up," he commanded after what felt like seconds rather than minutes. "We ride until we see MacAlpin walls."
"Aye, laird." Finlay bowed respectably, turning to give the command.
As they set off again, the urgency that had driven him since the messenger arrived at his gates intensified. He could almost feel time slipping away like sand through his fingers. Somewhere ahead in the darkness, the woman he loved was in mortal danger, and nothing—not exhausted horses, not treacherous terrain, not the very gates of hell—would stop him from reaching her.
The stars seemed to mock him with their distant, cold light as he drove his men onward through the night.
"Christ's wounds," Ciaran breathed. "Look at them all."
