Page 82 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
The first thing that struck Ciaran as they crested the final ridge was the the gray smoke of countless cooking fires rising from MacAlpin Castle's courtyard. The second thing was the noise: voices calling, children crying, the general din of far too many people crammed into too small a space.
The castle courtyard, normally spacious enough for a full garrison's training exercises, was packed with makeshift shelters. Lean-tos constructed from salvaged timber and torn cloth pressed against every available wall. Cook fires dotted the space between them, tended by women who looked like they hadn't slept in days. Children darted between the shelters while their parents tried to organize the chaos of displaced lives.
But it was the figure moving through the crowd that captured Ciaran's attention completely.
Isolde.
Even from a distance, even exhausted and wearing a simple working dress instead of fine gowns, she commanded the scene. He watched her kneel beside a wounded man, her hands gentle as she examined his bandages. She spoke to a group of women organizing food distribution, her gestures calm but decisive. When a child ran up to her crying, she lifted him into her arms without hesitation, soothing him before passing him to his mother.
"She's holding it all taegether," Finlay observed quietly.
Aye, she was. But Ciaran could see what others might miss—the way her shoulders sagged for just a moment between tasks, the exhaustion etched in every line of her body. She was magnificent, but she was breaking under the weight of it all.
"State yer business!" The challenge came from the castle's main gate as they approached. Guards with the MacAlpin colors stepped forward, hands on their sword hilts.
"Ciaran MacCraith, here tae speak with Laird Alistair," Ciaran called back, pulling back his hood so they could see his face clearly.
The reaction was immediate. One guard nudged another, whispers rippled through the small group, and within moments an older man in captain's gear was striding toward them. Ciaran recognized him—Tavish, MacAlpin's captain of the guard, a man he'd met during clan gatherings in better times.
"MacCraith," Tavish said, his tone carefully neutral. "This is... unexpected."
There was wariness in the man's eyes, and Ciaran couldn't blame him. The MacCraiths and MacAlpins had maintained a careful distance over the years—not enemies, but not friends either. His sudden appearance with armed men could be seen as either salvation or threat.
"I come in peace, Tavish. Me men and I are here tae help."
"Thank ye, me laird," Malcolm's eyebrows rose. "As ye can see, our clan will accept any help we ken get."
Before Ciaran could answer, a commotion near the castle's main door caught his attention. Isolde and her sisters had spottedthem and were making their way through the crowd, her face a mask of careful composure that didn't quite hide her shock.
"Lord MacCraith," she said as she approached, her voice steady despite the slight breathlessness that suggested she'd hurried. "This is... most unexpected."
Their eyes met, and for a moment the crowded courtyard seemed to fade away. He saw relief flash across her features, quickly hidden.
"Lady Isolde," he said formally, acutely aware of all the watching eyes. "I've come tae offer whatever aid me clan can provide in these troubled times."
"And we are most grateful. Did ye receive me letter?"
"Letter? Nay. Word reached us of Wallace's attacks," Ciaran said carefully. "Nay clan should face such brutality alone."
A letter. Ciaran felt something twist in his chest, she had reached out to him, had asked for help as he'd already been on his way.
Isolde stepped forward slightly. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside. Me faither will want tae speak with ye directly." She paused, then added quietly, "We sent a messenger tae MacCraith lands yesterday. He may have missed ye on the road."
"Then it seems we're of like minds," he said. "I'm glad I arrived when I did."
As they moved toward the castle, Isolde walking beside him while Tavish and the guards flanked them, Ciaran caught sight of the refugees he'd encountered on the road. They were being tended to near the gates, and several pointed at him with obvious relief and gratitude.
"Ye've already been helping our people," Isolde observed, following his gaze.
"They're nae just your people anymore," he said quietly, so only she could hear. "They're mine too."
The look she gave him told him everything he needed to know about why he'd ridden through the night to get here.
"Tavish, see that Lord MacCraith's men are given food and quarters," Isolde said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I'll escort him tae me faither meself."
Tavish nodded, though his eyes remained wary. "Aye, me lady. But dinnae be long—there's much that needs yer attention."
As soon as they were alone in the corridor leading to the great hall, the careful composure they'd both maintained crumbled. Isolde turned to face him, and the vulnerability he'd glimpsed in the courtyard was now written plainly across her features.
