Page 84 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Marriage," Alistair repeated slowly, as if testing the weight of the word. "That's... a significant request, Laird MacCraith. Particularly given our current circumstances."
"It's precisely because of your circumstances that I make it now," Ciaran replied. "Yer clan needs more than a temporary alliance. You need permanent bonds that will weather whatever storms come."
Isolde watched her father's face. She knew he was weighing their desperate situation against the political implications of such a union.
"The MacAlpin line has ruled these lands fer many generations," Alistair said carefully. "I'll not see that legacy die with me."
Here it comes, Isolde thought. The sticking point that could unravel everything.
"Nor would I ask ye tae," Ciaran said, and her breath caught. "I propose that one of our sons take the MacAlpin name and inherit MacAlpin lands. Our firstborn will be MacCraith. Both bloodlines continue, both legacies preserved."
Isolde felt her father's surprise like a physical force. She'd expected Ciaran to be generous in his negotiations, but this went beyond anything she'd dared hope fer. He was offering to give up his son's claim to MacCraith lands—a sacrifice that spoke to just how desperately he wanted this alliance to work.
"Ye'd be willing tae be this generous tae MacAlpin clan?" Alistair's voice held genuine amazement.
"Without this arrangement, there may be nay MacAlpin line at all."
The brutal honesty of the statement made Isolde flinch, but she knew it was true. Without help, her clan faced extinction.
"It's more than generous," Alistair said slowly. "More than I had any right tae expect." His gaze moved to Isolde. "And what daes me daughter think of this arrangement?"
This was her moment. She could feel both men's attention focused on her, waiting for her response. The proper thing would be to defer to her father's judgment, to speak of duty and clan loyalty.
Instead, she found herself speaking from her heart.
"I think Lord MacCraith is offering us salvation when we have little else tae hope fer," she said, meeting her father's eyes steadily. "And I think it would be an honor tae stand beside him."
The formal words couldn't hide the deeper truth beneath them, and she saw understanding dawn in her father's expression.
Alistair was quiet for a long moment, his gaze moving between them. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of finality.
"Then we have an agreement." He rose from his chair, extending his hand to Ciaran. "The MacCraith and MacAlpin clans are allied from this day forward."
As the two men clasped hands, Isolde felt something settle in her chest—relief, joy, and a fierce hope that somehow, despite everything arrayed against them, they might actually have a future together.
"There's one more thing," Ciaran said. "I've brought fifty men with me, but I'll be sending riders tonight tae summon more. Whatever force Wallace brings against ye, he'll face MacCraith steel as well as MacAlpin courage."
The relief that flooded her father's face was so complete that Isolde felt tears prick her eyes. For the first time since Wallace had determined to take their lands, they had real hope.
"How many more men can ye bring?" her father asked, and Isolde could hear the desperate hope threading through his voice.
"Two hundred by morning," Ciaran replied. "More if needed."
The words sent a chill through Isolde's chest. She'd been so caught up in the joy of the betrothal agreement that she'd almost forgotten the shadow hanging over them all.
"Aye," her father nodded grimly. "Our scouts report his forces growing larger by the hour. Every clan he destroys, some of their men join him—either willingly or at sword point."
"Then we'd better make sure he daesnae destroy us," Ciaran said, his voice carrying a confidence that Isolde desperately wanted to believe in.
As if his words had summoned disaster itself, the great hall doors burst open with a crash that made all three of them spin toward the sound. A scout stumbled in, his clothes torn and muddy, his face streaked with sweat and something that looked uncomfortably like terror.
Isolde's stomach dropped like a stone.
"Laird MacAlpin!" the man gasped, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath. "Urgent news from the watchtowers!"
"Speak, man," her father commanded, but Isolde could hear the dread creeping into his voice.
"Wallace's main force—we've spotted them moving up the glen." The scout's words came in ragged bursts. "They're flying war banners, moving in full battle formation. Siege engines at the rear, cavalry on the flanks."
