Page 85 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
The blood seemed to drain from Isolde's face. Siege engines. That meant Wallace wasn't planning to simply overwhelm them with numbers—he intended to tear their walls down stone by stone.
"How long dae we have?" Ciaran asked sharply.
The scout's face went even paler. "They'll be at our gates anytime after dawn, me lord. Maybe sooner if they push through the night."
Dawn. Isolde's mind reeled with the implications. Less than eight hours. Eight hours to prepare for a siege that could determine whether her clan survived or joined the growing list of Wallace's victims.
As the men continued planning, discussing defensive positions and fall-back points, Isolde found herself watching Ciaran with growing admiration and terror. He was magnificent like this—utterly in command, seeing possibilities where others saw only doom. But he was also planning to ride out against impossible odds, and the thought of losing him so soon after finding him again made her chest tight with panic.
"The most important thing," he was saying now, "is that we don't let Wallace take this castle intact. If we fall, we make sure he pays such a price that other clans see his weakness."
"And if we dinnae fall?" she found herself asking.
He turned to her then, and the smile he gave her was fierce and full of promise.
"Then we start planning a wedding that will be sung about fer generations."
Despite everything—the approaching army, the desperate odds, the very real possibility they might all be dead by sunset tomorrow—Isolde felt her heart lift. This man would not go quietly into defeat, and neither would she.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"Me laird, come on. I want tae show ye something," Isolde said.
Ciaran looked up from where he'd been giving commands to Finlay, raising an eyebrow at her sudden appearance in the doorway. "Now, lass?"
"Aye, now." Isolde's eyes held a spark of mischief mixed with something deeper. "Unless ye're too busy fer me."
He turned to Finlay without hesitation. "Ye know what tae dae. Keep the men ready." He waited for his lieutenant to walk away, then turned to Isolde. "Lead the way."
They rode out from the castle courtyard, Isolde guiding them toward a narrow path that wound through the heather-covered hills. The air carried the scent of wild thyme and bracken.
"Where are we going?" Ciaran asked as they climbed higher into the moorland.
"Somewhere peaceful," she replied, her voice soft with memory. "Somewhere we can... talk."
The path grew fainter as they rode, until it seemed they were following nothing more than deer tracks through the gorse. Finally, Isolde reined in her mare at what appeared to be an impasse—a wall of rock and bramble blocking their way.
Isolde did not wait for Ciaran to dismount and help her down. She dismounted and led her horse around a massive boulder, revealing a hidden gap barely wide enough for a single rider. Beyond it lay a small glen, perfectly concealed from the outside world, with a burn trickling through its center and rowan trees creating a natural bower.
"How did ye find this place?" Ciaran asked, his voice hushed with wonder.
"Me maither brought me here when I was small," Isolde said, tethering her mare to a low branch. "She said every woman needed a place where she could think without the world pressing in on her." Her smile was bittersweet. "I havenae been here since she died."
Ciaran dismounted and moved to stand beside her, studying her face. "And why bring me here now?"
She turned to face him fully, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "Because everything's changing, and I needed... I needed somewhere that felt safe tae tell ye—" Her voice broke slightly.
"Tell me what,mo chridhe?"
The endearment, spoken so naturally, seemed to break something open inside her. "That I love ye," she whispered. "That I've loved ye since the first sight I had of ye. And I loved ye even more after that first dance, and I cannae bear the thought of losing ye when this war comes tae our door."
He reached for her then, his hands framing her face with infinite tenderness. "Ye willnae lose me, lass. I promise ye that."
"Ye cannae promise such a thing. Nae with Wallace?—"
"Hush." He silenced her with a gentle kiss, then pressed his forehead against hers. "I love ye too, Isolde MacAlpin. Whatever comes, we'll face it taegether."
The words hung between them like a vow, and suddenly the careful distance they'd maintained seemed not just foolish but impossible. When she reached up to pull him down to her, he went willingly, their mouths meeting in a kiss that held all the desperation and longing of the past weeks.
