Page 87 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
“Yes, ye can,” he growled, and his hand slid between them, finding that sensitive spot and stroking just as he thrust deep again, losing control. “Let go fer me.”
She clung to him through the aftershocks, legs wrapped around him, her heart slamming against his chest. She felt full—not just in body, but in spirit. And as his hands cradled her, rough and reverent, she knew she would carry this moment into whatever battle tomorrow brought.
For a long time, neither moved. She laid with him, fingers tracing the muscles of his back, his shoulders. He nuzzled into her neck, pressing a kiss to her damp skin.
It was only when their breaths finally slowed that he rolled to his side, gathering her close so their limbs remained tangled, their connection unbroken.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Of this battle. Of losing ye.”
He cupped her cheek. “Dinnae let it steal this moment from us.”
She turned into his touch, lips brushing his palm. “Then I’ll remember this. Every moment. Every part of ye in me.”
His hand drifted down her body again, possessive and gentle. “Ye have all of me, Isolde. Always.”
Afterward, they lay entwined beneath his plaid, her head on his chest as she traced lazy patterns on his skin. The peace of the moment wrapped around them like a blessing, and for a few precious moments, the outside world ceased to exist.
Then the bells began to ring.
Isolde lifted her head, listening to the distant clanging that carried on the evening air. "That's the castle bell," she said, sitting up. "Multiple rings— riders approaching."
Ciaran was already reaching for his clothes. "More than one set of hoofbeats, by the sound."
"It sounds like there are more people arriving at the castle," she said, pulling on her chemise with practiced efficiency. "They probably need help."
"Aye. We should return." He helped her to her feet, and both of them were dressed within moments.
As they rode back toward the castle, the bells continued their urgent summons, and Isolde felt the magical peace of their hidden glen slipping away like mist before the dawn.
The courtyard was chaos when they returned. Wagons loaded with families and their meager possessions filled every available space, while children cried and horses stamped nervously. Refugees from the borderlands streamed through the gates, their faces drawn with exhaustion and fear.
"Take as many families tae the east tower as can fit intae the space," Ciaran called to one of his men, his voice cutting through the din. "And see that the children get food first."
Isolde was already moving toward a wagon where an elderly woman sat clutching a bundle to her chest. "What can I dae tae help, goodwife?" she asked gently.
"Me granddaughter," the woman whispered. "She's with child, and the journey... she's been bleeding."
Without hesitation, Isolde helped the young woman down from the wagon. "Ciaran," she called, and he was at her side immediately, supporting the girl's other arm.
"We should take them tae the blue chamber in the family wing," she said quietly. "It's closest tae the healer's supplies."
They moved as one, Isolde murmuring reassurances while Ciaran cleared a path through the crowded corridor. Anyone watching would have seen the perfect synchronization between them—how he anticipated her needs before she spoke them, how she steadied the girl while he opened doors and gathered pillows.
In the chamber, they worked together with practiced ease. Ciaran held the young woman's hand while Isolde examined her, their movements flowing around each other as if they'd done this a hundred times before.
"The bleeding's stopped," Isolde announced with relief. "But ye need rest, lass. Complete rest fer at least a night."
"We'll see that ye have everything ye need," Ciaran added, his voice gentle despite his usual commanding presence.
"Me laird, me lady." The girl's voice was weak but grateful. "Ye're so kind tae us. Like a proper laird and lady should be."
Isolde felt heat rise in her cheeks at the assumption, but before she could correct the girl, a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.
"Indeed, they dae make quite the pair."
Laird Alistair MacAlpin stood in the entrance, his weathered face unreadable as he took in the domestic scene before him. Isolde's heart hammered against her ribs.
"Faither." She rose quickly, smoothing her skirts. "I was just—the lass needed tending."
