Page 89 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Consider it done." Finlay strode from the room with the purposeful gait of a man who understood the stakes.
The moment the letters were dispatched, Ciaran turned his attention to the MacAlpin forces. "Laird MacAlpin," he addressed Alistair formally, "with yer permission, I'd like tae assess what we have tae work with."
Alistair nodded slowly. "Dae what ye must."
What followed was a transformation that left Isolde proud to have witnessed. Even laird MacAlpin's expression held more respect for Cairan.
"Tavish MacAlpin," he called to the grizzled warrior who served as the clan's war leader. "I need tae ken our strengths. Who among these men can we count on?"
Tavish, a man of fifty with steel-grey hair and scarred hands, stepped forward. "Aye, me laird. MacBride there—" he pointed to a lean man with calloused fingers, "—he's our best archer. Learned his craft hunting deer in the high country."
"Good. MacBride!" Ciaran's voice carried clearly across the courtyard. "Take charge of the archers. How many men can ye train tae hit a target at fifty paces?"
"A dozen, maybe fifteen if we're lucky, me laird," MacBride replied.
Ciaran nodded, then turned back to Tavish. "And scouts?"
"Dougal there has been tracking sheep through these hills since he was a lad. Knows every path and hidden way fer twenty miles around."
"Dougal!" Ciaran called. "Yer sheep-herding days taught ye tae move quiet through the hills. I need scouts—can ye dae it?"
"Aye, me laird," came the immediate response.
Within an hour, Ciaran had the MacAlpin forces arranged into proper military units. Men who'd spent their lives tending cattle and sheep found themselves being drilled in formation fighting.The castle's blacksmith was pressed into service sharpening every blade and arrowhead they could find.
"The wall's weakness is here," Ciaran explained to the assembled defenders, pointing to a section of the castle's curtain wall. "We'll need archers positioned on the towers tae cover it. And we'll dig trenches outside the main gate—funnel them where we want them tae go."
"What about the women and children?" asked the cook.
"Move them tae the castle's keep. The cellars are stone-built and deep. They'll be safe there." His eyes found Isolde in the crowd. "Lady Isolde will organize supplies and tend the wounded when the fighting starts."
"I can fight," Isolde protested.
"Aye, and if needed ye will. But yer value is in keeping as many people as possible alive, not in dying on the walls." His tone brooked no argument, but his eyes held warmth. "Leave the killing tae those of us who've made it our trade."
Isolde had no response for that. So as the day wore on, she watched in amazement as men from MacAlpin clan joined the men from the MacCraith clan to look to Ciaran for orders. His natural authority, combined with his obvious military experience, had won their respect in mere hours.
"He's good," her father said quietly, appearing beside her as they watched Ciaran directing the construction of defensive positions. "I can see why ye—" He stopped himself, but the implication hung between them.
"Faither—"
"We'll speak of it after the battle, lass. Assuming we're all still breathing." Alistair's weathered hand touched her shoulder briefly. "But ken this—any man who'd stand and fight fer MacAlpin people as if they were his own... that says something about his character."
As their frantic preparations continued, Isolde found herself standing on the battlements, watching Ciaran move among the men below. He paused to speak with each group—offering encouragement here, tactical advice there, his presence alone seeming to steady nerves and strengthen resolve.
In less than a day, he'd transformed farmers, herders and soldiers who had not seen battle in decades into something resembling an army. More importantly, he'd given them something they'd been lacking for years: hope.
The castle had finally slipped into some form of quiet anticipation as exhaustion overtook even the most anxious of souls. Isolde moved silently through the corridors, her bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floors. The guest chamber where they'd housed Ciaran was in the east wing, away from herfather's rooms and close enough that she could find it in the dark.
She knocked softly on the heavy oak door.
"Come."
His voice was weary, and when she slipped inside, she found him sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, still fully clothed despite the late hour. His head was in his hands, and for a moment he looked like what he was—a man carrying the weight of hundreds of lives on his shoulders.
"Ciaran?"
He looked up, and she saw the exhaustion etched in every line of his face. "Isolde. Ye should be sleeping, lass. Come daylight, there will be?—"
