Page 9 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "And how dae ye ken I'm nae simply a small warrior?"
Ciaran looked down at her, taking in the fine bone structure of her face, the elegant posture that spoke of years of training in a noble household. "Oh, I've nay doubt ye're a warrior, lass," he said softly. "Just nae the kind I usually patch up after battle."
As they entered the great hall, servants hurried to light additional torches. The massive stone hearth blazed with fresh logs, casting dancing shadows across ancient tapestries and gleaming weapons mounted on the walls. Ciaran watched her eyes widen as she took in the grandeur of his ancestral home and felt an unexpected surge of pride.
Who was this woman who fought like a wildcat, spoke like nobility, and now looked around his castle with barely concealed wonder? By dawn, he intended to know.
CHAPTER THREE
Ciaran guided Isolde through the torch-lit corridors of Castle MacCraith, his hand never leaving the small of her back. The warmth of his touch seeped through the torn fabric of her gown, setting her skin aflame despite the chill of the stone walls.
"The healer's quarters are just ahead," he said, his deep voice echoing in the narrow passage. "Elspeth usually has healing potions prepared fer eventualities."
Isolde fought to maintain her composure, acutely aware of how close he stood, of how his massive frame seemed to envelop her own. "Ye needn't trouble yerself, m'laird. 'Tis but a scratch."
His dark eyes flicked to her bruised face, lingering on the dried blood at the corner of her mouth. "A scratch that came from protecting yer honor. The least I can dae is tend tae it properly."
They reached a small chamber lined with shelves of herbs, tinctures, and clay pots. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light across a wooden table and several stools. The room smelled of dried heather, rosemary, and something sharp that could be witch hazel.
"Where's yer healer?" Isolde asked, noticing the empty room.
"Attending some urgent matter," Ciaran replied, moving toward the shelves with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he sought. "But we dinnae need her."
Ciaran turned from the shelf of medicines, a small clay pot in his large hands. "Leave us," he commanded, his voice cutting through the hushed whispers of the hovering servants. Isolde watched as the two women who had been lingering by the door immediately straightened. "Aye, me laird," they murmured in unison, backing out of the room with lowered eyes. She couldn't help but notice how they obeyed without question—so different from her father's castle, where servants had grown familiar over years of dwindling fortunes.
When the heavy door closed, Ciaran approached her. "The cloak, lass. It needs tae come off if I'm tae tend ye properly."
Isolde clutched the torn fabric tighter around her shoulders, suddenly aware of how exposed she'd be without it. "I can manage meself."
"I dinnae doubt it, but ye'll humor me all the same."
His eyes, dark as peat, held hers until she relented. What choice did she have? She was in his castle, at his mercy—though mercy seemed a strange word for the feelings his gaze stirred within her.
With reluctant movements, she allowed him to help her remove the cloak. His fingers brushed against her neck as he unfastened the clasp, sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. She prayed he hadn't noticed.
"Now," he said, dipping a clean cloth into a bowl of water, "will ye tell me yer name? Or must I continue calling ye 'lass' all through the night?"
Isolde lifted her chin. "Lass suits me fine." If he knew she was a MacAlpin, everything would change. The MacCraiths had no need for alliances with fallen clans.
"Daes it now?" His mouth curved into a half-smile as he carefully pressed the damp cloth to the cut on her lip.
Isolde tried not to wince at the sting and tried even harder not to focus on how close he stood, how his breath warmed her cheek. How he smelled.
"And what am I tae tell those who ask about the woman I've brought intae me home?" he asked.
"I’m sure a laird such as yeself has nay need tae explain anything tae anyone. But tell them whatever ye wish. It matters nae taeme." But it did matter. It mattered that her father not discover her foolishness. That her sisters could come up with a good excuse for her absence
Ciaran's eyes narrowed. "Yer tongue remains sharp fer someone in yer position."
"And what position is that, Laird MacCraith?" She shouldn't provoke him, yet she couldn't seem to help herself.
"Under me protection." He dabbed a sweet-smelling salve onto her bruised cheek with surprising gentleness. "Though I cannae protect ye properly if I dinnae ken who ye are."
The salve stung, and Isolde felt her eyes water. Apart from that, she refused to show weakness. "I didnae ask fer yer protection."
"Yet ye need it all the same." His fingers traced the edge of her bruise, his touch feather-light. "It’s nae too bad, I've treated worse on the battlefield."
"I'm hardly a wounded soldier, Laird MacCraith." Her voice sounded breathless even to her own ears.
