Page 95 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Stay back!" he snarled, grabbing Isolde and hauling her upright, his dagger once again at her throat. "One more step and she dies!"
The attacking warriors froze, their weapons raised but unable to strike without risking Isolde's life. Ciaran stepped forward, his eyes blazing with rage.
"Let her go, Wallace. This is between ye and me."
"Is it? Because it seems tae me that ye've grown rather attached tae the MacAlpin lass." Wallace's blade pressed deeper, and Isolde felt another trickle of blood run down her neck. "Tell yer men tae back away, or she dies right here."
For a moment, nobody moved. Then Ciaran slowly raised his hand, signaling his men to step back.
"There's a good lad," Wallace sneered. "Now, we're going tae?—"
His words turned into a scream as Isolde, who'd managed to work her bonds loose, grabbed a fallen warrior's dagger and drove it into Wallace's leg. The shock made him stumble, his grip on Isolde loosening just enough for her to break free.
Ciaran moved like lightning, his sword taking Wallace in the chest before the man could recover. The blade punched through mail and leather, emerging bloody from his back. Wallace's eyes went wide with shock, then empty as he collapsed to the forest floor.
"Isolde!" Ciaran was at her side in an instant, cutting her bonds and gathering her into his arms. "Are ye hurt? Did he?—"
"I'm fine," she gasped, clinging to him as if he might disappear. "But Aileen?—"
"I'm here," Aileen called weakly from where she sat against the tree, rubbing her wrists. "I'm alright."
Ciaran held Isolde tighter, his face buried in her hair. "I thought I'd lost ye," he whispered. "When I found the keep empty, when Morag told me what happened?—"
"How did ye find us?" Isolde asked.
"Finlay was able to find the tracks. We followed the tracks." His voice was rough with emotion. "I would have followed ye tae the ends of the earth, lass. I'll never let anyone take ye from me again."
As his warriors secured the clearing and tended to Aileen, Isolde allowed herself to truly believe that it was over. Wallace was dead, his men defeated, and she was safe in Ciaran's arms.
The nightmare had finally ended.
EPILOGUE
"Ye look beautiful, sister," Aileen said softly, adjusting the folds of the arisaid. Her youngest sister had recovered well from their ordeal, though shadows still sometimes crossed her eyes.
Clan members had gathered from across the Highlands for the wedding of Isolde MacAlpin and Ciaran MacCraith. It had been a month since Wallace's defeat, time enough for the wounded to heal and for proper wedding preparations to be made according to ancient Highland tradition.
In the castle's great hall, Isolde stood before her sisters as they helped her dress. The wedding gown had belonged to her mother—cream-colored silk with intricate Celtic knotwork embroidered in gold thread around the bodice and sleeves. Over it, she would wear the MacAlpin arisaid, the great plaid of her clan, pinned at the shoulder with the ancient brooch that had been worn by MacAlpin brides for generations.
"Like a queen," added Isla, her auburn hair gleaming as she wove white heather into Isolde's dark locks. "Ciaran MacCraith is the luckiest man in all of Scotland."
Lorna, ever the artist, stepped back to survey their work with a critical eye. "Perfect. Though I still say ye should let me paint yer portrait before the ceremony."
"There'll be time fer that later," Isolde said, though her voice was tight with emotion. In all the preparations, the joy, there was still an empty space where Rhona should have been. Her wild-hearted sister remained missing, taken by raiders months ago, and though they'd searched everywhere, no trace had been found.
"She would have wanted ye tae be happy," Aileen said gently, reading her thoughts. "Wherever she is."
A knock at the door interrupted them. "Me ladies," came a maid’s voice from the corridor, "it's time."
In the courtyard below, the wedding party had assembled according to ancient custom. Laird Alistair MacAlpin stood proud in his ceremonial plaid, the silver threads in his beard catching the morning light. Beside him waited Fenella MacCraith, Ciaran's formidable aunt, her grey eyes bright with approval as she surveyed the gathered clans.
"A fine match," she murmured to Alistair. "Me nephew has chosen well."
"As has me daughter," Alistair replied. "Ciaran MacCraith is a man of honor."
The pipers began to play, their haunting melody echoing off the stone walls as the wedding procession formed. Finlay, resplendent in MacCraith colors, stood as groomsman beside Ciaran, who wore his finest plaid of green and blue with the ceremonial dirk at his side. His dark hair was bound back witha leather cord, and his green eyes never left the castle entrance where his bride would appear.
Tavish MacAlpin, the clan's war leader, carried the ceremonial sword that would be used in the handfasting, while Duncan MacLeod bore the ancient cup from which the couple would drink. Other familiar faces filled the courtyard whose lives had been touched by the alliance between MacCraith and MacAlpin.
