Page 88 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"So I see." His grey eyes moved between her and Ciaran, noting how they'd positioned themselves, how naturally they'd worked together. "And Lord MacCraith was assisting ye?"
"Lady Isolde has skilled hands fer healing," Ciaran said carefully. "I was merely helping where I could."
Alistair's gaze lingered on them both, and Isolde felt certain he could see right through their careful words. "Aye, me daughter has always had a gift fer caring fer others." His tone was neutral, giving nothing away.
Neither she nor Ciaran responded. Her father stepped into the room, and she noticed how his eyes searched between her and Ciaran. Isolde knew this was not the time for her father to become distracted.
She stepped forward, clearing her throat. "Faither, surely ye have more pressing matters?—"
"Naething more pressing than me daughter's welfare." Alistair's voice held a warning edge. "Despite Laird MacCraith showing his intention tae wed ye, daughter, I am sure he has been... respectful during our hospitality?"
"Completely," Isolde said, perhaps too quickly. "He's been naething but honorable."
Ciaran cleared his throat.
"Me laird!" A messenger burst into the room, his face flushed from hard riding. "Fergive the intrusion, but I bring urgent news!"
Alistair turned sharply. "Speak."
"Wallace's troops have been spotted near the Cromwell border. Our scouts estimate a full army—at least three hundred men, maybe more. They're moving this way."
The color drained from Isolde's face. Three hundred men. Against their combined forces, they might manage half that number, and many of those would be farmers and shepherds who'd never held a sword in earnest.
"How long dae we have?" Ciaran demanded, his voice cutting through the sudden silence.
"Two days, me laird. Maybe less if they force march."
Alistair's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt. His eyes flicked meaningfully between Isolde and Ciaran. "We'll speak later, daughter."
But Isolde knew, with a sinking heart, that there might not be a later. Wallace was coming with an army, and everything—her father's suspicions, her future with Ciaran, the safety of everyone in this castle—hung in the balance.
"Summon the war council," Ciaran ordered the messenger. "All clan leaders, now."
As the room erupted into activity, Ciaran moved swiftly to Isolde's side. His hand found hers, squeezing gently despite the eyes watching them.
"Dinnae worry, lass," he murmured, his voice low but steady. "We'll be ready for him."
Laird Alistair's sharp gaze caught the intimate gesture, but before he could speak, Ciaran was already moving into action.
"Finlay!" he called to his friend, who appeared in the doorway as if summoned by thought alone. "I need three of our fastest riders, now."
"Aye, me laird."
"And parchment, ink, and wax fer sealing. Move quickly."
Within minutes, Ciaran was bent over a writing table in the castle's solar, his hand moving swiftly across the parchments. Isolde watched him work, marveling at how completely he'd taken command of the situation.
"The first goes tae MacCraith lands," he explained as he wrote, his voice crisp with authority. "Me full garrison—two hundred trained men. They can be here in a day if they ride hard."
"And the others?" Alistair asked, moving to peer over Ciaran's shoulder.
"Clan MacKinney—Ingram owes me a debt from the cattle raids three summers past. And Clan Campbell. They've nay love fer Wallace after he burned their border villages last winter."Ciaran sealed the first letter with quick, practiced movements. "Between them, we should have another hundred and fifty men."
"Thank ye, me laird. However, even with that, we may still be outnumbered," one of the MacAlpin elders said grimly.
Ciaran looked up, his green eyes hard as winter stone. "Numbers arenae everything in war, old man. Position, strategy, and the will tae fight—those matter more."
He sealed the final letter and handed all three to Finlay. "Ride out immediately. Different routes in case Wallace has scouts watching the roads."
