The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (Preview)
Chapter 1
Castle MacAlpin, 1659
“Faither, may I be excused?” Isolde set down her spoon. “I fear I’m nae feeling quite meself tonight.”
Isolde glanced at her sisters seated across the long oak table. A moment before, the dining hall echoed with the scrape of spoons against bowls. Now Isolde caught her sister’s eye and tilted her head slightly toward the door. Rhona nodded, understanding immediately.
Laird Alistair MacAlpin looked up from his simple meal, concern etching his weathered face. “Aye, lass. Get some rest.”
The few servants that remained at MacAlpin Castle cleared dishes in silence, their footsteps echoing in the half-empty hall. As she slipped out of her chair, a wave of sadness to flood through Isolde. She remembered when those tables had groaned with food and the hall had bustled with clansmen.
How quickly fortunes could change in the Highlands—one poor harvest, one failed alliance, one enemy too many. Their once-proud clan now clung to their lands by mere threads of ancient loyalty, their wealth as scattered as the autumn leaves. What her father wouldn’t trade for just one strong son to inherit rather than five daughters, no matter how clever they might be. “I shall look after her,” Rhona announced, already rising. “She was complaining of a headache earlier.”
Isolde’s other sister Aileen, the youngest at sixteen, fidgeted in her seat. “May I also—”
“Go on then,” their father waved a hand, “all of ye. These old bones need peace and quiet.”
The three sisters hurried from the hall, maintaining decorum until they rounded the corner. Then they broke into a run, skirts gathered in their hands, stifling giggles as they raced up the winding staircase to the east tower.
“Quickly!” Isolde burst through the chamber door. Her mother’s midnight blue velvet with the silver thread gown was already laid across her bed.
Rhona locked the door behind them. “Ye’re mad, ye ken that? Completely daft tae dae this.”
“Stop scolding like some old woman and help me,” Isolde was already tugging at her dinner dress. “I cannae miss this chance tae see him.”
Aileen bounced on her toes while helping her sister with the undershirt. “What if Da discovers ye’re gone?”
“He willnae if ye two dinnae mess this up. And make sure Lorna and Isla are sworn to silence.” Isolde stepped into the blue gown, its style a decade old but the fabric still rich and lustrous. “Rhona, the laces!”
Rhona pulled the dress tight, snatching Isolde’s waist. “Ye’ve been obsessed with Laird MacCraith since ye first laid eyes on him, when he visited Da.”
“Wouldnae ye be?” Isolde’s cheeks flushed. “The way he carries himself, he’s like a warrior king from the old stories.”
“He’s older than ye,” Aileen whispered, eyes wide.
“And they say his clan’s council would never let him marry outside powerful alliances,” Rhona added.
“I’m nae proposing marriage,” Isolde snapped. Her face softened at her sister’s hurt expression, and she squeezed her arm affectionately. “I just want tae see him again. Tae be in the same room, even if just once more.”
Rhona worked on Isolde’s hair with precision, twisting the dark ginger locks into an elegant arrangement. “A laird’s unwed daughter, unescorted, at another laird’s masquerade… ye’ll be ruined if recognized.”
Isolde raised one finger, then reached for a silver mask inlaid with tiny sapphires—another relic from their mother’s chest. “Nay one will ken me with this.”
She fastened it and turned to look at her reflection. The mask transformed her, lending mystery to her blue eyes and high cheekbones.
“Oh my. Ye look like royalty,” Aileen breathed.
“Is the secret passage still clear?” Isolde gathered a dark cloak.
“Aye,” Rhona nodded. “I checked yesterday. The old hunting path beyond is overgrown but passable.”
Isolde embraced her sisters fiercely. “If anyone asks—”
“Ye’re ill with a fever and sleeping,” Rhona finished. “We ken.”
“I’ll be back before dawn,” Isolde promised, slipping a small dagger into her boot.
Aileen pressed something into her hand. She looked down and saw it was a small silver charm. “Fer luck. ‘Twas Maither’s.”
Isolde’s throat tightened. She kissed her youngest sister. “I’ll be careful, mo chridhe.”
Rhona opened the window to the narrow ledge beyond. “If ye’re caught by our clan enemies on the road—”
“I’ll gut them meself,” Isolde grinned fiercely, but when she saw her sisters’ worried expressions, she added, “I promise tae be careful and come home soon.”
Not wasting another second, she slipped through the window and disappeared into the shadows, her heart pounding with the thrill of forbidden adventure and the thought of seeing Laird Ciaran MacCraith.
***
Castle Murray, The Masquerade Ball
The moment Isolde entered the crowded room, her eyes were drawn to him as if by magic. Her breath caught in her throat.
Laird Ciaran MacCraith. The mere sight of him sent a rush of heat through her body, settling low in her belly.
Sweet heavens, even from across the room his presence steals my breath.
Isolde pressed herself into the shadows, her back against a stone column, her heart hammering against her ribs like a war drum.
Torches blazed from every wall, bathing the great hall in golden light. Music swirled around masked dancers who spun like autumn leaves in a whirlwind, but Isolde didn’t notice. Her eyes were fixed on him.
Laird Ciaran MacCraith stood head and shoulders above most of the men in the room. His dark hair was pulled back from a face half-covered by a black mask. He moved with the confidence of a man who commanded respect without asking.
A circle of admirers surrounded him—daughters from clans powerful enough for their ambitious lairds to hover like hawks, their eyes gleaming with the hope their daughter would be the one to capture the dashing Ciaran McCraith’s attention.
Isolde’s fingers tightened on her goblet, taken from a passing servant’s tray as her attention remained fixed on Laird Ciaran. Two years. Two long years since that day he’d arrived at their castle.
She’d been on the gallery above the great hall when he strode in with his men, his deep voice washing over her like the finest Highland whisky—rough with the brogue of his people yet smooth with the refinement of a learned man. She’d pressed herself behind a pillar, stretching her neck to observe him as he awaited her father.
What would ye think if ye kent I’ve been dreaming of ye fer two long years?
And tonight, attending this masquerade, would add to her collection of secret memories. To drink him in with her eyes, to hear his laugh echo across the chamber would be enough.
Knowing the impossibility of their clans’ alliance, she sought no introduction, expected no acknowledgment. She’d remain a shadow at the edge of his world, content merely to exist in the same space, to breathe the same air, if only for those stolen hours.
She watched him lead a blonde woman to the dance floor. His movements were fluid, controlled. Even in dance, he moved like a warrior.
Just one glimpse of ye was all I wanted.
For over an hour, Isolde watched hawk-eyed from the shadows. She studied his hands as they clasped those of noblewomen, imagining how they might feel against her own skin—rough from the dueling, yet gentle in their guidance across the dance floor.
When he laughed at something a lass said, Isolde’s eyes traced the strong column of his throat to the slight dimple that appeared on his left cheek.
She sipped sweet wine, letting it linger on her tongue, wondering if his kiss would be as intoxicating.
When his path brought him near where she stood, she pressed deeper into the shadows, turning away but watching him through lowered lashes. Her breath caught as he passed close enough that she could detect a whiff of leather and his cologne.
The evening wore on. Candles burned lower in their sconces. The musicians played faster, more passionate reels that sent couples spinning in dizzying circles. Isolde watched, imagining Ciaran McCraith’s arm around her waist, guiding her through those same steps, his breath warm against her hair.
Dinnae be a fool, Isolde. Men like him dinnae notice women from fallen clans. Ye’ve had enough daydreaming.
The midnight bell would soon toll, and she would have to return before dawn exposed her deception. She set down her goblet, preparing to leave.
That was when the music changed.
A slow, haunting melody rose from the musicians’ corner. Dancers separated, seeking new partners. In that moment of shifting alliances, Laird Ciaran MacCraith turned.
Across the crowded hall, through the sea of masks and finery, his gaze locked directly with hers.
Isolde froze. The room stilled around them, the music fading to a distant hum until the only thing she could hear was her own thundering heart. She should look away—flee—but she was trapped in the intensity of his stare.
And then—
Is he walking toward me?
Yes. Yes, he was.
Laird Ciaran MacCraith was moving toward her, cutting through the crowd with purpose, his eyes never leaving hers.
Panic surged through Isolde’s veins. She wasn’t prepared for this—not for him to notice her, certainly not for him to approach.
Run. I must run.
She turned sharply, skirts swirling around her ankles, but her foot caught on the edge of a tapestry. The world tilted. She threw out her hands as she stumbled forward—
Strong hands captured her waist, steadying her with impossible gentleness despite their firm grip. Heat blazed through the fabric of her gown where his fingers pressed. The scent of leather and rare Florentine ambergris enveloped her, dizzyingly close.
Isolde’s body arched backward into the curve of his hold, her spine making a perfect bow. She lifted her gaze and was immediately sucked into eyes so dark, they seemed to drink the torchlight around them rather than reflect it—eyes that studied her face with surprising intensity.
“Careful, lass,” he murmured, his voice lower and smoother than in her memories. It wrapped around her like velvet. “These floors have been kent to claim even the most delicate of dancers.”
His face hovered mere inches from hers. She could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow of evening stubble beneath his mask, the way his lips curved—not quite a smile but just as ruthless in its charm.
Heat crept up her neck. This close, she could feel the power in his frame, the controlled strength as he effortlessly held her suspended between falling and standing.
“I—I wasnae… I didnae—” Words stumbled over her tongue, her usually quick wit deserting her entirely.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes, the gesture so quick she might have imagined it, yet it left her lips tingling for his touch.
“Dance with me.” Not a question. He expected Isolde to obey without protest.
Her fingers flexed against his forearms, not certain when she’d placed her hands there. She should retreat, make her excuses—
“Unless ye fear being seen with me?” he challenged, something flashing in his eyes. “Perhaps ye prefer tae remain in the shadows, watching rather than experiencing?”
Pride surged through her confusion. She straightened her spine, chin lifting. “I fear naething, me laird.” She infused her voice with all the noble bearing her father had instilled in her. “Certainly nae a dance.”
His smile, a true smile that transformed his severe features, nearly buckled her knees. His eyes crinkled at the edges, revealing a warmth she hadn’t expected from a man rumored to be tough, strong.
Isolde felt like the sun had just broke through the night, unexpected, and all the more stunning for its rarity.
He took her gloved hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a caress that seemed to scorch through the fabric.
“Then prove it to me,” he said, leading her toward the center of the hall, where the musicians had begun a new melody. “Let us see if ye can keep pace with more than just yer sharp tongue.”
The musicians struck up a new melody as he led her to the center of the hall. Other dancers parted, their eyes following them with curious glances. Lasses who’d spent the evening seeking the laird’s favor now watched with silent dismay as he guided a mysterious masked woman across the floor, having ignored several eligible daughters, each of which had hoped to have the next dance.
“Strange,” His hand settled at the small of her back. Isolde felt it like a flame burning through her gown, “I cannae recall seeing ye at any gathering before tonight. I’m certain I would remember.”
She arched an eyebrow beneath her mask. “The whispers say ye have enough women in yer company. How dae ye keep a tally of them all?”
God, why did I just say that?
His laugh was low and rich, sending a shiver down her spine as he guided her through the first turn. “It’s easy with the captivating ones.” His fingers tightened slightly at her waist, drawing her closer than the dance required. “Especially when they cannae seem tae take their eyes off me.”
The music quickened, and so did Isolde’s heart as he spun her outward, only to pull her back against his chest with controlled strength. He continued speaking without giving her enough time to answer.
“Ye’ve been watching me all evening, lass.” His voice dropped lower still. “From behind yer pillar. Did ye think I wouldnae notice?”
Isolde’s breath caught. “I-I wasnae… I wasnae watching ye,” she managed, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her.
One corner of his mouth hitched higher. “Ye lie very prettily.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering there with unmistakable intent. “Such bonnie lips shouldnae be wasted on falsehoods when they could be put tae far more… pleasurable uses.” He pulled her closer, his meaning impossible to misinterpret as his own lips hovered mere inches from hers.
Heat flared in Isolde’s cheeks. She pulled back sharply, missing a step in the dance. Her pulse quickened with indignation at his boldness. No man had ever dared speak to her so brazenly before
“Ye dare tae presume…” she started, her voice trembling slightly.
“I presume naething, lass,” he countered, his brogue deepening. “I merely observe what’s before me.”
“I am a lady, Laird MacCraith, nae one of your tavern wenches tae be toyed with.” Her chin lifted, eyes flashing fire behind her mask. “I thought ye were a man of honor, nae one who would speak tae a woman of noble birth as if she were… were…”
“Fascinating?” he offered, seemingly more intrigued than chastened by her outburst.
“Indecent,” she finished, stepping away from him as the dance came to an end. The other dancers were already pairing off for the next set, but Isolde had endured enough. Her heart couldn’t bear another moment pressed against him, desire warring with dignity.
“Ye think me a conquest then?” she challenged, backing away.
The MacAlpin name might have lost its wealth and its standing, but she would not let it lose its honor. Even as her traitorous body yearned for his touch, her father’s daughter would not be made sport of by a man who could take whatever—and whomever—he wanted. “I think ye a mystery I intend tae solve,” he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. “Ken, lass, this isnae finished between us.”
She dropped into a curtsy, deliberately formal and cold. “Good evening, m’laird. Thank ye fer the dance.”
Without waiting for his response, she turned and moved swiftly through the crowd, ignoring his call of “Wait!” that followed her.
Her cheeks burned with equal parts anger and embarrassment. She had fantasized about this moment for two years, and now that insufferable man had spoiled it entirely with his arrogance.
The great Laird MacCraith—so proud and presumptuous, treating her as though she were merely another conquest to be claimed like land in battle. For all his fine reputation, he was no better than the rest of them—those Highland lairds who believed their power gave them right to whatever they desired.
Mother would have called him ‘a wolf in fine wool,’ and now Isolde could see why. Yet, even as disappointment burned in her breast, something else smoldered alongside it—something dangerous that sought expression.
The cool night air hit her face as she pushed through a side door into a small courtyard. Stars dotted the black sky above. She gulped down breaths, willing her racing heart to calm.
She heard the door behind her open, and pressed herself into the shadows of a stone archway, holding her breath. Ciaran’s tall figure appeared, his silhouette unmistakable as he looked left and right across the courtyard.
“Me laird!” A voice called from inside. “The lairds are gathering in the library to discuss the alliance.”
Ciaran hesitated, looking once more into the darkness before turning back. “Aye, I’m coming.”
When the door closed behind him, Isolde sagged against the cold stone. What a fool she’d been. This entire adventure had been madness from the start. She pushed away from the wall, gathering her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
It was time to go home. She’d had her glimpse of Laird Ciaran MacCraith—far more than a glimpse. Perhaps it was for the best he’d revealed his true nature. Now she could finally purge him from her thoughts, her dreams, her very being. The man she’d built in her imagination had crumbled to dust, replaced by this arrogant beast with hungry eyes. Perhaps it was the cure she’d needed all along.
A few minutes later, Isolde was urging her horse faster along the narrow path. The forest was thick there, branches reaching like spectral fingers across the trail. She’d tarried too long at Castle Murray—dawn would break in mere hours, and she had to be back in her bed before the household stirred.
“Come on, Brígh,” she whispered to her mare, leaning forward in the saddle. The path dipped sharply, forcing her to slow as they descended toward the valley that would lead her to the MacAlpin lands.
The snap of a branch froze her blood.
Isolde pulled Brígh to a halt, listening. The night was too quiet—no owls, no rustling creatures. She reached slowly for the dagger in her boot, fingers just brushing the hilt when thundering hoofbeats erupted behind her.
“Yah!” She dug her heels into Brígh’s sides. The mare surged forward, but the path was too narrow for speed. Three riders crashed through the underbrush, cutting across the forest to intercept her.
The first rider appeared ahead, blocking the path. Isolde yanked the reins, veering Brígh sharply left into the trees. Branches clawed at her face and gown as they plunged through the darkness.
“There she goes!” a gruff voice shouted. “Dinnae let her reach MacAlpin land!”
They ken who I am.
Panic surged through her veins. Brígh stumbled on the uneven ground, nearly sending Isolde flying. Before she could regain control, a rope whistled through the air, catching her around the waist and yanking her from the saddle.
She hit the ground hard, air rushing from her lungs. Still, she scrambled to her feet, dagger now in hand as three men dismounted and advanced.
“Well, well,” the largest one chuckled, his face scarred and brutal in the moonlight. “Lady Isolde MacAlpin, out fer a midnight ride. Laird Wallace will be pleased.”
Wallace! I should have kenned!
“Tell yer master I’m nae interested in his attentions,” Isolde spat, circling slowly, dagger gleaming. “I’d sooner wed a toad.”
The men laughed, spreading out to surround her. “It’s nae a proposal we’re bringing ye, m’lady,” the scarred one said. “It’s an order. Ye’ll make a dutiful bride at our laird’s side, whether ye wish it or nae. The MacAlpin lands will be his one way or another.”
“I’ll die first,” Isolde hissed, lunging suddenly at the nearest man.
Her dagger slashed across his arm, drawing a howl of pain. She spun, kicking hard at the second man’s knee, feeling it buckle beneath her boot. But the scarred leader caught her from behind, massive arms wrapping around her.
Isolde drove her head backward, feeling the satisfying crunch as her skull connected with his nose. His grip loosened enough for her to twist, bringing her knee up sharply between his legs.
“Ye witch!” he gasped, doubling over.
She clawed at his face, nails raking bloody furrows down his cheek before the other men recovered. One grabbed her hair, yanking her head back while the other twisted the dagger from her grip.
“Naething was said about bringing ye unharmed,” the scarred leader growled, blood streaming from his nose into his beard as he straightened. “Just alive.”
“Ye can tell yer—” Isolde’s defiant words cut off as he backhanded her across the face, splitting her lip. She tasted blood but refused to cry out.
“Enough talk,” he snarled, grabbing her chin. “Bind her hands. We ride fer—”
The snap of a twig and the soft thud of boots hitting earth silenced him. It was their only warning before a shadow detached itself from the darkness behind them.
Chapter 2
TThe thud of steel met flesh before the men could turn. The scarred man howled in pain as a blade sliced across his back. He stumbled forward, releasing Isolde as he turned to face this new threat.
Isolde fell back, eyes widening as she recognized her rescuer. Laird Ciaran MacCraith, his face fierce in the moonlight, was a far cry from the charming dancer she had run out on at the ball.
“Kill him!” the scarred leader roared, drawing his own sword. The three men formed a semicircle, stalking toward Ciaran with weapons raised.
The first attacker lunged with a wild swing. Ciaran sidestepped with practiced ease, his blade meeting the man’s with a ringing clash before sliding down to slice across his opponent’s forearm. The man cried out but pressed forward, joined by his companions in a coordinated attack.
Ciaran moved like water between them, his footwork precise where theirs was clumsy. His sword became an extension of his arm, parrying, striking, drawing blood with each calculated movement. Where they hacked and slashed, he executed controlled strikes that spoke of years of disciplined training.
One man fell to his knees, clutching a deep gash in his thigh. Another stumbled back, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. The scarred leader, seeing his advantage disappear, glanced between his injured companions and the barely winded laird.
“Run!” he finally shouted, scrambling backward toward his horse. The others followed, cursing as they fled.
The attackers crashed through the forest, disappearing into the darkness with Ciaran’s curses following them into the night. Only when their hoofbeats faded did he turn back to Isolde, sheathing his blade.
***
“Are ye hurt, lass?” Ciaran asked. Blood pounded in his ears, the battle rage still coursing through his veins.
Something about her had drawn him away from duty—perhaps the way she’d stood her ground against his teasing, or how she’d matched him word for word without cowering as most lasses did. She was fire where others were merely smoke, and he’d been unable to resist the pull of her flame.
His impulsive decision to follow her had saved her life, though he’d had no choice in letting the bastards who attacked her go. Making sure she was alright was more important, and if she told him who they were, getting them would prove easy enough.
Now, watching her in the moonlight, he wondered what other surprises this mysterious woman might hold.
She touched her lip where blood had already begun to dry. “Nothing lasting,” she said, pride evident in her voice though it caught on the words.
For all her brave front, Ciaran could see the way her shoulders shook, how she clutched at the torn fabric of her gown as though it might shield her from memories still fresh and raw. Ciaran studied her in the dappled moonlight. Her mask remained firmly in place, but he could see now how the fear she fought to hide mixed with her fierce spirit burned behind those blue eyes.
Though she stood tall despite her torn gown, when she took a step forward, her knees nearly buckled beneath her.
Ciaran reached out and steadied her, his large hand gentle against her elbow. “Here now,” he murmured, guiding her to sit on a nearby fallen log. “Take a moment, lass.”
She sank down, her legs finally betraying the strength she’d fought to maintain. In the silvered light, he could see the pallor beneath her flushed cheeks, the way she held herself as though one wrong move might shatter her composure.
“Are ye truly alright?” he asked, crouching before her, his voice softer than he’d intended. This close, he could see the fine tremors running through her, smell the sweet heather scent of her hair beneath the fear and exertion.
“Aye. I’m fine,” she answered, lifting her chin. “Thank ye fer yer… intervention.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the forest quiet save for the distant hoot of an owl and the drumming of his own heart. The moonlight caught in her hair, turning the loose strands to liquid silver. Despite her torn gown and the smudge of dirt on her cheek, she carried herself with the bearing of nobility.
The memory of her fighting—kicking, clawing, using her small dagger with no practiced skill—flashed through his mind. A small smile turned big until laughter rumbled up from his chest, unexpected and deep.
“Something amuses ye, me laird?” she asked sharply.
His laugh grew louder. “I’ve never seen a lass fight like that,” he managed between breaths. “Three armed men twice yer size, and ye had them howling. I could enlist ye in me ranks tomorrow and make me enemies tremble.”
For a moment she stared at him, then her own laughter joined his, a musical sound that lightened the forest darkness. “I wasnae sure me knee found its mark on that big one,” she admitted, “but his face told me otherwise.”
The shared laughter cleared the battle haze from Ciaran’s mind. This woman was no ordinary noble daughter, taught only to embroider and please a future husband. There was steel beneath her fine gown.
“Ye have a name, lass?” he asked when their laughter subsided. “Or should I simply call ye ‘the warrior in silk’?”
She turned away, searching the forest floor. “Me horse,” she said, ignoring his question.
Ciaran spotted it among the trees and walked over to it, taking its reins. “Allow me tae escort ye home. After what just happened, it would be madness tae let yer travel alone.”
“I thank ye fer yer help, Laird MacCraith, but I can manage from here.” She moved to step past him.
Ciaran stepped smoothly into her path, his mouth curving into a knowing smile. “Ye called me by name at the ball as well, if I recall. Strange fer a lass who has nay name nor clan.”
His eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he studied her masked face. “Were ye there just fer me then? Seeking out the fearsome Laird MacCraith?”
“Dinnae flatter yerself,” she retorted, though her cheeks flared with color visible even in the dim light. “Everyone kens who ye are. ‘Tis hardly a secret when ye command attention wherever ye go.”
Her quick response only deepened his interest. This woman had spirit—first fleeing from him at the ball, now standing defiant despite her ordeal. Whatever game she played, he found himself increasingly unwilling to let her vanish into the night.
Ciaran caught her arm, gentle but firm. “Three men just tried tae carry ye off intae the night, and ye think I’ll let ye wander these woods alone?” He searched her masked face, trying to place her features among the daughters of nearby clans. “Who are ye, and why willnae ye tell me where yer home is?”
She stiffened beneath his touch. “Release me, sir.”
“Nae until I ken ye’re safe.”
“I am safe! I was handling meself fine, just as I was before ye came tae me at the ball,” she retorted, pulling free.
Ciaran raised an eyebrow. “Handling yerself fine? As I recall, ye were almost on the floor before I caught ye. And after that, ye seemed willing enough when me arm was around yer waist.”
Color rose in her cheeks, visible even in the dim light. “That was… I was…”
“Yes?” He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.
Her eyes flashed. “Ye’re insufferable.”
“And ye’re injured, lost, and stubborn as a mule.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, loosened from its tie during the fight. “Look, I dinnae ken who ye are or why ye’re hiding it, but those men will return, likely with more. These woods arenae safe.”
She took a step back. “I ken these paths better than ye think.”
“Aye, and so dae they, it seems.” Ciaran gestured to the forest around them. “They kent exactly where tae wait fer ye.”
Her confidence wavered, eyes darting to the shadows between trees. Ciaran pressed his advantage.
“Me castle is less than an hour’s ride. Ye can rest there, tend that cut properly, and I’ll have me men escort ye home, but only if ye tell me which clan ye belong tae.” When she hesitated, he added softly,
“I cannae—”
“Ye can and ye will,” he said, his voice taking on the tone that silenced arguments in his council chamber. “Fer if ye think I’ll stand here debating while ye bleed on forest leaves, ye’re sorely mistaken.”
Her shoulders squared. “Ye cannae command me, Laird MacCraith. I am nae one of yer clan.”
“Then from which clan are ye?” he challenged.
Silence stretched between them. She glanced toward the path she’d been following, calculating. Ciaran watched her, fascinated by the play of thoughts behind those expressive eyes.
“I willnae tell ye me name or me home,” she finally said. “But neither can I remain in these woods.”
“Then we have only one option.” Ciaran moved toward his horse, which had remained calm throughout the skirmish, trained for battle as it was. “Ye’ll come tae Castle MacCraith.”
“I willnae.”
He turned back to her, amusement fading. “Fight me all ye want, lass, but ye’re coming with me. One way or another.”
Something in his tone must have convinced her of his resolve. She stared at him for a long moment, measuring him as one might an opponent across a battlefield.
“Until dawn,” she conceded finally. “I will stay until dawn, and then I must go.”
Triumph rose in Ciaran’s chest. But it was not enough. “Nay, lass. I’ll nae let ye go until ye tell me yer clan and I can see ye safely tae yer home.”
He approached his horse, a massive black stallion that towered over her slight frame, and tied the mare’s reins to its saddle, so it would follow him. Before she could protest, he placed his hands at her waist and lifted her effortlessly onto his saddle.
The contact sent a jolt through him, like the ones he felt while dancing with her.
Careful, man. Ye ken naething about her.
As he lifted her, the silk ribbon of her mask caught on his sleeve. The delicate covering fell away, revealing her face in the moonlight. Her gasp was immediate, her hand flying up to cover herself, but it was too late.
His breath caught in his throat, heat surging through his veins. The lass was bonnie beyond measure—her high cheekbones flushed with color, those fierce blue eyes that had haunted him now framed by long lashes that swept against her skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, full and slightly parted in surprise, the bottom one bearing the smallest cut from her ordeal.
“So, the mystery lass finally shows her face,” he teased, attempting to make light of the moment.
Ciaran bent down, retrieving the fallen mask from the forest floor, his eyes never leaving her now-exposed features. She leaned slightly forward, causing a cascade of dark ginger hair to tumble over her shoulder, drawing his eye to the gentle curve where it stopped just above the swell of her breast. The thin fabric of her torn gown clung to her body, revealing hints of soft curves he had felt while dancing.
Christ!
The word a prayer and curse combined as desire crashed through him. This was no mere appreciation of beauty—this was hunger, primal and demanding.
There was something vaguely familiar about her face that tugged at his memory, though he couldn’t place it. Instinctively, he slipped the mask into his cloak pocket. “Ye sure we havenae met, lass? Something about ye…”
But she cut him off. “Let’s go. By dawn ye’ll likely forget ye ever saw me.” Now that the mask was off, he could see her expression and she seemed slightly alarmed.
I’ll ken what ye’re hiding before daybreak.
Yet as he swung up behind her, his chest pressed against her back, arms encircling her to take the reins, Ciaran knew he was treading dangerous ground. Something about this woman called to him in a way no other had.
“Hold tight,” he murmured, his breath stirring the fine hairs near her ear. He felt her slight shiver and smiled to himself as they set off through the moonlit forest.
‘The warrior in silk’ sat rigidly at first, trying to maintain distance where none was possible. Gradually, as the horse navigated the uneven terrain, her body yielded to the rhythm of the ride, softening against him. The scent of her hair—sweet roses mingling with night air—filled his senses with every breath.
What in the devil’s name is wrong with ye, man?
Ciaran had had beautiful women from powerful clans across the Highlands presented to him like prized mares at auction. Daughters of lairds and chieftains had smiled and flirted, offering political alliances along with their dowries and bodies, yet none had affected him like this nameless lass.
With each breath, her back pressed against his chest. With each stride of the horse, her hips shifted between his thighs. The heat of her body seeped through the layers of their clothing, igniting something primal within him.
He became acutely aware of every curve where they touched, the delicate line of her neck mere inches from his lips, the way her breath quickened when his arms tightened around her to navigate a steep descent.
When she turned slightly to glance at the passing landscape, the moonlight caught the pulse fluttering at her throat. Ciaran fought the sudden, overwhelming urge to press his mouth to that pulse point, to taste the salt of her skin, to feel her heartbeat quicken against his tongue.
Bloody Hell, man. Compose yerself. Ye’re a laird, nae some young lad with his first woman.
Yet there was something intoxicating about her—thats mysterious, fierce creature who fought like a wildcat and whose body now melted against his own. Perhaps it was the contradiction of her refined speech and savage defense, or the way she’d challenged him when most cowered.
Whatever the cause, the effect was undeniable: blood rushing hot through his veins, his body responding in ways that would soon become impossible to hide if she pressed any closer.
They rode in silence, the forest giving way to rolling moorland. Fingers of mist curled around the horse’s legs as they climbed a gentle rise. Ciaran heard her take in a sharp breath as Castle MacCraith appeared on the horizon, its towers silhouetted against the star-strewn sky.
“Home,” he said simply, unable to keep the pride from his voice.
The castle stood upon a rocky outcrop, ancient stone walls rising from the cliff face as if they’d grown from the very mountain. Torches lined the approach, their flames dancing in the night breeze, guiding them home.
“It’s magnificent,” she whispered, the first words she’d spoken since they’d begun their journey.
As they approached the gatehouse, a guard’s voice called down from the battlements. “Who goes there?”
“Yer laird, ye blind fool,” Ciaran shouted back, amusement coloring his tone. “Open the gates.”
“At once, m’laird!” came the immediate response, followed by shouted orders to raise the portcullis.
The heavy wooden doors swung inward. They rode into the torch-lit courtyard where a stable boy rushed forward to take the reins.
Ciaran dismounted first, then reached up for her. His hands spanned her waist as he lifted her down, allowing her body to slide against his for a moment longer than necessary before setting her on her feet. Her cheeks flushed, visible even in the flickering torchlight.
“Laird MacCraith.” A woman with iron-gray hair and a severe expression hurried across the courtyard. “We werenae expecting ye back taenight.” Her eyes widened at the sight of Isolde, taking in the torn gown and disheveled appearance.
“Elspeth,” Ciaran nodded to his housekeeper. “We have a guest who requires attention. She was attacked on the road.”
“Saints preserve us,” Elspeth muttered, already assessing Isolde’s injuries with a practiced eye. “I’ll prepare a chamber and send fer the healer.”
“Nay need fer the healer,” Ciaran said. “Bring me the herbs and ointments.”
Elspeth’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, but she knew better than to question her laird. “As ye wish. I’ll ready the blue chamber in the guest wing.”
“Nay,” Ciaran said, surprising himself. “The Dun room.”
A moment of shocked silence followed. The MacKenzie room was reserved for only the most honored guests—or family. Elspeth’s mouth opened, then closed, before she nodded and hurried away.
Several of his household warriors had gathered at a discreet distance, curious about the unexpected arrival and the unknown woman at their laird’s side. Ciaran could already see the questions in their eyes, the seeds of gossip that would spread through the castle by morning.
“Callum,” he called to his captain of the guard. “Double the watch taenight. There may be riders about in our territory.”
“Aye, m’laird.” The burly man bowed slightly, his hand going instinctively to his sword hilt. “Shall I send scouts tae the borders?”
“At first light,” Ciaran replied. “And send word tae Finlay. Tell him I require his counsel on an urgent matter.”
As the men dispersed to carry out his orders, Ciaran turned to find his mysterious guest watching him with those penetrating blue eyes, a question in their depths. The torchlight played across her features, highlighting the proud tilt of her chin despite her bedraggled state.
“Come,” he said, offering his arm. “Let’s tend tae that wound.”
She hesitated, then placed her gloved hand lightly on his forearm. “Ye need nae bother yerself, m’laird. I’m perfectly capable—”
“I’ve nay doubt ye are,” he interrupted, leading her toward the keep. “But humor me. I rarely get to practice my healing skills on someone who isnae a blood-soaked warrior twice yer size.”
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.
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