Two Years Earlier

“Riders approaching the gate! Clan MacCraith banners!”

The guard’s voice echoed across the courtyard of Castle MacAlpin, carrying clearly through the open windows of the great hall, where nineteen-year-old Isolde MacAlpin sat mending her sisters’ gown by the morning light. Her needle paused mid-stitch as curiosity sparked in her chest.

MacCraith. I ken that name. Faither has spoken often of how powerful the clan is.

Isolde remembered quite well. A powerful Highland clan from the eastern mountains. Not allies and not enemies, their paths rarely crossed.

Pricked by curiosity, she set aside her needlework completely. What would bring them to MacAlpin lands? It must be something important for them to make a journey.

Isolde moved toward the window, peering down at the courtyard below. A small party of riders was approaching—perhaps six men, all mounted on fine horses and wearing the green and blue plaid of Clan MacCraith. At their head rode a figure that made her freeze mid-motion.

Even from a distance, there was something about the perfect line of his shoulders, the confident tilt of his head, the effortless grace with which he controlled his mount. As they drew closer to the castle gates, Isolde found herself leaning forward, trying to make out more details.

I should go downstairs.

Her hands moved automatically to smooth the wrinkles from her skirts, then flew to her hair to check that no wayward curls had escaped her morning arrangement.

As the eldest daughter, it would be proper for her to act as hostess until her father appeared to greet their guests. She could already see herself walking sedately to the great hall, offering the traditional Highland welcome with perfect courtesy and grace—exactly as her mother had taught her.

She took a step toward the door, then stopped.

Who are ye foolin’ lass? Better to observe from a distance until ye can compose yerself.

Isolde pressed herself against the window frame, her heart hammering for reasons she couldn’t quite name. The lead rider dismounted with fluid grace, and as he handed his reins to a waiting stable boy, he turned toward the castle entrance.

That was the moment Isolde’s world tilted on its axis. She had never seen a man so beautiful. Not handsome in the rough, weathered way of Highland warriors, but beautiful in a way that made her think of ancient heroes from the stories her nurse used to tell.

The fine wool of his MacCraith plaid was expertly tailored, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his frame. His dark hair was longer than fashion dictated, pulled back with a leather cord that somehow made him look more roguish than civilized. But it was his bearing that truly impressed her—the way he moved through the hall as if he owned it, not with arrogance but with the quiet confidence of a man accustomed to command.

But there was also something in the way he moved—a natural authority that spoke of command earned, as well as inherited. When he gestured to one of his men, the movement was economical, precise, like a blade cutting through air. Every step he took spoke of barely leashed power, of a man who knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of.

“Sweet Mary, maither of God,” Isolde whispered to herself. “Is he the MacCraith laird?”

As if summoned by her intense gaze, the stranger looked up. For one heart-stopping moment, their eyes seemed to meet across the distance. His gaze was startlingly green, even from her perch, and Isolde felt pinned in place like a butterfly on a collector’s board. Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized she was staring quite openly, her face pressed to the window like some lovesick girl in a ballad.

Which is exactly what ye are daeing.

She jerked backward, pressing herself against the stone wall beside the window, her heart racing. Had he seen her? Or was she imagining things? Either way, she was making a fool of herself.

A few moments passed before she dared to peek around the window frame again. The stranger was speaking with one of the castle guards, his attention focused on whatever directions he was receiving. His profile was just as devastating as his full face—the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the elegant length of his neck where it disappeared into the collar of his fine linen shirt.

Isolde realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to exhale slowly.

This is ridiculous.

She was a MacAlpin, daughter of a Highland laird, not some village maiden swooning over the first handsome face she’d ever seen. She’d been to court in Edinburgh, had danced with earls and charmed ambassadors. Men were not mysterious creatures to her.

The sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor behind her made her jump. She spun around to see her father’s steward, Malcolm, hurrying past with an armload of ceremonial goblets.

“Begging yer pardon, Lady Isolde,” he puffed. “Yer faither’s asked fer the good silver tae be brought out. We’ve important guests, it seems.”

“Is that MacCraith clan?” she asked, trying to sound casual despite the strange breathlessness that had overtaken her.

“Aye. MacCraith delegation, me lady. Come tae speak with yer faither on clan business.” Malcolm paused, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Led by the young laird himself, from what I hear. Ciaran MacCraith—they say he’s quite the warrior, and clever as well. Took over clan leadership when his faither died three years back, and they’ve prospered under his rule.”

Ciaran MacCraith.

The name sent an odd little thrill through her. So he was a laird, which explained the natural authority she’d observed. But he looked so young—surely not much older than her own twenty-one years?

“Is he accompanied?” she found herself asking.

Malcolm’s weathered face creased in a knowing smile. “Ye mean, is he wed? Nay me lady. Still a bachelor, though I’m sure there are plenty of Highland lasses with their caps set for him. Rich, powerful, and easy on the eyes, from what I’ve heard tell.”

Isolde felt heat flood her cheeks again. “I was merely wondering about the size of his party, Malcolm. Fer hospitality purposes.”

“Of course, me lady.” The old steward’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

He continued on his way, leaving Isolde alone with her racing thoughts.

Ciaran MacCraith. Unwed.

And currently standing in her family’s courtyard. Every bit like a Celtic legend.

She had to get closer. Had to see him properly, hear his voice, understand what it was about him that had affected her so strongly. Moving with the stealth, Isolde slipped down the corridor toward the great hall.

The ancient castle offered numerous alcoves and hiding places, and Isolde knew them all. She positioned herself behind a massive stone pillar that afforded an excellent view of the hall’s entrance just as the great doors opened.

Her father emerged first—Laird Alistair MacAlpin in his finest plaid, his silver-streaked beard freshly trimmed and his ceremonial dirk gleaming at his side. Behind him came their guests, and Isolde’s eyes widened as Ciaran MacCraith entered her family’s hall.

“Welcome tae Castle MacAlpin,” her father was saying, his voice carrying the formal courtesy due to an important guest. “Ye honor our house with yer presence, Laird MacCraith.”

“The honor is mine, Laird MacAlpin.” Ciaran’s voice was deep and rich, with just a hint of Highland burr that made something warm unfurl in Isolde’s chest. This close, Isolde could see his face was all clean lines and sharp angles, saved from severity by a mouth that looked like if it smiled, ice would melt.

“I thank ye fer receiving me on such short notice.”

“Think naething of it.” Her father gestured toward the hearth where chairs had been arranged. “Please, sit. We’ll share a drink and ye can tell me what brings ye tae our lands.”

As the men settled themselves, servants appeared with wine and ale. Isolde pressed closer to her pillar, straining to hear every word. This was better than any entertainment—watching this magnificent stranger in her own home, learning the cadence of his speech and the way he gestured when making a point.

“I’ll speak plainly,” Ciaran was saying, accepting a goblet of wine. “There have been raids along our eastern borders. Cattle stolen, cottages burned, people killed. The attackers arenae local—they’re too well-organized, too well-armed.”

Isolde’s father leaned forward, his expression growing serious. “Ye think they’re from beyond the Highlands?”

“I dae. Lowlanders, perhaps, or even English. Someone with resources and a grudge against Highland clans in general.” Ciaran took a sip of wine, and Isolde found herself watching the movement of his throat with fascination. “Me scouts have tracked them moving west, toward yer borders. I came tae warn ye, and tae suggest we coordinate our defenses.”

“Wise thinking.” Alistair stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Though I confess meself surprised that the powerful Laird MacCraith would come tae me with such concerns. Yer clan has more resources than most and is known to be self-sufficient.”

There was something in her father’s tone—not quite suspicion, but certainly curiosity about this unexpected alliance. Isolde held her breath, waiting for Ciaran’s response.

“These arenae ordinary times, Laird MacAlpin. The old ways of each clan standing alone arenae enough anymore. If we’re to protect our people and our way of life, we need to work together.” Ciaran’s voice carried conviction that made Isolde’s pulse quicken. Here was a man who cared deeply about his responsibilities, who put duty before pride.

“Besides,” he continued with a slight smile that made Isolde’s knees feel weak, “I’ve ken much about MacAlpin hospitality and the beauty of yer lands. I thought it time I visited again.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Flattery willnae change the fact that MacCraith has never needed MacAlpin before. What makes ye think we need each other now?” He took a measured sip of his wine. “Fergive me bluntness, but I prefer tae ken where I stand.”

“I respect that,” Ciaran replied carefully, his own goblet untouched. “Perhaps we should discuss the specifics of what I’ve observed along the borders.”

Alistair’s grunt was noncommittal, his weathered face revealing nothing of his thoughts. “Aye. Let’s hear these specifics.”

As the two lairds continued to speak, Isolde found herself studying every detail of the man who had so thoroughly captured her attention. The way his eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled. The elegant length of his fingers around the goblet. The way he listened with complete focus when her father spoke, as if every word mattered.

Then reality crashed back over her. She was hiding behind a pillar like a child, spying on her father’s guest. If he saw her, what would he think of her? A desperate laird’s daughter? Or one without a chance of finding a husband so she was drooling over him?

“I should return to me own lands before dark,” Ciaran was saying. “But I thank ye fer yer time and yer counsel.”

“The thanks are mine. Ye’ve given me much tae think about.” Her father walked with his guest toward the door.

They were leaving. Panic fluttered in Isolde’s chest as she realized she might never get another chance to see him again… who knew for how long? Without thinking, she slipped from her hiding place and hurried toward the corridor that led to the upper balcony overlooking the courtyard. If she was quick, she might catch another glimpse of him as he departed.

She reached the balcony just as the men emerged into the courtyard below. From that vantage point, she could see everything—the way Ciaran moved with that same fluid grace, the respectful attention of his men, the obvious care with which he treated his horse as a stable boy brought it forward.

“Safe travels, Laird MacCraith,” her father bid his guest goodbye. “May yer journey home be swift and peaceful.”

“Me thanks, Laird MacAlpin. Until we meet again.”

Until we meet again.

The words echoed in Isolde’s mind as she watched the MacCraith party ride through the gates and disappear down the road toward the eastern mountains. Would they meet again? And if they did, would she be able to string two coherent words together, or would she continue to lurk in shadows like some besotted fool?

She sank to the floor on the balcony and remained there long after the riders had vanished from sight, replaying every moment of the encounter in her mind.

Was it possible he could look at her with those intense eyes one day? Would she ever see him again?

Everything about him seemed designed to drive her to distraction.

Isolde made her way toward the family quarters. She pushed open the door to find all four of her sisters exactly where she’d expected them.

Rhona, wild-haired and bright-eyed, was perched on the window seat cleaning her falconry gloves. Lorna sat at the writing desk, sketching something in her ever-present notebook. Isla was sprawled across one of the beds, tossing an apple in the air and catching it with theatrical flair. And Aileen, the youngest at fourteen, was curled in a chair with a book of poetry.

“Isolde!” Isla called without looking away from her apple. “Where have ye been? Ye missed all the excitement—we had visitors!”

“MacCraith riders,” Rhona added, looking up from her gloves. “Very impressive. I saw them from the falconry tower.”

“Did ye see their leader?” Lorna asked, her artist’s eye bright with interest. “Quite possibly the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Beautiful is the right word,” Aileen agreed dreamily. “Like something out of a story.”

Isolde stood in the doorway, staring at her sisters with something approaching hysteria. They had all seen him. They had all noticed what she had noticed. And here she’d thought her reaction was somehow unique, some special madness that had overtaken her alone.

“Isolde?” Rhona’s voice carried concern. “Are ye alright? Ye look a bit… strange.”

Isolde walked into the room like a sleepwalker, closing the door behind her. Her sisters watched with growing curiosity as she moved to the nearest chair and threw herself down upon it with dramatic abandon, one arm flung across her eyes.

“I think,” she announced to the ceiling, “I’ve just fallen in love with a god.”

The room erupted in shrieks of delight and demands for details. But Isolde simply lay there, red curls spilling across her shoulders, and tried to process what had just happened to her orderly, predictable world.

Ciaran MacCraith. Just the thought of that name alone was enough to make her pulse race.

She had to see him again.

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