Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
“Ye’re so useless! Why couldnae ye be more like yer maither ?” Laird Ross’ voice cracked through the hall like thunder, shaking the very air around them.
The fire behind him roared, casting his shadow long and dark across the walls. Isabelle stood frozen where she was, her fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of her skirts. She could feel the sting of shame rise to her cheeks even as her heart pounded hard beneath her ribs.
“Faither,” she began softly, her voice trembling though she tried to steady it. “I sent the right measurements to the seamstress, I swear it. I double-checked them meself before they were delivered.”
Her throat tightened as she spoke, the desperate edge of truth in her tone only earning her father’s glare.
“Ye expect me to believe that?” Ross barked, slamming his hand upon the table. “Every time somethin’ goes awry, it’s yer fault, lass. Yer carelessness shames me time and again.” His words came out sharp and cruel, each one meant to wound deeper than the last.
Isabelle flinched.
Once again, I am the perfect scapegoat. It doesnae matter that this isnae me fault, nothin’ I can say can convince him.
Isabelle lifted her chin in defiance. Even if her father refused to believe her, she wouldn’t accept the blame without a fight.
“This time it isnae me fault,” she said quietly.
“I ken I’ve made mistakes before, but nae this.
I’d never risk Rosaline’s weddin’ day by being careless.
’Twas the seamstress.” Her voice wavered, but she refused to look away.
Ross sneered, his eyes narrowing. “Aye, there ye go again, makin’ excuses.
Always blamin’ others for yer failures.” He stepped closer, the smell of ale heavy on his breath.
Isabelle tensed, afraid her father was about to manhandle her.
“If yer mai ther were still alive, she’d weep to see what ye’ve become. ”
The words cut deep, sharper than any blade. Isabelle swallowed hard, her nails biting into her palms.
“Daenae speak of her that way,” she whispered though her voice faltered beneath the weight of his anger. “She’d ken I tell the truth.”
I daenae think I could bear her being disappointed in me.
“Truth?” he snarled, his face darkening. “Ye daenae ken what truth is, lass! Ye’re nothin’ but a disappointment!” His hand shot out, snatching a plate from the table.
Before Isabelle could move, it shattered against the wall beside her head, shards clattering to the floor. Isabelle winced as some of the shards flew at her face, nicking her skin.
Isabelle gasped, stumbling back as her heart leapt to her throat. The fragments glimmered at her feet like broken stars, one grazing her arm as it fell. She bit her lip hard, holding back the tears that threatened to spill.
“I’ll fix it,” she said quietly, her voice shaking. “I’ll fix it straightaway.”
Ross glared at her, his face clearly red with rage.
“Aye, ye will,” he snapped. “Ye’ll go to that fool seamstress and make her mend yer mistake.
I’ll nae have me niece shamed before the clans because of yer stupidity.
” His words echoed, venomous and final. Isabelle twitched.
Once again, her father cared more about her cousin than his own daughter.
“I’ll go,” Isabelle agreed, her tone trembling with both fear and fury. “But daenae think for a moment that shoutin’ makes ye right.” Her eyes flashed for an instant, a flicker of courage burning behind the hurt. “I’ll make this right, even if ye daenae believe I can.”
Ross turned away, his hand gripping the back of his chair until his knuckles whitened. “Be gone then,” he spat. “Ye bring naught but trouble to this house.” His voice was cold now, drained of anger but full of disdain.
Isabelle didn’t answer. The words she longed to speak, to tell him how cruel he’d become, how her mother would have wept at what he’d turned into, stuck in her throat.
She drew in a sharp breath instead, her heart pounding as she moved toward the door.
Her steps were quick, her face flushed with shame and her body trembling with anger.
Still, she wouldn’t give her father the satisfaction of seeing how much he affected her.
As she crossed the threshold, she felt the chill of the corridor sweep over her, cooling her flushed skin.
Her father’s harsh breathing still echoed faintly from the room behind her.
Isabelle pressed a trembling hand to her chest, trying to still her racing heart.
The weight of his words lingered, heavy and suffocating.
She had no idea how she’d fix the mistake, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fail. The thought burned in her mind like a promise.
The dress was too small, and she couldn’t simply loosen seams. Still, she would find a way, somehow, before Rosaline’s wedding.
Her boots clicked against the cold stone floor as she made her way to the entry.
The servants she passed quickly lowered their eyes, sensing her distress but knowing better than to speak.
Isabelle wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, swallowing the lump that rose in her throat.
She would not cry, not where anyone could see her.
“Ye’ll see, Father,” she whispered to the cold air. “I’ll fix it… I’ll make it right.”
The castle glowed warm and golden for Yule and the wedding. Beneath the soft light of hundreds of candles, the scent of pine and spiced apples wove through the air.
Garlands of evergreen draped along the banisters, dotted with red ribbons and sprigs of holly. Great wreaths hung upon the stone walls, their deep green boughs dusted with frost and berries.
Isabelle moved through it all with grace, her long brown curls catching the candlelight as she walked.
Her gown swept softly against the polished floors, pale blue against the festive reds and golds. Yet the beauty of Yule brought her no peace, not with her father’s harsh words still echoing in her mind.
She walked quickly through the hall, her heart pounding as if the weight of Rosaline’s ruined gown followed her.
I wish I was with me sister instead.
At the turn of the corridor, she nearly collided with Effie, a young maid carrying a tray of greenery for the great hall.
The girl stopped short, curtsying hastily. “Beg yer pardon, Miss!” she gasped, setting the tray aside. “Is all well, Miss Isabelle?”
Isabelle pressed her lips together, then exhaled softly. “Nay, Effie, all is nae well,” she said, her brown eyes troubled. “The weddin’ dress for Rosaline is too small. I have to find a way to mend the mess.” Her voice trembled though she fought to keep it steady.
Effie’s eyes widened, her freckles standing out against her pale face. “Too small?” she whispered, clutching the edge of her apron. “Och, but the weddin’ is in only a few hours! What’ll ye do?” Her voice rose with worry, glancing nervously down the hall.
“I daenae ken,” Isabelle admitted, shaking her head. Her curls tumbled forward as she spoke, brushing against her flushed cheeks. “I sent the right measurements to the seamstress. I swear it. But it matters little now; Father will have me hide if I daenae fix it fast.”
Effie bit her lip, frowning.
“Has the groom arrived?” Isabelle asked suddenly, the question spilling from her lips before she could think. “Do ye ken if the McCallum banners have been seen?” Her voice softened with an edge of dread.
Effie nodded, her eyes wide. “Aye, Miss. I heard from the guards that they were seen at the gates only moments ago.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “They say the Laird himself is a stern man; he’ll expect all to be perfect.”
Isabelle’s breath caught, and she pressed a hand to her chest. “Perfect,” she repeated faintly. “Oh, Effie, I’m ruined if this isnae fixed.”
Her eyes darted toward the storage room. “Fetch the seamstress for me, tell her to meet me in the storerooms this instant. I’ve nay time to waste.”
Effie curtsied quickly, her face full of sympathy. “Aye, Miss, I’ll find her straightaway.” Gathering her skirts, the girl hurried down the corridor, her footsteps fading fast against the stone.
Isabelle stood for a moment, her heart hammering, before turning and making her way toward the storerooms. If she failed to find a solution, her father wasn’t the only one she would have to face. She would also have to deal with this unknown Laird.
The flicker of torchlight danced against the walls as she stepped inside the storeroom where bolts of fabric and various gowns were stacked in neat rows.
Isabelle ran her fingers over the materials, her mind racing.
She could feel her father’s anger even from afar, heavy as a curse upon her shoulders.
If she could find another gown, something white, something fine enough, perhaps she could make it pass for a wedding dress.
She could stitch on lace, trim it with pearls or ribbon, make it right somehow.
Her hands trembled as she pulled one bolt of fabric after another, desperate to find one that might do.
“Come now, Isabelle,” she whispered to herself. “Think, lass. Ye can fix this.”
She paused, gazing at the rolls of silk and satin stacked high above her. One of them gleamed faintly in the dim light, a soft ivory color that caught her breath.
“That one,” she murmured, reaching up to touch it. The fabric was smooth beneath her fingertips, cool and fine, fit for a bride.
A rush of hope fluttered in her chest. She could drape it over one of the older gowns, perhaps, and sew fresh seams to make it appear new. Anything that might save her from disgrace in her father’s eyes. Anything that might save Rosaline’s wedding from ruin.
She pulled the fabric down carefully, letting it spill across her arms in soft waves. Her slender fingers traced its edge, already planning the stitches she might make.
“I’ll nae fail this time,” she whispered, her brown eyes bright with determination.
“I’ll mend what’s broken, even if it kills me.”
And if I fail, that may just be what awaits me.