Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Isabelle’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as her father filled the doorway. His face was thunderous, jaw tight, eyes flashing with fury as he took in the sight before him—his daughter, disheveled and half-dressed, standing far too close to a man she did not know.
She took a shaky step back, her hands clutching the fabric that shielded her. Her breath trembled as she met his accusing glare, knowing there was no way to explain that she had been tricked.
From behind her father came the soft rustle of silken skirts and the unmistakable sound of smug amusement.
Rosaline appeared, golden hair gleaming like a halo in the lamplight though her smile was anything but angelic.
“Uncle,” she said sweetly, stepping closer, “I heard odd noises comin’ from this room, so I thought it best to fetch ye.”
Isabelle’s pulse stilled. The realization hit her like a blow; Rosaline had orchestrated this not as simple mischief, but to completely ruin her. She locked her in a room with a stranger, so the whispers would spread like wildfire, and there was no chance of her reputation recovering.
Rosaline pressed a hand delicately to her lips, feigning shock though her eyes glittered with delight.
“Och, cousin,” she murmured, voice trembling with false concern.
“Ye dinnae tell me ye fancied hidin’ away with men ye daenae ken.
Poor Uncle, to find ye in such a state.” Her tone was soft, but every word was a dagger.
Isabelle stiffened, her humiliation giving way to anger. “Ye ken well this was yer doing, Rosaline!” she snapped, her voice shaking but fierce. “Ye locked the door yerself, and now, ye stand there like butter wouldnae melt in yer mouth.”
She turned to her father, desperation in her eyes. “Faither , ye must ken I’d never…”
Isabelle’s fingers tightened on the fabric around her shoulders, shame heating her face as she realized just how well her cousin’s trap had worked.
Laird McCallum stood tall beside her, his jaw set in a grim line, his dark eyes narrowing at the scene.
“Aye, this is the most I’ve ever been insulted,” he said, his deep voice echoing off the stone walls. “I came here as a guest of yer clan, Laird Ross, and ye repay me by lockin’ me in a room with a lass?” His tone was sharp, filled with disbelief and anger.
Laird Ross blanched, his fury shifting uneasily into something that looked like fear.
“Ye accuse me?” he said, his voice trembling slightly before he steadied it. “It’s me own clan that should feel insulted! Ye think I’d let me daughter lure a guest into these rooms alone? Ye dishonor me household by suggestin’ such a thing.”
His hand clenched tightly at his side as he turned a glare on Isabelle.
“Yer daughter?” Declan repeated, his brows furrowing deeply as he looked at Isabelle then back at the older man. He couldn’t believe that this lass was truly Laird Ross’ daughter; they acted nothing alike.
“So this is yer kin? Then ye’ve a strange way of protectin’ her, Laird. If this is how ye treat yer own blood, I daenae want to ken what that means for Clan Ross.” He folded his arms over his broad chest, his tone laced with contempt.
"Faither, please…" Isabelle pleaded.
“Enough!” Laird Ross barked, cutting her off though his face betrayed uncertainty.
“I’ll nae hear another word from ye, Isabelle.
Ye’ve brought shame upon this house.” His gaze darted to Declan again, wary now.
“Ye’ve been grievously wronged, that much is certain, but I assure ye, there was nay intention to insult ye. ”
Declan’s mouth twisted into a grim smirk. “Nay intention?” he said slowly. “Then ye expect me to believe a lass was simply wanderin’ about, happenin’ to lock a door behind me? I daenae take kindly to being made a fool of, Laird Ross.” His tone softened just slightly as he looked toward Isabelle.
Isabelle’s breath caught under that look. “I swear to ye,” she said quietly, her voice trembling but sincere, “I dinnae ken anythin’ of this. It was a jest, cruel and foolish, but I had nay part in it.” She dared to lift her chin, meeting his eyes despite her father’s warning glare.
“Then ye’ve a wicked cousin indeed,” he muttered, his brogue low and dangerous. He turned his attention sharply back to the woman that had feigned crying and a false attack to lead him into the storage room.
Laird Ross sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “This is a disgrace,” he muttered.
Isabelle’s pulse quickened as her father’s furious voice filled the narrow corridor. His face was crimson with outrage, his jaw set so tight she feared he might crack a tooth.
“Ye came here to wed Rosaline, yet ye chose to have secret relations with none other than Isabelle! Me own daughter!” The words sliced through the air like a blade.
Rosaline gasped audibly, the color draining from her face as realization dawned. Until this very moment, she had not known the stranger she’d locked her cousin in with was none other than her own betrothed.
“Laird McCallum?” she cried, her voice high and trembling. “This is he? But…. but he’s me betrothed!”
Isabelle turned toward her cousin, satisfaction flickering in her chest like a secret flame.
Rosaline’s expression was priceless, her proud lips parted, her cheeks pale as new snow.
Though Isabelle’s own reputation now dangled by a thread, she could not deny a bitter sense of poetic justice.
If she were to be ruined, then Rosaline too would bear the sting of scandal, forever known as the woman whose betrothed had been caught behind a locked door with another before the wedding vows were even spoken.
Isabelle could hear the mumbling of panicked servants in the corridor. She flushed red as she realized this incident would be on everyone’s tongues within the hour.
Declan stood firm, his dark eyes cold and steady though the muscle in his jaw twitched.
“I did nothin’ to defile the lass,” he said, his voice low and measured but filled with restrained anger. “I ken well how this appears, Laird Ross, but ye’ll find nay dishonor in me conduct.” His broad shoulders squared as he faced the older man, unflinching even under his searing glare.
Laird Ross barked a sharp, bitter laugh.
“Aye? Then what am I to think, McCallum?” he demanded, his words thick with scorn.
“Why are ye in a storage room with me daughter, half dressed, nay less? Do ye expect me to believe ye were simply takin’ inventory of cloth together?
” His tone dripped with disbelief, his eyes darting from Isabelle’s flushed face to Declan’s stoic one.
Isabelle saw Declan’s gaze darken, a flicker of tempered rage flashing there.
“I entered that room because I was told someone lurked within,” he said sharply.
“This lass stood outside and claimed she’d been attacked then she pointed me to this storeroom.
I went to see the matter handled proper, and nay sooner had I stepped inside than the door was slammed shut and locked behind me.
” His brogue deepened with every word, each syllable edged with iron.
Laird Ross crossed his arms, his expression hard and skeptical.
“Och, that’s a fine tale, McCallum,” he said with a bitter sneer.
“Why would Rosaline cause a scandal for her own betrothed? And how convenient that the door just happened to shut itself.” He shook his head, muttering under his breath.
“Ye expect me to take yer word for it when I find ye standin’ beside me daughter in her shift? ”
Isabelle flinched at the venom in his tone, shame and fury warring within her.
“Faither, he speaks the truth,” she said quickly, her voice trembling but firm. “I was in here workin’ on the dress, and Rosaline planned such a cruel jest.”
She turned her gaze briefly toward her cousin, whose composure was beginning to crack.
Rosaline’s lips trembled, but she forced a thin smile.
“Uncle, she’s twistin’ the truth to save herself,” she said softly, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
“I never meant to cause harm. It was…” Laird Ross turned to look at her, his eyes flashing with what was obviously surprise.
Isabelle felt bitter satisfaction as her father realized what Rosaline had just said.
For once, he couldn’t blame this on her.
“Silence,” Laird Ross snapped, turning his fury upon her now. “Ye’ve done enough.” He exhaled heavily, dragging a hand over his beard before glaring once more at Declan.
“And as for ye, McCallum, this reeks of folly. Ye claim to have been locked in by mistake, yet ye dinnae think to break the door or call for help before being found?”
Declan’s glare sharpened, his patience thinning.
“I did call for help,” he bit out. “I demanded to be released, but nay one came. Likely because the same lass who locked me in had run off to find her fun. Ye think I wanted to be caught in such a state? I’ve more pride than that, Laird Ross, and I’ve nay interest in tarnishin’ the honor of any woman, least of all one I daenae ken. ”
His tone rang with conviction, and Isabelle found herself strangely comforted by it.
Rosaline paled further, realizing how the truth cornered her. “I… I only meant to jest,” she stammered. “I dinnae ken who he was. I thought…”
“Enough,” Declan snapped, his patience breaking. “Ye thought to ruin yer cousin, aye? To make her look a fool before yer kin and mine. Well, ye’ve done a fine job of that, lass. But ye’ve also made a mockery of yer own name and mine as well.”
His voice thundered through the chamber, and even Laird Ross seemed taken aback by the authority in it.
“Yer daughter is innocent, Laird. I’ll stake me word on it.”
For a long moment, silence hung heavy between them. Isabelle’s heart pounded as her father’s gaze shifted between her and Declan, suspicion slowly giving way to reluctant belief.
Rosaline, trembling and ashen, seemed to shrink where she stood, her once-perfect poise crumbling.
“Mark me words, McCallum, if I find ye’ve lied, ye’ll find nay safe ground in Ross lands.” His words carried the weight of a threat though they lacked the confidence they once held.
Isabelle’s pulse still thudded in her ears as she watched the two men glare at one another.
She had never seen anyone stand up to her father before, not the servants, not the villagers, and certainly not any visiting lairds. Yet here stood Laird McCallum, broad-shouldered and unyielding, facing her father’s wrath as if it were a mere gust of wind.
She had heard the tales of him, how he was a cruel brute who ruled through fear, but this man before her showed only steel and honor, not cruelty.
Are the tales of him true?
Declan’s dark eyes burned with restrained fury as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Tell me, Laird Ross,” he said in a low, dangerous tone. “Is this yer clan’s way of showin’ me that Ross and McCallum will never be allies? For if this is yer form of hospitality, then I see well enough where I stand.”
His voice cut through the room like the crack of thunder, and Isabelle felt the air grow thick with tension.
Laird Ross’ expression faltered, the color draining slightly from his cheeks.
“Now see here, McCallum,” he began, his tone no longer so confident. “Ye’ll nae twist this matter to make it seem as if me clan meant tensions between us. ’Twas an unfortunate circumstance, aye, but nay slight against ye or yer name.”
His hands twitched nervously at his sides, a rare sign of unease that Isabelle did not miss.
Declan’s brow furrowed, his voice rumbling low.
“Unfortunate?” he echoed. “Ye call being locked in a storeroom with a half-dressed lass unfortunate? That, Laird Ross, is an offense. Me clan doesnae take kindly to mockery, and I’ll nae have me honor questioned before I’ve even had a chance to speak me vows.
” His tone was calm but filled with dangerous authority, the kind that demanded respect.
Laird Ross’ eyes darted briefly toward Isabelle before returning to Declan.
“There’s nay insult meant to ye, McCallum,” he said quickly. “Ye have me word. This foolishness was nae an act of Clan Ross; it was naught but a misunderstandin’. Me niece will be punished accordingly, I assure ye.”
He forced a strained smile, his voice almost pleading now.
Isabelle’s chest tightened as she watched her father’s composure crumble beneath Declan’s steady gaze. Never before had she seen him flinch beneath another man’s words, yet Declan stood unmoved, every inch the Laird he claimed to be.
“See that ye keep yer word,” Declan said at last, his tone final and sharp. “For if this be how Clan Ross greets an ally, I’ll be left wonderin’ what they do to their family and question why I take a bride from this clan at all.”
The words lingered like smoke in the air, and Isabelle could feel the tremor of power in them. Her father’s jaw clenched, his pride clearly wounded, but he only nodded stiffly in reply.
Isabelle stood silent, her heart caught between awe and confusion because though Declan McCallum had just shamed her father, she could not help but think how noble he looked.