Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Declan stood tall. He didn’t like being part of a joke, and he had a notion to walk out of there and ride home. No bride was worth this trouble.
Laird Ross cleared his throat, his voice faltering slightly as he spoke.
“Perhaps, Laird McCallum, we might… ah… continue this discussion in the drawin’ room,” he suggested, his usual commanding tone replaced by a strained attempt at civility. “This place is hardly fit for a conversation between clans.”
His eyes darted around the cramped storeroom as though the very sight of the bolts of fabric and dust offended him.
Declan could almost smell the man’s unease.
Declan gave a short nod though his gaze lingered on Isabelle for a moment.
She stood near the far wall, clutching a length of fabric to her chest, her curls tumbling over her shoulders in disarray.
“Aye, that might be best,” Declan said evenly, his tone measured but cold. Turning slightly toward her, he added, “Miss Ross?”
Isabelle flushed crimson beneath his steady gaze.
“Nay, me Laird ,” she replied quietly, her voice soft but steady. “I’ll make meself decent and join ye all soon.”
There was a trace of defiance in her tone, a quiet strength that caught Declan’s attention even now, amidst the chaos.
Declan inclined his head in acknowledgment then turned to follow Laird Ross and Rosaline out of the room.
Rosaline’s skirts rustled sharply with each step as she swept past him, her chin lifted high though her face was still pale with shock.
“This way, Laird McCallum,” Ross said hurriedly, his voice shaking as he gestured down the corridor. “We’ll speak where there’s privacy, aye?”
As they walked, his thoughts churned beneath his composed exterior.
God’s teeth, what a damn mess. I came here for a bride, nae for scandal. The lass’ cousin, nay less. Could the day turn fouler?
He glanced sideways at Rosaline, who avoided his eyes entirely.
Her posture was stiff, her beauty now shadowed by discomfort.
He had not yet decided what to make of her—spoiled, perhaps, or simply vain, but she lacked the calm that had glimmered, however faintly, in Isabelle’s trembling composure.
For the first time, Declan felt the creeping suspicion that he might have agreed to a match doomed from the start.
They entered the drawing room, and warmth met them like a sigh. The grand chamber was awash with the glow of a crackling hearth and the scent of evergreen and cinnamon.
“Bring our finest whiskey and cakes for the Laird,” Ross shouted to a servant.
The servant bowed and scurried out of the room.
Declan looked at the garlanded pine branches hung along the mantel while gold ribbons draped the windows. A fire burned in the hearth, throwing sparks of amber light that danced across the ornate rug.
His gaze swept the room before he stepped closer to the fire, his shadow flickering against the stone wall.
He turned toward Ross, his tone curt. “Ye said ye wished to speak. Then speak, Laird Ross.” He crossed his arms, every inch of him radiating quiet authority.
Ross hesitated, visibly swallowing before replying. “Laird McCallum, I… ah… I assure ye, this matter was nae a deliberate slight to ye or yer clan as I have already said,” he stammered. “If I’d known of this nonsense before, I would’ve stopped it at once.”
His hands twisted at his sides, the proud Laird clearly fighting to maintain his dignity before the man who could shatter an alliance with a word.
Declan’s eyes hardened. “Aye, but the matter stands as it is,” he said sharply.
“Yer daughter was locked in with me, and half the castle likely knows by now. If I were a lesser man, I’d call it an insult meant to shame me before me weddin’ day.
” His jaw tensed as he spoke, each word cutting through the warm air like frost.
Rosaline flinched slightly at his tone, though she masked it quickly with a nervous smile.
“Surely, me Laird ,” she said lightly, “ye daenae think me family would do such a thing intentionally? I can be careless at times. I meant nay harm.” Her attempt at charm rang hollow, brittle as spun glass.
Declan’s gaze flicked toward her, unimpressed. “Careless, aye? Ye do remember ye admitted to this, aye?” he said dryly.
The fear in her eyes was too real. Laird Ross coughed uneasily, glancing toward the door as if praying for interruption.
“Let us… let us nae dwell on it further,” he said hastily. “We’ll handle the matter discreetly. What’s important, Laird McCallum, is that our clans remain devoted to the unification we sought with a marriage between our clans. This… mishap neednae sour the bond between us.”
Declan studied him for a long moment, his silence heavy. The flames reflected in his dark eyes, catching the hint of something unreadable there.
“We shall see,” he said at last. “A man’s word means somethin’, Laird Ross. I trust ye’ll see to it that this scandal dies before it breathes.”
Ross nodded fervently, relief flooding his features. “Aye, of course, me Laird .”
A fine start to a marriage. And the bride already buried in deceit.
The heavy door creaked open, and a soft rustle of skirts drew his attention. Isabelle entered quietly, her hair now neatly bound and her face pale but composed.
Declan’s eyes met hers briefly, one glance, no words, and something unspoken passed between them.
In that single look, he knew one thing with certainty.
This Yule will change far more than either clan planned.
Declan stood beside the hearth. He cast a measured glance toward the two women standing before him. Isabelle stood silently near Rosaline, her long brown curls catching the firelight, her slender frame poised but tense.
Declan could not help but compare her to her cousin. Isabelle’s quiet strength and grace made Rosaline’s painted prettiness seem all the more shallow.
He had come for a bride, not a scandal. Yet as he looked at Isabelle, he wished that he was being bound to her instead of the vain lass beside her.
Her brown eyes held both pride and fear, and something about the mix stirred something unexpected within him.
Declan turned away before the thought could linger, focusing instead on Laird Ross, who looked ready to faint from worry.
Laird Ross cleared his throat. “I ken this is nae how I wished to greet ye, Laird McCallum,” he began, his voice shaking. “But I can assure ye, we’ll set things to right. Whatever ye think happened. ”
Declan cut him off sharply. “I ken what happened, Laird Ross. Yer niece set me up for a jest, and it’s turned into an insult against both our clans.” He spoke evenly though his tone carried weight. “I’ll nae take blame for somethin’ I did nae do. The matter is of yer own clan’s makin’, nae mine.”
Ross’ face paled as he wrung his hands together. “Aye, but ye must understand, the whole castle will have heard by now. Me daughter was found half decent, locked in a room with a man. Even if ye did naught, the talk will ruin her name. She’ll nae find a match now, nae after this.”
Declan arched a brow. “So, it’s me presence that ruined her, is it?” he asked coolly. “Ye think I wanted to be trapped in a dark room with a stranger? I was tryin’ to prevent a threat to yer household, and instead, I find meself accused.”
He took a slow step toward the hearth, letting the heat touch his face. “If it’s her name that’s at stake, it’s nae because of me. It’s because ye’ve nay control over yer own kin.”
Rosaline flinched and looked away, her cheeks flushing with guilt.
Isabelle, however, met his gaze with quiet dignity.
Declan’s attention lingered on her again, the faint tremor of her hands betraying her nerves.
For a moment, he saw not a lass in disgrace but a woman caught in the middle of others’ folly.
Declan began pacing the length of the room, his mind working quickly.
This is a mess. Should I cancel this weddin’? This Rosaline is nae fit to be a maither .
But as he glanced back at Isabelle, another thought began to take root. Perhaps this turn of fate could serve him better than the path he’d come expecting.
He stopped suddenly, turning to face Laird Ross. “I’ve a solution,” he said firmly.
Ross blinked, confused. “A solution?”
“Aye,” Declan replied, his tone calm but resolute. “Since the lass’ name has been tied to mine, and I bear some part of this misfortune, then let me be the one to mend it. Why nae let me marry Isabelle instead of Rosaline?”
Gasps filled the room—Rosaline’s sharp and indignant, Isabelle’s soft and shocked.
The fire popped, breaking the silence that followed. Declan stood unmoved, his expression unreadable.
Rosaline stepped forward, her voice trembling with outrage. “Ye cannae mean that! Ye came here to wed me! I am the one betrothed to ye!”
Declan turned his gaze on her, cold as steel. “Nay, I came to wed the lass who was worthy of me name, one of honor, nae mischief. Yet I find ye’ve played games that would shame a child.”
He turned slightly toward Isabelle. “And it seems yer cousin was the one caught in the crossfire of yer foolishness who will suffer. If I can remedy her sufferin’ caused by me presence and still tie our clans in marriage, I see nay problem with it.”
Laird Ross, who moments earlier had looked ready to collapse, now stood straighter, eyes widening with sudden hope.
“Marry Isabelle?” he repeated, almost as if he couldn't believe the suggestion. “Aye… aye, that would mend it. It would settle the whispers and keep the peace between our clans. Ye’d be joinin’ with the Ross name, and nay stain would linger after that for me daughter.”
Declan nodded once, keeping his expression controlled. “It seems the most practical course. I’ve nay attachment to the lass I was meant to wed; we met but this day. There’s nay insult in redirectin’ the match. It’s better than lettin’ scandal breed ill will.”
Rosaline turned pale, her lips trembling as she looked from her cousin to Declan. “Ye cannae just cast me aside like I mean naught!” she cried. “I was promised ye’d be mine!”
Declan met her outburst with a calm, cutting stare. “I belong to nay one. I seek peace between our clans, nae a life bound to deceit.”
He looked at Isabelle who stood motionless, her breath unsteady.
Laird Ross stepped closer to Declan, nearly smiling now. “Ye’re a wise man, Laird McCallum. This is a solution that honors both families.” His tone was overly eager, desperate to seize the lifeline before it slipped away. “Aye, I had nae thought of it, but it makes perfect sense.”
Declan inclined his head, though inwardly he scoffed at the man’s cowardice.
So quick to sacrifice his daughter to salvage his pride.
Still, he saw the advantage in this. Isabelle was no fool, and unlike her cousin, she had the look of a woman who understood restraint, loyalty, and courage.
His eyes lingered on Isabelle, who stood in stunned silence, her face pale and unreadable.
“Then it’s settled,” he said quietly. “I’ll take Lady Isabelle Ross as me bride if she’ll have me.”
Laird Ross exhaled in relief, bowing his head in thanks. “She will have ye of course. Ye’ll nae regret it, lad. The lass will make ye proud.”
But Declan’s gaze remained fixed on Isabelle.
She was proud, but perhaps she would bring a challenge he never knew he sought.
The door swung open, and a stream of servants entered, their arms laden with trays. The air filled with the aroma of roasted venison glazed in honey, oat bannocks still steaming from the hearth, and bowls of neeps and tatties seasoned with butter and herbs.
A great platter of smoked salmon gleamed beneath sprigs of dill, and a chunk of sliced ham, adorned with holly, commanded the center of the table.
Silver pitchers of whisky and spiced wine clinked as the servants moved with hurried grace, setting everything in its place before bowing and retreating in silence.
The room quieted again, thick with tension that no feast could disguise. A servant approached Declan with a filled glass. He brought it to his lips, taking a slow drink as his eyes landed on Isabelle.
Her lips parted slightly, trembling as if she meant to speak, yet no words came. The firelight danced against her face, highlighting the flush of her cheeks and the defiant spark in her brown eyes.
Declan tilted his head, amused by the contradiction in her, anger and shock warring in the same lovely features. He found himself enjoying it far too much, the sight of her struggling between fury and composure stirring a dark satisfaction in him.
Setting down his glass, he reached for the decanter and poured another measure of whisky.
He crossed the space between them and offered it to Isabelle, his voice low and edged with arrogance.
“To our new bond, Lady Ross,” he said, the words laced with mockery and finality.
Isabelle’s hand trembled slightly as she took the glass, her eyes never leaving his, her silence louder than any protest.
He watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, her indignation plain as day. She was furious, that much he knew, and the knowledge only deepened his smirk.
The lass had fire beneath her gentleness, and he liked it more than he should. As he drank again, Declan thought coldly that this marriage, unwanted though it began, might prove far more interesting than he had ever imagined.