Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
“How dare ye!” Rosaline shrieked, stepping toward Declan, her eyes burning with indignation. “Ye cannae choose her over me! I am yer betrothed, nae her!”
Her words came fast and wild, her voice shaking with fury and disbelief.
Declan merely turned his head and looked upon her with cool disdain, his expression dark and unmoved.
He felt insulted, deeply so. Was this the woman they’d meant for him to wed? The spoiled Ross lass was stamping her foot like a child denied a sweet, her anger a spectacle before them.
Declan’s jaw tightened as his thoughts darkened: she had neither the composure nor the strength to stand at his side as Lady McCallum.
“Enough, Rosaline,” Laird Ross said, his face pale and his voice trembling as he tried to calm her. “Ye’ll do yerself nay favor by shoutin’ in front of guests.”
But Rosaline spun on him, her fury turning toward her uncle now. Her golden curls bounced as she pointed a shaking hand toward Isabelle, who stood silent near the hearth.
“She cannae marry him!” Rosaline cried, her voice sharp as breaking glass. “She’s nae fit for a laird’s wife; she’s ruined me own life by existin’!” Her voice cracked as tears pooled in her eyes, though Declan suspected they were born of rage, not heartbreak. “Ye cannae let this happen!”
Laird Ross stepped closer, his hands raised in an attempt to pacify her.
“Rosaline, lass,” he began gently, “ye must understand… Isabelle has nay choice now. The whole castle knows what’s happened.
If she doesnae marry him, her reputation will be gone forever.
” His voice was weary, his eyes darting nervously toward Declan, who stood towering near the table, arms folded across his chest.
“I daenae care what happens to her!” Rosaline shouted back, her tears spilling over her cheeks. “She’s always been in me shadow, always tryin’ to take what’s mine!” Her words were venomous, and the air in the room grew heavy with the weight of her spite.
Declan saw Isabelle flinch slightly, but she said nothing, her silence only making Rosaline’s fury seem smaller, more desperate.
Declan watched the exchange, his face unreadable though his patience was wearing thin. The woman’s selfishness disgusted him, her tantrum confirming what he already knew; she was no fit bride for any man of worth.
He had seen better composure from warriors dying on the field. If she’d been born into his clan, she’d have been married off quietly to someone far away before she could embarrass the McCallum name.
“Rosaline,” Laird Ross said with a sigh, rubbing his temples, “ye’ll calm yerself this instant.
What’s done is done. Isabelle will wed Laird McCallum; that’s the only way to mend what’s been broken this day.
” His tone was firm now, but his eyes betrayed his unease, flicking again toward Declan as though pleading for approval.
Rosaline stomped her foot hard enough that the echo bounced off the stone walls. “But today was me weddin’ day!” she wailed, her voice cracking in despair. “Ye cannae take that from me; ye cannae!” Her cries grew louder, but Declan only stared at her as though she were a stranger speaking nonsense.
He had no sympathy left for her. Turning his gaze to the Laird, Declan’s voice came low and cold, cutting through the chaos like steel.
“I’m satisfied with the match as it stands,” he said. “Lady Isabelle will be me wife, and that’s the end of it. I will consider it an insult if the matter is otherwise.”
Rosaline gasped, a sound between outrage and heartbreak.
"There will be other matches for ye to choose from," Laird Ross assured Rosaline.
Declan allowed his eyes to roam over Isabelle.
Aye, Isabelle Ross is a fair sight more beautiful than her cousin—soft curls framin’ her delicate face, those eyes holdin’ a quiet fire.
But he quickly cast the thought aside. He was not here to be distracted by beauty; he needed a wife, a mother for his nieces, and that was all.
Rosaline’s shrill voice broke through his thoughts like a knife through silk.
“Ye cannae allow this!” Rosaline cried, her cheeks flushed red with rage. “It’s humiliatin’! Isabelle has always been the one to cause trouble, and now, she’s to be rewarded for it?” She stamped her foot again, her golden curls quivering with the motion.
Laird Ross turned toward her with a weary sigh, his face drawn tight with frustration and embarrassment.
“Enough, Rosaline,” he said, his tone stern though his eyes flicked nervously toward Declan. “What’s done is done, and ye’ll show respect to yer cousin and to Laird McCallum. The matter cannae be undone without bringin’ further shame upon us all.”
He paused, his voice softening as he looked at Isabelle. “Ye, Isabelle, the maids will take ye to get ready for the weddin’. Perhaps yer mix-up with the dress was a blessin’ in disguise; at least now it’ll fit the bride as it should.”
Rosaline gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A blessin’?” she spat, glaring at her uncle. “Ye call this a blessin’ when I was the one promised to him? ” She bit her tongue, her eyes flashing toward Isabelle with thinly veiled contempt.
Declan reached for a platter of roasted venison and popped a morsel into his mouth.
He swallowed then spoke in his deep, steady voice. “We’ll move the ceremony to tomorrow,” he said, glancing toward Isabelle. “That’ll give me new bride time to come to terms with the change.” His lips twitched into a faint smirk, the tone of his words leaving no room for discussion.
Laird Ross, eager to please, nodded hastily. “Aye, of course, me Laird . That’s a wise decision. It’ll give us time to make proper arrangements, aye.”
He gestured to one of the nearby servants hovering near the doorway. “See to it that the weddin’ plans are adjusted. Lady Isabelle will be the bride now, nae Lady Rosaline, and the weddin’ will be held tomorrow.”
The servant bowed quickly and began to step back, but Declan wasn’t done. He took another piece of meat from the table, his eyes cool as he turned toward Ross.
“I’ll be extendin’ me stay by a day, then,” he said. “I trust I’ll be shown proper hospitality while I’m here.” He spoke as if daring anyone to deny him, his tone carrying both command and challenge.
“Of course, me Laird ,” Ross replied, his voice bordering on desperate. “Ye’ll have the finest chamber the keep can offer. And yer men—they’ll be well housed and well fed.”
He turned to the servant again, flustered. “See to it that Laird McCallum’s guard and his horses are tended to, and that he’s given all he requires.” The Laird’s forehead glistened faintly with sweat as he spoke, clearly anxious to appease the powerful Highland lord before him.
Rosaline let out a strangled sob, her anger turning to disbelief. “This cannae be happenin’,” she whispered. “Ye’re replacin’ me as if I were naught but a trinket to be tossed aside!”
She turned toward Declan, her voice trembling. “Laird McCallum, I beg ye, this is all some dreadful mistake. Ye cannae mean to marry her instead!”
Declan set his plate down with deliberate slowness, his dark eyes meeting hers with cold disinterest. “A mistake?” he repeated.
“The only mistake made this day was lockin’ me in that storeroom to begin with .
But aye, lass, I ken exactly what I mean to do, and I daenae change me mind once it’s set.
” His voice was low, final, and it sent a shiver through the room.
The servant stepped forward again and bowed deeply to Declan. “If ye’ll follow me, Laird McCallum,” he said, his voice steady though his eyes flickered nervously toward the tense scene around him, “I’ll see ye to yer chamber.”
Declan gave a small nod, brushing crumbs from his fingers as he turned toward the door.
His gaze caught Isabelle’s for a fleeting moment.
Her lips were parted slightly, her chest rising and falling with restrained emotion, shock, confusion, perhaps even anger.
Declan’s smirk returned, slow and deliberate.
He inclined his head slightly in her direction, a silent acknowledgment, then turned and strode from the room with the servant.
The echo of his boots on the stone floor followed him down the corridor, leaving behind a stunned silence in his wake.
Inside, Declan felt the familiar burn of confidence settling in his chest. Aye, it was all chaos now, but come tomorrow, the matter would be sealed, and Isabelle Ross would be his wife.
Declan followed the servant down the dim corridor.
The torches along the walls flickered, casting long shadows that swayed like restless spirits.
As they passed the small storage room, he slowed, his eyes lingering on the door.
Such a small, insignificant space, and yet it had caused no end of trouble and changed the course of his life entirely.
He gave a quiet scoff under his breath and continued onward.
The servant led him up the staircase to the second floor where the air smelled faintly of oak polish and smoke from the great hearth below.
They stopped before a wide oaken door banded with iron.
The servant pushed it open with both hands and stepped aside to allow Declan entry.
The room was richly furnished, far more than he expected of Laird Ross’s keep.
A great bed stood in the corner, draped with thick tartan blankets and furs that promised warmth against the Highland chill.
Heavy curtains hung at the window, trimmed with gold thread, and a polished chest stood beside a fine carved table.
The fire crackled in the hearth, painting the walls in amber light.
“Will there be anythin’ else, Laird McCallum?” the servant asked, bowing slightly, his voice careful and respectful.
Declan turned to him with a curt nod. “Aye. Send for me man Liam. He’s me first guard. Tell him to bring me trunk with me weddin’ clothes.”
“Aye, Laird. Right away.” He turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. Declan was alone once more, the crackle of the fire filling the silence.
He leaned against the table, crossing his arms over his chest, his mind turning back to the scene in the hall. Isabelle Ross, her name rolled through his thoughts like a forbidden tune.
He could still see the tremble in her lips, the way her form looked under the fabric that barely covered her, the flush on her cheeks as her father made the hasty agreement. The sight of her half-clothed in the closet flashed before him. A wave of desire moved through him, warming him.
What would it be like to kiss her, to claim that tremblin’ mouth for me own?
He cursed under his breath and pushed the thought aside.
He was not here for beauty nor for love.
He needed a wife who could keep order in his household and raise his brother’s children, nothing more.
Still, the image of her soft lips haunted him stubbornly, no matter how hard he tried to push it away.
A sharp knock sounded on the door. Declan straightened, his expression hardening again.
“Enter,” he called.
The door opened, and Liam stepped inside carrying a small trunk. He was a broad man, rough around the edges, with hair the color of old straw and a grin that could charm any tavern maid in Scotland.
He dropped the trunk at the foot of the bed and gave a mock bow. “Ye called for me, Laird?”
Declan smirked faintly. “Aye, I did. Close the door, lad.”
Liam did as told, then turned, brushing dust from his sleeves. “Is it true that the ceremony is changin’? The servants are runnin’ around like headless chickens.”
Declan folded his arms, his voice calm but firm. “The wedding’s been moved to tomorrow. There’s been… a change in the bride.”
Liam’s brow furrowed as he blinked in confusion. “A change in the bride? What in the devil’s name does that mean? Who are ye marryin’ now?”
Declan’s tone carried the faintest trace of amusement. “The daughter of Laird Ross, Isabelle Ross. She’s the cousin of Rosaline, who was me first betrothed.”
Liam stared at him for a long moment before letting out a sharp bark of laughter. “By the saints, I’ve only left yer side a couple of hours, and now ye’ve swapped brides and changed the weddin’ day! Ye’ve outdone yerself this time, Laird.”
“Life is what it will be, Liam. The Ross Laird made a mistake, one I wasnae about to let pass unnoticed. If he wants peace between our clans, he’ll give it to me properly.”
Liam shook his head, still grinning. “Aye, I suppose so. But tell me, is she a bonnie lass, this Isabelle? Or have ye landed yerself with a stiff-necked noblewoman?”
Declan’s jaw tightened slightly, betraying more than he meant to.
“She’s… different,” he said at last. “Nae what I expected. There’s a fire in her eyes, one that’ll either keep me sane or drive me to madness.”
“Careful now. Ye start down that road, and ye’ll find yerself dancin’ to her tune instead of leadin’ it.”
Declan’s voice hardened. “I daenae dance to anyone’s tune, Liam. Least of all a lass’. She’ll learn her place soon enough.”
The guard raised his hands in mock surrender. “Aye, aye, nay offense meant. Just sayin’, she might have more spine than most.”
Declan poured himself a dram of whisky from the decanter on the table and downed it in one swallow.
“She’s got courage, I’ll give her that. But courage can be bent or broken. We’ll see what she is soon enough.”
Liam’s grin faded slightly. “Aye. Still, I hope she’s kind for yer sake.”
Declan turned toward the fire, his expression unreadable. “Kindness isnae what I need in a wife, Liam. Loyalty and calmness—that’s what matters.”
Silence hung between them for a moment, broken only by the pop of burning wood.
Finally, Declan set his empty glass aside. “Make sure the men ken we’re stayin’ another day. Tell them they’ll be fed and quartered here till after the ceremony. But once it is said and done, we will be headin’ home. I daenae care to stay here longer than needed.”
“Aye, me Laird . I’ll see to it. But I’ll say this—tomorrow’s likely to be a fine show. The clan must nae witness many a weddin’ where the bride is switched.”
“Aye, that it will. Let’s see if the Ross lass is as brave as she looks.”