Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Married?
Isabelle stood frozen in the drawing room, her heart thundering in her chest as the weight of her father’s words sank in.
He had given her to a man she didn’t even know? Her mind whirled in disbelief, the edges of her vision blurring as her breath quickened. She didn’t want to be married; she wanted to be free, to live her own life without being bartered like cattle.
Her fists clenched at her sides as fury rose in her chest.
How dare me faither do this to me? After years of his coldness, of the way he has made me feel unwanted, now he seeks to use me as a tool to fix Rosaline’s mistakes.
The very thought made her stomach twist with rage and helplessness.
Her thoughts spiraled. What kind of man was this Laird McCallum? She’d heard the tales whispered among the servants, the rumors of cruelty and cold-hearted vengeance. Yet she had also seen something different: pride and honor to save her reputation. That confused her most of all.
Suddenly, she was jolted from her thoughts as someone grabbed her arm roughly.
Isabelle gasped, spinning around to find Rosaline glaring up at her, eyes blazing with fury. Rosaline’s grip tightened, her nails biting into Isabelle’s sleeve.
“Ye’ll pay for this, Isabelle,” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “Ye stole me husband from under me nose!”
Isabelle tore her arm free, her own anger flaring bright. “Daenae twist the truth, Rosaline,” she snapped, her voice sharp as glass. “Ye’ve nay one but yerself to blame for this! Ye ken well it was ye who had me locked in that cursed room to ruin me name!”
Rosaline’s mouth fell open in shock, her face paling. “It was in jest,” she stammered though her voice wavered with guilt.
“Ye were the only one who stood to gain from it, from ruinin’ me reputation when ye dinnae ken the identity of the man. And now, look what yer scheming’s brought. Ye’ve lost everythin’.”
Before Rosaline could answer, the heavy door creaked open and the maid, Effie, entered, followed by the two handmaids, Hannah and Paula. The three women curtsied deeply, their gazes flickering between the angry cousins and the silent laird standing by the hearth.
“Ye sent for us, me Laird ?” Effie asked cautiously.
Laird Ross’ face was grim, his tone cold and decisive. “Aye,” he said, not looking at his daughter. “Take Miss Isabelle to her chambers and prepare her for her weddin’ tomorrow to Laird McCallum.”
The maids froze, their eyes widening as if they had misheard. Paula exchanged a quick glance with Hannah, both of them whispering faintly before Effie shot them a look that silenced them.
“Aye, me Laird ,” Effie said softly, curtsying again.
Rosaline made a strangled sound of disbelief.
“Uncle, ye cannae mean to reward her,” she cried, stepping forward.
“She’s humiliated the Ross name... ” Isabelle resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Her cousin couldn’t understand that no matter how many times she repeated herself, the situation wouldn’t change.
“Enough!” Laird Ross thundered, his face darkening. “Ye’ve done enough damage yerself, Rosaline. Nae another word.” His voice carried the weight of finality, and even Rosaline’s fury faltered beneath it.
"We’re lucky the Laird dinnae simply walk out of this castle the moment he was freed from that storage room. I am lucky to have a daughter to give him, or the two clans would become strained," he glared.
Rosaline muffled a sob.
Isabelle stood motionless, her pulse racing as Effie and the others approached her. The handmaids curtsied again, their faces filled with pity.
Effie extended a hand toward her. “Come, Miss,” she said gently. “We’ll see to yer preparations.”
Isabelle swallowed hard and nodded, her throat tight. She followed them out of the drawing room without a word, the sound of Rosaline’s sobs fading behind her.
The corridors of the keep seemed longer than ever, the torches casting deep shadows that flickered over the stone walls. Her steps felt heavy, as though she were walking toward her own execution.
“Are ye alright, Miss?” Effie asked.
“Aye, a little shaken. It is all happening so fast, Effie,” Isabelle replied.
As they reached her chamber, Effie opened the door and ushered her inside. The familiar scent of lavender and smoke greeted her, but for once, it brought no comfort.
“Perhaps a bit of port to settle yer nerves, Miss?” Hannah asked.
“Aye, thank ye,” Isabelle said.
The maids began bustling about immediately. Hannah poured the glass of port and handed it to Isabelle. The others pulled out gowns to be packed and drew a bath, whispering softly to one another.
Isabelle stood in the center of the room, her hands clasped in front of her, her mind a storm of emotion.
“I’ve put the water to boil for yer bath,” Effie said.
“Add lavender to the bath; it is for her weddin’ after all,” Paula suggested.
“Aye, rose petals and lavender should do the trick,” Hannah added.
Isabelle allowed herself to be guided, though her thoughts screamed in protest. She could scarcely believe that within a day’s time, she would belong to a man she’d barely spoken to.
On the other hand, it is a blessin’—at least I will finally leave this cursed place and me faither’s cruel rule behind.
The Ross keep had been nothing but a prison since her mother’s death the day she was born.
Her father never forgave her for surviving when his wife did not. Every cold look, every harsh word through the years reminded her of that unspoken blame. Perhaps, in leaving, she could finally escape it.
But even as she tried to find solace in that thought, a wave of terror washed through her.
Laird McCallum, Declan Cain, was rumored to be a man of dark temper, a laird who ruled his lands with an iron hand.
Some said he’d driven his own brother from the Lairdship, others whispered he’d killed a man in cold blood. Was this the kind of man she was to wed?
“May I brush out yer braids, Miss?” Hannah asked.
“Aye, that would be fine,” Isabelle agreed.
She bit her lip hard, forcing herself not to tremble as Hannah brushed her hair out and Paula laid a gown across the bed.
Isabelle stared at her reflection in the mirror, at the pale face and wide eyes staring back. She looked like a ghost of herself.
Frustration burned hot in her chest, pushing against the fear.
How dare they all make decisions about me life as if I am nothin’ more than a pawn on a board?
She wanted to scream, to flee into the woods and never look back, but her pride would not allow it. She would face what was to come with her head high.
Isabelle took a deep, steadying breath. Whatever fate awaited her, she would not show weakness, not to her father, not to Rosaline, and certainly not to Laird McCallum. If the man truly was as ruthless as they said, then he would learn soon enough that Isabelle Ross would not be easily tamed.
“Yer bath is ready,” Effie said.
“Alright.” Isabelle moved to the steaming tub. She sank deep into the bath, the warm water scented with rose petals and lavender soothing her tense muscles.
Hannah moved quietly beside her, pouring more water over her shoulders.
Isabelle let her eyes close, feeling the steam curl around her face, and for a brief moment, she imagined a life free of her father’s control.
Yet the thought was fleeting, replaced swiftly by the reality that she was to be married tomorrow to a man she had never met.
“Fold the dresses as so in this trunk,” Effie instructed Paula.
“Aye,” Paula replied.
The other maids, Effie and Paula, moved about the chamber, packing her few belongings with efficiency.
Isabelle watched them, her mind spinning as she traced the folds of her nightdress and the line of her hands above the bath. She felt a strange mixture of fear and excitement, knowing she was leaving the Ross keep behind.
It’s really happenin’. I’m being married, and there’s no turning back.
Effie paused by the door, glancing at Isabelle with concern. “I’ll be back with yer supper, Miss,” she said softly.
Isabelle opened her eyes and smiled faintly. “Bring wine, Effie. I’m going to need it to sleep tonight,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.
Moments later, Isabelle rose from the bath, water dripping over her shoulders as Hannah helped her out and wrapped her in a soft, warm towel.
Every motion felt surreal, as if she were moving through a dream she could not wake from.
Hannah guided her to a dressing table where she carefully brushed Isabelle’s long, brown curls, untangling the knots with gentle patience.
When the hair was smooth, she helped Isabelle into her nightshift, the fine linen cool against her damp skin.
Effie returned with a light dinner, placing it on a small table beside the bed.
The meal was modest but hearty: fresh bread, a small wedge of smoked cheese, slices of cold venison with a few roasted root vegetables.
A carafe of wine stood beside it, the deep ruby liquid shimmering in the flickering candlelight. Isabelle’s stomach grumbled at the sight, but her mind was elsewhere, spinning with the events of the day.
Her eyes drifted to the corner of the chamber, where Rosaline’s wedding dress rested neatly folded.
She realized, with a flush of relief, that the dress, once mistakenly made too small for Rosaline, fit her perfectly. The error that had caused her so much panic earlier now seemed like a blessing in disguise.
Once the maids had finished their work, they curtseyed and quietly left the chamber, leaving Isabelle alone with her thoughts and the soft glow of the candlelight.
She poured herself a generous glass of wine, the rich, tart liquid warming her throat and calming some of the nerves gnawing at her stomach.
Her mind wandered to Laird McCallum, the arrogant man who had so easily commanded her father.
She felt a mixture of indignation and fascination at the thought of him, and a flush of heat rose to her cheeks.
She drank again, this time letting her thoughts drift to the life she had endured under her father’s rule. The cruel words, the constant blame, the way he had treated her, blaming her for her mother’s death, all of it pressed on her memory.
Here was a chance to escape it, to leave the Ross keep and the toxic control of Laird Ross behind. Even if she despised the idea of marrying Laird McCallum, the freedom it promised was intoxicating, far more alluring than the fear of the unknown.
Though she did not want to marry, she would seize this opportunity to finally step away from the shadows of her father’s cruelty.
Isabelle lay back on the pillows, her hair spread across the linen, and let herself breathe for the first time in years without fear of scolding or reproach.
Tomorrow, she would be married. Tonight, for the first time in her life, she felt a sense of agency, however small, and that thought was enough to carry her into the sleep that would prepare her for the day to come.
The next morning, Isabelle stirred from her slumber as the soft voices of the maids roused her from sleep.
“’Tis time for preparations, Miss," Effie said.
"Aye, so it is," Isabelle agreed, wiping sleep from her eyes.
She washed face in the wash basin and sat down.
Hannah and Paula bustled about her, gently tugging at her long, brown curls, braiding them into a crown that would frame her face for the wedding.
Isabelle blinked sleepily, trying to gather her thoughts as the maids worked with practiced care.
“Hannah, thou art a miracle worker,” Isabelle murmured, her voice still husky from sleep.
“Oh, Miss, ye’ll be radiant,” Hannah said, smiling as she twisted another section of hair into the intricate braid.
“Luck indeed,” Paula chimed in, lifting the folds of the wedding dress and smoothing them over the bed. “If the dress had been the right size for Rosaline yesterday, who kens how we’d have managed it? Fortune favors ye, Isabelle.”
Isabelle gave a small, appreciative smile, running her fingers along the braid as it took shape.
“I daresay ye make it sound far easier than itis,” she replied, her tone light despite the nervous flutter in her chest.
Effie, who had been quietly arranging the trousseau on a nearby table, glanced up and gave a wry smile.
“Curious, is it nae? Yesterday Hannah and Paula were whisperin’ behind yer back, yet today they fuss over ye like ye were a queen.”
The other two maids gasped and exchanged glances, their cheeks flushing bright red.
“Och, Miss, we meant nay harm. We were foolish, truly,” Hannah exclaimed, fidgeting with a ribbon.
“Aye, and I am sorry as well,” Paula added quickly, tugging at a stray curl. “It was nae proper of us to speak so carelessly.”
Isabelle waved a hand, dismissing their apologies with a soft chuckle. “Do nae worry yourselves, girls. I understand how things run in a busy household.” She paused, giving Effie a grateful glance. “And thank ye, Effie, for always lookin’ out for me.”
Hannah smoothed the final braid over Isabelle’s head, carefully pinning it with silver combs that sparkled in the morning light.
“There, Miss, perfection itself,” she said with a triumphant smile.
Isabelle rose gracefully from the chair, adjusting the braid with her fingers. She felt a mixture of nerves and excitement, the enormity of the day settling in her chest.
“It would nae do to keep Laird McCallum waitin’ longer than necessary,” she said, her voice steady though her heart beat faster. “I must prepare meself fully, for the hour approaches.”
Effie stepped forward with a soft nod, a proud expression on her face. “Aye, Miss. Ye will be a vision this day. Let us see to it ye are ready in all ways.”
The room buzzed with activity as the maids gathered Isabelle’s trousseau, smoothing out the folds of her gown and laying out her undergarments and slippers.
Each movement was meticulous, their care and excitement tangible. Isabelle could not help but feel a small flutter of pride, the thought that this day marked a turning point in her life.
As she allowed the maids to fuss over her, she caught her reflection in a mirror nearby, the crown of braids framing her flushed face. It was strange to think how quickly yesterday’s chaos had turned into this moment of calm, of preparation.
She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, bracing herself for the appearance of Laird McCallum and the start of a day she would never forget.
Hannah and Paula exchanged proud smiles as they finished their work. “Ye will draw every eye in the keep, Miss,” Hannah whispered.
Paula nodded eagerly. “Aye, and ’tis well deserved. Nay one could stand beside ye in beauty.”
Effie laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, drawing Isabelle’s attention. “Shall we fetch the dress now, Miss?”
Isabelle nodded, her gaze steady and determined. “Aye, Effie. Let us nae tarry. The hour waits for nay one, and neither shall I.”