Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Declan sat at the heavy oak table in his room, the morning sunlight streaming through the narrow windows and catching the dust motes in the air.
Before him lay a hearty Scottish breakfast: thick slices of buttered oat bread, a platter of golden fried eggs, sizzling rashers of bacon, and a bowl of black pudding, alongside a steaming mug of strong, dark tea.
The aroma filled the chamber, mingling with the faint scent of leather from his traveling gear and the chill of the castle stone walls.
He picked up a slice of bread, butter melting into its warm surface, and took a deep bite, savoring the simple, sustaining flavors that always steadied him in the morning.
A sharp knock at the door made him pause, his hand frozen mid-bite.
“Enter,” he called, his voice carrying the calm authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
The door swung open, revealing a servant from the Ross clan, bowing low.
“Me Laird McCallum,” the man said, “Laird Ross sent me to see ye prepared for the weddin’. I am to help ye into yer garments.”
Declan nodded once, chewing thoughtfully before replying.
“Aye, the clothes are in the trunk. Folded and ready. Bring them here and see to them as I finish me meal.”
He gestured to the trunk at the foot of the bed, his gaze returning to the platter of eggs and bacon before him.
The servant moved with quiet efficiency, lifting the lid of the trunk and pulling out the finely woven garments of a Scottish Laird.
A rich woolen tunic in deep McCallum green lay atop a tartan kilt patterned in the clan’s colors, edged with crimson and gold threads.
Accompanying them were long leather boots, polished to a deep chestnut sheen, a belt with a finely tooled buckle, and a ceremonial dagger nestled within a scabbard embroidered with the family crest.
Declan’s dark brown hair, tied back, would be adorned with a small green ribbon in homage to the clan, completing the ensemble befitting a laird on his wedding day.
He continued to eat, savoring the last bites of black pudding and bacon as he watched the valet arrange the clothing carefully on a nearby chair. Each piece was folded with precision, the fabric of the tunic pressed smooth and the kilt pleated perfectly.
When the plate was cleared, Declan set it aside and stood, muscles flexing beneath his tunic as he approached the washbasin. Cold water splashed over his hands and face, the chill biting but invigorating, sending shivers down his scarred arms.
He ran a cloth through his hair and wiped his mouth clean of breakfast remnants. The mirror reflected a man both imposing and regal, each scar a mark of battles past, each line on his face a testament to the hardships that had shaped him.
The servant approached, bowing slightly before speaking.
“If it pleases ye, me Laird , I shall help ye into yer weddin’ clothes now.”
Declan nodded, lifting one arm as the man guided the tunic over his broad shoulders. Fingers adjusted the seams, tightening straps where needed, ensuring the garment hugged his muscular frame without restricting movement.
Next came the kilt, pleated and draped with exact care, its tartan colors bright beneath the morning light. Declan allowed the man to fasten the belt securely around his waist, the ceremonial dagger sliding snugly into its sheath at his hip.
Leather boots were pulled over his calves, polished and snug, the soles stiff as he flexed his feet. Finally, the small ribbon was tied into his hair, the finishing touch that completed the appearance of a proud laird ready to wed.
Declan stepped back to survey himself, hands on his hips, feeling the weight of the garments and the significance they carried.
The colors of McCallum pride wrapped around him like armor, a signal to all who would see him that he was not only a warrior but a man of authority, a man who commanded respect.
“Good. Ye’ve done well,” he said.
He allowed himself a small grin, thinking of Isabelle and how this day had unfolded, the chaos of yesterday now giving way to this ceremonious morning. The servant gave a quiet nod, satisfied with his work, and stepped back to await any further instructions.
“I am at yer disposal for this day, Laird,” the servant said.
Declan ran a hand down the front of his tunic, the smooth wool scratching slightly beneath his fingers, and straightened the tartan folds of his kilt.
He took a deep breath, chest expanding beneath the sturdy fabric, and glanced toward the door, knowing soon he would be expected to make his entrance.
With every detail in place, every piece of clothing properly arranged, he felt ready. Ready not just for the wedding but for the challenges, and surprises, that awaited him beyond the walls of his chamber.
“Where shall I wait?” Declan asked.
“Laird Ross bid ye to the drawin’ room if ye wish it,” the servant said.
“Aye,” he agreed.
The servant led the way out of the room and to the drawing room. Laird Ross stood up in greeting.
“Welcome, Laird McCallum,” he greeted.
“Good mornin’, Laird Ross,” he said.
Declan sat down and leaned against the high-backed chair in the drawing room, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Laird Ross fidget nervously before him.
Rosaline entered the room quietly and sat down.
The older man’s face was flushed, eyes darting between him and Rosaline, who stood with her hands clasped demurely but with a smug tilt to her chin.
“Me Laird McCallum,” Ross began, voice trembling, “this was nae meant to embarrass ye, not at all. If… if ye have changed yer mind, ye can still take Rosaline as yer bride instead of Isabelle; it’s entirely up to ye. I wanted to make that known to ye.”
Declan’s gaze flicked to Rosaline, noting the serene composure of her face and the faint curl of her lips that betrayed a smug expectation. He could feel her arrogance, the confidence that he would somehow choose her despite the mess she made the day before.
His hand itched at his side, remembering the trick she had played, locking him in that tiny storeroom. He thought briefly that she was lucky to still have her head attached; any other man might have dealt with her far differently.
He allowed Laird Ross to ramble on, his words a blur as the man attempted to smooth over yesterday’s disaster. Ross spoke of propriety, of Clan Ross’ honor and how such an incident should never have befallen a guest of McCallum stature.
He went on about family alliances and the importance of appearances in front of their clansmen, trying to sound calm but failing entirely. Declan let it continue, amused at the elder’s growing unease and Rosaline’s mounting frustration.
Finally, Declan straightened, his deep brown eyes flashing with impatience, and his voice cut through the room like a blade.
“Do ye think me a fool?”
Silence fell instantly; the words seemed to echo against the stone walls.
Laird Ross stammered, “Of course nae, Laird, I… ” but Declan raised a hand, silencing him before he could finish.
“I have already made me choice,” Declan said, voice low but firm, eyes locked on Ross.
“I will marry Isabelle. And let me add, I am thankful this incident occurred. I would nae have tolerated the other woman who was chosen for me. I daenae ken if any other laird would be able to, either,” he added, glancing briefly at Rosaline, whose cheeks flamed crimson.
Ross’ face tightened, and he tried to intervene again, offering, “Rosaline is a perfect lady, trained well, raised for a laird such as yerself. She…”
Declan raised a single eyebrow, the motion sharp and cutting. “I daenae ken why ye still daenae understand me,” he said evenly. “I am either marryin’ yer daughter, or we go to war for the insults ye have placed upon me. Yer choice.”
Ross’ jaw fell slightly, the panic in his eyes betraying his polite facade. He opened his mouth to argue then thought better of it, realizing the stubborn, immovable determination in Declan’s gaze.
Slowly, he nodded, his shoulders sagging, finally conceding defeat. Declan watched with satisfaction as the older man stepped back, muttering apologies under his breath. “Of course, Laird McCallum. I apologize for the thought.”
As Ross retreated outside the room, Declan’s attention flicked to Rosaline who followed Laird Ross.
Her voice rang through the castle, echoing off the stone walls, “This is me weddin’ day! Ye cannae take that from me! I will have Laird McCallum!”
Declan’s lips curled into a small, amused smirk. He shook his head ever so slightly, bewildered that anyone could ever consider a woman like her suitable to be a lady.
The arrogance in her tone, the unchecked temper, and the sheer selfishness were all glaringly obvious.
Declan thought of Isabelle, her long brown curls, her quiet dignity, and the steadiness in her brown eyes.
It was a stark contrast, and he found himself inwardly grateful for the chaos that had led to this moment.
A true lady, he reflected, was not built on appearances or whispered compliments but on courage, resolve, and the ability to face a man like him without flinching.
An hour later, Declan followed Laird Ross through the winding corridors of Castle Ross.
The older laird’s hand rested lightly on Declan’s shoulder as he spoke in a tone meant to reassure.
“All is well, Laird McCallum. At last, Clan Ross and Clan McCallum are united in purpose and soon in bond.”
Declan gave a curt nod, his eyes scanning the walls lined with tapestries depicting the proud history of the Ross clan.
The chapel doors opened, and Declan stepped inside, immediately taking in the sight of the sacred space adorned for Yule.
Pine garlands lined the balcony rails, interwoven with crimson ribbons and sprigs of holly, their bright berries catching the light of flickering candles. Evergreen boughs were arranged along the pews, and delicate glass ornaments hung from the ceiling beams, sparkling like captured starlight.
Declan positioned himself at the front of the chapel, standing tall before the priest, his hands resting lightly at his sides. The murmurs of the gathered clansmen faded into the stone walls, leaving only the crackle of candles and the occasional shuffle of feet.
He allowed himself a moment of reflection, regretting the choice to hold the wedding here rather than at his own castle, among his own clan. Though Clan Ross was honorable, there was an uneasy weight to being in another’s halls, surrounded by those who did not know his temper or his expectations.
His thoughts were interrupted as the heavy chapel doors creaked open, and his bride-to-be appeared.
Declan’s breath caught, his gaze darkening as desire and possessiveness surged unbidden through him. Isabelle moved with a quiet grace, the modest yet finely made Scottish wedding dress hugging her slender frame and flowing down in heavy folds of cream and gold brocade.
Her long hair was braided into a crown, leaving a few rebellious tendrils to frame her soft, expressive face, and her brown eyes shone with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
Declan felt a primal urge to claim her, to reach out and make her his in that instant, the thought of any man touching her igniting a jealous fire in his chest.
Every detail captivated him—the soft curve of her jaw, the subtle flush of her cheeks, the way she hesitated at each step as though she might falter. His chest tightened, a low hum of possessiveness rising, and he had to clamp down on it before it betrayed itself.
This is a ceremony, not a moment for indulgence, and it needs honor and demands restraint.
Turning his focus back to the priest, Declan squared his shoulders, letting the tension in his arms ease only slightly.