Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Isabelle allowed herself a final glance toward the chapel, the crowd, her father, and the remnants of her old life before letting Declan lead her forward.
Every step in the snow-laden courtyard felt like a departure from the girl she had been into a new world—wild, uncertain, and thrilling beyond her imagining.
Isabelle followed Declan through the wide archway into the great hall, her heart beating fast with both excitement and apprehension.
The hall was ablaze with Yule evergreen garlands hung from the rafters, intertwined with glimmering silver ribbons and clusters of red berries, and the scent of pine mingled with roasting meats.
Long tables were heaped with steaming platters of roast venison, buttery potatoes, fresh bread, and bowls of rich stew, all accented with golden goblets of wine and whiskey.
Musicians played lively reels in the corner, and servants flitted about, pouring drinks and ensuring the tables were brimming with the finest Scottish fare.
Declan’s hand found hers before she could think to resist, and he led her to the center of the hall as the fiddlers struck up a lively tune.
“If ye crave tradition, I shall dance this one dance with ye, but daenae ask me for another, Isabelle, or ye’ll regret it,” he warned.
“I can promise ye, Laird McCallum, if I do, ye’ll nae forget it in a hurry,” she replied, planting her hand on his shoulder as he twirled her effortlessly.
Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, the warmth of his chest against hers igniting a heat she hadn’t expected. His gaze stern and steady.
As the song ended, Isabelle excused herself, her skirts swirling around her ankles, and slipped into the corridor.
The hall noises faded behind her, leaving only the echo of her own footsteps.
Effie appeared just ahead, curtsying, and Isabelle whispered, “Thank ye for all the help ye have given.”
“Aye, me Lady . I have yer items all packed in the trunks in yer room,” she said.
“I will look in upon them afore I am set to leave.” Isabelle gave her a hug then watched the maid depart.
She was about to return to the hall when a sharp voice sliced through the quiet.
“Ye think ye’ve taken him from me?” Rosaline stepped forward, her eyes flashing with venom. “I curse yer marriage, Isabelle Ross. It’ll never be successful, for Declan was meant to be mine!”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes, taking a slow, measured breath.
“I am nay longer Isabelle Ross but Lady McCallum, wife of a laird, and ye will address me as such. Ye’ll find, cousin, that curses do nae follow the strong-hearted or the innocent,” she replied, her voice cold and cutting before she continued past the trembling Rosaline with her head held high.
Isabelle made her way to her room afterward, checking that her belongings were packed and trunks ready to be loaded into the McCallum carriage.
She ensured that every gown, cloak, and accessory was packed, a small sense of satisfaction swelling in her chest at the order she had imposed.
Even with the chaos of the past days, this small measure of control grounded her. Once everything was set, she took a deep breath and returned to the great hall, determined to join her husband at the head of the table.
Declan was waiting, seated. His eyes lingered on her, and she could feel the same thrilling tension from their earlier dance.
Declan leaned closer and whispered, “Ye will be ready to depart after this feast, lass. I daenae tend to linger.”
“I understand. Me belongings are packed and ready to be loaded onto yer carriage."
“Good, ye will do well if ye simply obey me commands,” he said sternly.
“Obey?”
“Aye, I expect obedience, loyalty and above all else, ye to ken that I am yer Laird,” he said.
Declan sat stiffly in the back of the McCallum carriage, his boots planted firmly on the floor as the horses trotted through the snow-covered highlands.
The warmth of the blankets did little to soothe his irritation, for Isabelle beside him refused to settle, her hands fidgeting in her lap as if she were already plotting some act of defiance.
He had married her, bound her legally to him, and yet she looked at him with that sharp, unyielding gaze as though daring him to try to command her.
The audacity of it fueled a fire within him he wasn’t used to feeling; she was stubborn, yes, but bold in a way that made his teeth grind and his pulse quicken.
“Ye’ll sit properly,” he barked, his voice low and commanding though the carriage’s confined space made the words seem sharper than intended.
“I sit how I please, Laird McCallum,” Isabelle shot back, her tone dripping with challenge. “Do ye think a marriage means I become some docile doll for ye to order about?”
Declan’s jaw tightened as his hands gripped the edge of his seat. “Daenae push me patience, lass. I married ye, and that means obedience.”
“Obedience?” Isabelle’s laugh was short, bitter, and defiant. “Ye think I was given the choice, and yet ye claim obedience? I’ll nae bend so easily, Laird McCallum. Do ye hear me?”
A flicker of admiration sparked in him though he hated admitting it even to himself. She was fiery, unbroken, and that infuriated him all the more.
“Aye, I hear ye, but mark me words, daenae test me, Isabelle. I’ve nay patience for foolishness, and I’ll nae tolerate backtalk in me household.”
She turned to him fully, her brown eyes blazing. “Then perhaps ye should have chosen someone meek and timid, for I am nae for men who think a title gives them dominion over another.”
Declan’s muscles tensed as the words hit him like a slap. He wanted to roar, to lean close and demand she submit, but the carriage walls kept their space intimate yet confining, forcing a simmering restraint.
“Ye think ye’ve spirit, lass, but ye’ll learn quickly that I do nae suffer fools lightly. Disobedience in me household, aye, in me presence, has consequences.”
“And what consequences might those be?” Isabelle asked, her voice teasing, daring him yet laced with a fury that matched his own. “Will ye scowl at me until I break or think shoutin’ frightens me into silence? I’ve faced worse than men like ye.”
Declan’s nostrils flared. “Men like me?” he spat. “Ye’ll learn soon enough, Isabelle, that I am nae just any man. I command respect and daenae mistake me patience for weakness.”
“And I command respect,” she countered, leaning forward in her seat, unafraid. “Aye, perhaps more than ye think, Laird McCallum. I will nae kneel to any man, nay matter how many scars he carries or how many nieces he wants to impress.”
He leaned back, glaring, trying to steady the heat coursing through his body. There was a dark thrill in her defiance, a pull he couldnae deny even as it enraged him.
“Ye are bold,” he muttered, almost to himself, as the carriage rattled beneath the horses’ steps, echoing the tension between them.
“And ye are arrogant,” she snapped, the sharpness in her tone making it impossible for him to ignore. “Ye married me as if ownership could be claimed by law, but daenae think for a second that I will yield like a frightened girl.”
Declan’s hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. “Yield?” he growled. “I command ye, Isabelle. Obedience is expected. I will nae have defiance shadow every word I speak in me own home.”
She laughed again, bitter and light all at once. “Then prepare for many shadows, Laird McCallum, for I will nae be tamed so easily. If ye seek compliance, ye’ll find none in me. Ye have married a woman, nae a puppet.”
A silence fell over the carriage for a few moments, broken only by the creaking of leather and the snort of the horses. Declan’s chest heaved, his anger a scorching heat, yet beneath it, something else stirred—admiration, even desire, for the woman who dared challenge him.
He knew the path ahead would be a battle, a constant clash of wills, and the thought ignited a fire he had never expected from marriage.
Finally, he leaned close, his voice low, dangerous, and filled with promise.
“Mark me, Isabelle. I will tame ye but nae with threats alone. Ye’ll learn the weight of me will, whether ye like it or nae, and if ye resist, I will enjoy the struggle.”
Declan leaned back against the leather of the carriage seat, the rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves echoing in his ears, and his gaze kept straying to Isabelle beside him.
He thought of the kiss after the wedding, the one he hadn’t intended to give.
Her lips had been too tempting, soft, and warm, and he’d felt that monster inside him stir, the one that thrived on possession and dominance.
He gritted his teeth, telling himself, I cannae get any closer; I will nae give her cause to despise me further than she already may.
She had every right to hate him. He knew he had strong-armed their union, forced the marriage to secure the alliance between their clans, and Isabelle had made no secret that she felt trapped.
A pang of guilt cut through him though he tried to ignore it, a strange mix of arrogance and self-loathing twisting in his chest.
She surely saw him as a monster, a man who had robbed her of choice, and perhaps she would forever blame him for this, even if he had meant to protect her in his own harsh way.
Hours passed in near silence, the tension thick between them.
Declan’s mind wandered to her hands, resting in her lap, fingers twitching ever so slightly, betraying her nerves.
He wanted to reach out, to touch her, to claim her lips once more, but he held back, fearing that any gesture might provoke a fury of hatred instead of passion.
Her brown eyes, focused out the carriage window, avoided his gaze, and he could see the faint trembling of her lips, as though she were barely holding herself together.
Finally, he spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet like steel. “We’re about to arrive,” he said, low and deliberate, his words meant to warn her that the journey’s end was near.