Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
By all the saints, I enjoy vexin’ the lass far more than I ought to.
The torches flickered along the stone corridor as Declan strode through the halls of Castle McCallum. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he thought of her fiery tongue and the way her eyes had flashed at him earlier that night.
He didn’t know why he held back from telling her what he truly expected of her as his wife, but seeing her cheeks flush with temper gave him a satisfaction he couldn’t quite explain.
She’s too bold for a lass, too quick with her words, and yet her fire draws me in like a moth to flame.
It had been long since anyone dared talk to him that way, most cowered before his name, a man not to be trifled with. But Isabelle… she challenged him without fear, and that both enraged and intrigued him.
Declan turned down another corridor and stopped at the heavy oak door of the library, carved with the McCallum crest. His sister Mabel had never been one to sleep early, especially when her prayers or her books kept her company long into the night.
He gave the door a short rap and stepped inside, his broad frame nearly filling the doorway.
Mabel looked up from her place near the hearth, a smile spreading across her face.
“Declan!” she exclaimed, rising quickly and rushing to him.
Her habit rustled as she wrapped her arms around him. “Och, ye finally came home! Saints be praised, it’s been far too long.”
“Aye, it’s good to see ye too, Mabel.”
“Now, tell me, how went the weddin’? Did the lass faint at the sight of ye, or did she run the other way?”
Declan smirked and moved toward the hearth, lowering himself into the chair opposite hers as they both sat down.
“There was an incident,” he said, his tone dry. “But aye, I did get married. Just… nae to the woman I went there to marry.”
Mabel blinked, her brows furrowing. “Nae to the woman ye… Declan Cain, what have ye done?”
He leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the chair’s armrest, a faint glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “I married Isabelle Connelly.”
“Isabelle Connelly?” Mabel repeated slowly, her mouth falling open. “Ye mean the daughter of Laird Ross?”
“Aye, that would be her.”
Mabel pressed a hand to her lips to hide a grin. “Saints preserve us, braither . Ye always did have a taste for trouble. But tell me, how did this happen? I thought ye were to wed Miss Rosaline?”
He shrugged, his expression turning more serious for a moment. “Fate had other plans, it seems. There was an incident involvin’ Isabelle, and through… circumstances best left untold, we wed.”
“Untold?” Mabel tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “Declan, ye cannae expect me to rest easy after that. Ye’ve gone and married a different lass without so much as explainin’ why.”
Declan’s lips curved faintly though his gaze drifted to the flames. “It’s done now. The reasons dinnae matter much. She bears me name, and that’s all anyone need ken.”
Mabel studied him for a long moment. “Och, I see that look in yer eyes. Ye may act as though ye dinnae care, but somethin’ about her has gotten under yer skin.”
He gave a sharp huff, half amusement, half irritation. “The only thing she’s gotten under is me patience. The lass talks back, questions every order I give, and walks about as if she has no mind to obey me as she should.”
Mabel laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. “Aye, she sounds just like someone else I ken. Perhaps ye’ve finally met yer match, braither .”
Declan shot her a look though the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve nay need for matches, Mabel. I need obedience, respect, someone to raise the triplets as her own, and peace in me halls. Nae arguments and fiery stares.”
“Ye speak of obedience as if ye’re trainin’ a hound, nae livin’ with a wife,” Mabel teased, crossing her arms. “Ye’ll scare her half to death if ye keep barkin’ orders like some hardened soldier.”
He grunted. “I dinnae bark, I command. And she best learn the difference if she means to live under this roof.”
Mabel shook her head with a sigh. “Och, Declan. Ye’ve the heart of a warrior but the sense of a mule. If ye want peace, ye’ll need to treat her very well.”
Declan rose, pacing to the window where the loch shimmered faintly in the moonlight. “She’s mine now. And whether she likes it or not, she’ll learn her place soon enough.”
“Or perhaps ye’ll learn yers,” Mabel said softly.
He turned, meeting her gaze, the firelight catching in his dark eyes. “I’ve nay lessons left to learn, sister. I’ve been through too much for that.”
“Aye, ye say that now, Declan Cain… but love’s a cruel tutor, and ye’ve only just opened yer book.”
Declan stood up, ignoring his sister’s words and poured himself a generous measure of whiskey.
The amber liquid caught the flicker of firelight as it sloshed in the glass.
He took a long, deliberate sip, feeling the burn slide down his throat and settle like a slow flame in his chest. The quiet of the library wrapped around him, a familiar silence filled with the scent of leather-bound tomes, old parchment, and smoke.
He reached for a book from the shelf, running his scarred fingers along the worn spine before opening it absently.
He didn’t read the words so much as stare through them, his thoughts heavy and unbidden.
“How were the girls while I was away?” he asked, his voice low, as if reluctant to let the question leave his mouth. He kept his eyes fixed on the page, unwilling to meet his sister’s gaze.
“They were fine, Declan. Happy and healthy as ever.” She hesitated then added softly, “They’ve missed ye.”
He gave a short nod and muttered, “That’s good, then.” The words felt hollow, like an echo of what he was supposed to say.
He turned another page of the book, though he hadn’t read a single line. The whiskey glass sat forgotten beside him.
Mabel folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head. “Ye should go visit them,” she said kindly. “They’ll be glad to ken ye’ve returned home.”
Declan exhaled slowly, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Nay,” he said after a pause. “The lasses’ll be happier without me showin’ me face. I only bring shadows where there should be light. Ye’ve done a fine job carin’ for them; that’s all that matters.”
Mabel frowned, leaning forward in her chair. “Declan, that’s nonsense, and ye ken it. They arenae afraid of ye, nor do they think ye cast shadows. They love ye, same as I do.”
He set the book down with a soft thud, his dark eyes meeting hers at last.
“Love’s a word that means little when it’s spoken of me, Mabel. I’ve no gentle hand for bairns nor the kindness they deserve. They’re better off rememberin’ me as a ghost that comes and goes.”
Her expression softened with sadness. “Och, braither , ye cannae keep punishin’ yerself for the sins of our faither. Ye’re nae him.”
“Aren’t I?” he asked sharply. “His blood runs through me veins—same temper, same violence, same damnation. I’ve spent me life fightin’ it, but every time I raise me voice, I hear his echo.”
Mabel stood, her voice steady despite his storm. “Ye’ve fought harder than anyone to be different. That’s what makes ye unlike him, Declan. Our faither broke people for sport. Ye protect them, even when it costs ye peace. I am nae like him and neither was Tristan, God rest his soul.”
Declan turned away, pacing toward the shelves. “Protectin’ and raisin’ are two different things,” he said grimly. “I can wield a sword, Mabel, but I cannae offer comfort. The lasses need warmth, laughter, patience—none of which I’ve ever had to give.”
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel and the soft hiss of the hearth. Mabel clasped her hands tighter, watching him with quiet sorrow.
“They dinnae need perfection, braither . They just need ye to care enough to try.”
He picked up his glass again and took another slow sip. “Caring’s the curse of it,” he murmured.
The flicker of pain in his voice nearly undid her. “Declan,” she said softly, “ye’re nae monster. Ye’re a man who’s been hurt and doesnae ken how to heal. But ye’ll never find peace by runnin’ from those who’d forgive ye before ye even ask.”
He let out a weary sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as if to ease a tension that never left him.
“Ye’ve a kind heart, sister. Kinder than I deserve. But it’s late, and I’ll nae trouble ye more with me gloom.”
Mabel frowned, but she saw that look in his eyes, the one that meant no words would move him tonight.
“Aye,” she said softly, “it is late. But promise me, Declan, ye’ll visit the girls soon. They’ll think the world’s ended if ye dinnae.”
“I’ll think on it.”
“Thinkin’ isnae doin’,” she replied though her tone held more affection than reproach.
“Still scoldin’ me like I’m a bairn, are ye? Some things never change.”
“And thank the Lord for that,” she said with a small smile.
Declan downed the last of his whiskey, the burn grounding him, reminding him he was still flesh and blood. He set the glass down and inclined his head.
“Goodnight, Mabel. Rest well. Ye’ll have prayers enough to say for us both, I reckon.”
She gave him a knowing smile though her eyes were sad. “Aye, and I’ll keep sayin’ them till they’re answered.”
Declan turned and walked toward the door. As he stepped into the corridor, the flicker of the torches cast fleeting shadows across his scarred face. He told himself it was exhaustion that made his chest ache, not guilt. But deep down, he knew better.
I wish I could be a good faither like me brai ther, Tristan, was to those girls.
His father’s voice still haunted his memory, cruel and cold.
Declan clenched his fists as he walked, vowing he’d never be that man but doubting he could ever truly escape him.
He made his way toward the kitchens. When he pushed open the heavy kitchen door, the warmth and scent of simmering stew greeted him. Inside, a handful of servants worked quietly, their heads snapping up the instant they saw their laird in the doorway.
Every one of them froze. A few of the younger ones paled, clutching ladles or cloths like shields.
The old cook, Vera, was the first to find her voice.
She curtsied low, her hands trembling slightly. “Me Laird,” she murmured, her tone cautious, the title heavy with both fear and respect. The others quickly did the same.
Declan gave a curt nod, his deep voice cutting through the air like a blade.
“I need a tray prepared. Somethin’ proper. To take up to me wife.” His words were calm, but the weight behind them made no one question the order.
“Aye, me Laird ,” she said quickly, motioning to the others. “Ye heard the Laird; get movin’, all of ye!”
The servants sprang into action, scurrying around the wide hearth. Declan stood in the corner, silent and brooding, watching them as they worked.
They ladled thick venison stew into deep bowls, its aroma rich with herbs and slow-cooked meat. Fresh oatcakes were added to the tray beside a wedge of crumbly cheese, smoked haddock, and a small pot of honey butter.
One of the maids fetched a flagon of wine and added it with two goblets to the tray, her hands trembling.
Declan’s sharp eyes flicked toward her. No one dared speak beyond what was necessary, and even Vera, the boldest among them, kept her voice measured as she oversaw the arrangement.
When they were done, Vera stepped back, wringing her hands in her apron.
“It’s ready, me Laird . A warm meal for ye and the Lady McCallum.”
Declan gave a short nod, his face unreadable.
“Good. I’ll take it meself.” He lifted the tray effortlessly though it was heavy with dishes and steam. The servants lowered their heads as he left, murmuring faint “me Laird ”s as the door swung shut behind him.
The castle felt different as he ascended the stairs. A strange hush clung to the walls, broken only by the distant moan of the wind through the battlements.
Declan’s thoughts drifted to Isabelle, wondering if she was still awake or pacing nervously as she had in the carriage earlier. He had no patience for her sharp tongue, but there was something about the lass that stirred more than irritation in him.
He reached the chamber door and nudged it open quietly with his shoulder. The fire had burned low, casting golden light across the room.
Isabelle lay upon the bed, already asleep, her long hair spread like silk across the pillow. Her breathing was slow and even, her face soft and peaceful in slumber, so unlike the defiant woman who had faced him earlier.
Declan set the tray down carefully upon the small table by the hearth in the sitting room then he strode across to the bedchamber. For a long moment, he stood there, looking at her. A tenderness he did not recognize stirred in his chest, unwelcome but insistent.
He stepped closer, unable to stop himself, and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek.
“Me wife,” he whispered.
Her skin was warm, delicate, soft as rose petals, and the simple contact sent a jolt through him.
The heat of desire burned low in his gut, fierce and unbidden. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to pull back before the longing overcame him.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath, stepping away as though distance could quench the ache she stirred.
“She’s yer wife, aye, but nae ready fer what that means.”
He turned sharply and crossed into the adjoining sitting room. The fire there was still burning, and he sank into the armchair before it, the tray of food untouched beside him.
After a moment, he took a spoonful of the stew, but he barely tasted it. His mind was miles away, tangled between guilt and desire and frustration.
The silence pressed heavy around him. He poured himself a cup of wine and leaned back, his thoughts dark and restless.
Was she lyin’ there dreamin’ of escape? Did she curse me name for bindin’ her to me?
He could almost hear her soft voice that would one day accuse him of forcing her into marriage.
Declan set the cup down and rubbed a hand over his face.
“Aye,” he murmured bitterly, “she hates me well enough. And why would she nae? She thinks me a brute. Maybe she’s right to.”
He sat in the flickering glow for a long time, staring into the fire as the flames shifted and danced.
Eventually, weariness won over. He rose, shrugged off his jacket, and moved back into the bedchamber to disrobe. He pulled on a fresh tunic and slid under the covers for his first night beside his wife.