Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The faint rustling of fabric stirred Isabelle from her sleep. Her lashes fluttered open, and for a moment she was disoriented, the velvet curtains and heavy wooden beams unfamiliar.
Then memory struck— she was in Castle McCallum, and the tall figure sitting on the edge of the bed was her husband.
Declan sat with his back to her, pulling on his boots, the muscles in his shoulders shifting with quiet power.
Her cheeks warmed as her gaze traced the expanse of his bare back, broad and corded with strength. Then he took his tunic off for a fresh one.
"My God," she whispered.
She saw them, the scars. Dozens of them. Faint white lines crossing like ghostly reminders of pain long endured. A pang of something deep and tender filled her chest, stronger than she wished to feel for the man she barely knew.
Without thinking, she moved to him on the bed. When she reached out and her fingers brushed one of the scars, he stiffened instantly, every muscle locking as if struck by lightning.
Isabelle froze, her hand still against his skin.
“What are ye doin’, lass?” His voice came low and hard, the edge of warning unmistakable. He turned his head slightly though not enough to meet her eyes.
“I was just…” she faltered, her voice soft but trembling with concern. “Declan, what happened to ye? These scars, did someone…”
He cut her off sharply. “It’s none of yer concern.”
Isabelle blinked, stunned by the coldness in his tone. “None of me concern?” she repeated, her voice rising. “Ye’re me husband now, and I’ve every right to ken what’s been done to ye.”
Declan turned fully then, his dark gaze fierce as it met hers. “Right?” he repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. “Aye, I suppose bein’ wed gives ye claim to every wound, does it? Every dark memory a man would rather bury?”
She crossed her arms, her chin lifting in defiance. “It gives me the right to care,” she shot back. “Ye act as if I asked to marry ye, but I didnae. Still, here I am, tryin’ to understand ye, and ye push me away.”
His expression hardened, his jaw tightening until the muscle jumped.
“Aye, yey leave nae doubt of yer disgust ye were forced to wed me. Ye will never understand me?” he scoffed. “Ye’d do best not to try. There’s nothin’ to understand but that I’m a man ye should keep yer distance from.”
Her eyes flashed with indignation. “Distance? We share a bed, Declan. How am I meant to keep distance when ye’re the first thing I see every mornin’?”
His eyes darkened further, a dangerous gleam flickering there. “Then look away,” he growled.
But Isabelle didn’t back down. Her heart was racing, her pulse loud in her ears, yet she held her ground.
“Nay,” she whispered, her voice shaking but fierce. “I won’t look away. Ye can growl and bark all ye wish, but I see ye. I see the pain ye’re hidin’, and it makes me ache to think of what, or who, did this to ye.”
Declan’s nostrils flared as he stared down at her. She was so close now that the fabric of her nightshift brushed against him.
The scent of him, earth, leather, and faint smoke, surrounded her, dizzying and intimate.
“Ye ken nothin’ about me, Isabelle,” he said roughly. “And ye’d be wise not to pry where ye’re not wanted.”
She glared up at him, refusing to be cowed. “Aye, and ye’d be wise to stop actin’ like a brute every time someone shows ye kindness.”
For a heartbeat, silence hung thick between them, broken only by the sound of their breathing. She watched Declan’s eyes drop to her lips then lower to the curve of her throat, the pale linen clinging to her form.
“Ye daenae ken the kind of man I am,” he murmured darkly. “If ye did, ye’d nae be so close.”
Her heart pounded, but she refused to retreat. “Maybe I’m nae afraid,” she said softly.
His gaze snapped back to hers, stormy and fierce. “Ye should be,” he said though the words sounded more like a plea than a threat.
“Then tell me,” she said, her voice breaking with both anger and something softer. “Tell me what makes ye so dangerous. Tell me why ye’ve so many scars. Tell me somethin’, Declan, anything that makes sense of the man I’ve married!”
He took a slow breath, his fists curling at his sides. “There’s nothin’ to tell that wouldnae make ye hate me,” he said finally, his tone low and raw.
“Hate ye?” she repeated, her voice trembling. “Ye think that’s what this is?”
“I think that’s what it’ll become,” he said, his eyes burning into hers. “It always does.”
Her throat tightened at the quiet despair behind his words. “Maybe ye’re wrong,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Declan gave a short, humorless laugh. “Lass, I’ve lived long enough to ken I’m nae wrong about this.”
She met his gaze, unflinching. “And I’ve lived long enough to ken that fear’s a liar.”
That made him pause. For the first time, something in his expression softened, just barely, a flicker of vulnerability before the walls came crashing back down.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Ye’re stubborn, woman. More stubborn than I’ve patience for this mornin’.”
“Aye,” she said with a defiant little tilt of her chin. “And ye’ll find I’ve plenty of stubbornness yet to spare.”
Isabelle’s chest rose and fell sharply, her cheeks flushed with equal parts anger and confusion.
She held Declan’s eyes, his jaw tight as he stared her down.
Declan’s voice came low and edged. “Ye ken naught of what ye do, lass. Best keep yer distance before ye stir a beast ye cannae tame.”
Isabelle refused to flinch though her heart thundered in her chest. “I’ll nae be silenced, Declan. I’m yer wife, whether ye like it or nae ’, and I’ve a right to ken what haunts the man I wed.”
“Ye think scars are naught but marks on the flesh? These tell tales ye’re nae ready to hear.”
Her chin tilted up, stubbornness sparking in her brown eyes. “Then teach me, Laird McCallum. I’ll nae live in a house where secrets are kept from me.”
“Ye dinnae ken what yer defiance does to me.” That was the final crack in his control. With a growl deep in his throat, Declan’s hand shot out, gripping her waist and pulling her against him.
His lips crashed onto hers in a bruising kiss that stole her breath, fierce and unrelenting. For a moment, Isabelle stiffened, shocked by the force of it, but then her hands found his chest, and the world fell away.
The warmth of him consumed her senses, the scent of pine and smoke, the strength of his arms, the sound of his heartbeat thrumming against her palms. Her anger melted into something dangerous and thrilling, her body responding before her mind could catch up.
Her lips parted beneath his, and the kiss deepened, wild and desperate, as though both fought to win even here.
The taste of him, fierce and masculine, left her dizzy, trembling between outrage and desire.
When he finally tore his mouth from hers, they both stood panting, eyes locked in stunned silence.
Declan’s gaze dropped to her lips, reddened from his kiss, and a muscle jumped in his jaw.
“Dinna tempt me again, lass,” he rasped, voice thick with restraint. “Next time, I’ll nae stop so easy.”
Isabelle blinked, her voice barely above a whisper. “And why nae? Ye’re me husband, are ye nae?”
Declan’s eyes darkened like storm clouds rolling over the moor. “Aye, that I am,” he said, voice low and rough, “but I’m still a man, Isabelle. And there’s only so much a man can bear before he loses all sense.”
She lifted her chin, emboldened. “Then perhaps ye shouldna’ have kissed me so if ye cannae handle it.”
A faint smirk ghosted across his lips, humorless and dangerous. “Ye speak bold for a lass who trembled at the mere thought of being in this bedchamber.”
Isabelle’s heart leapt, but she stood her ground. “Maybe I trembled, aye, but that doesnae mean I’ll hide from ye forever.” She paused, her tone softening slightly. “Perhaps I’ve found a bit of courage since then.”
Declan arched a brow. “Courage or foolishness? Yesterday ye said ye werenae ready to consummate the marriage.”
Isabelle’s blush deepened, but she met his gaze squarely. “I’m still not ready,” she said honestly. “But that doesnae mean ye cannae kiss me.”
A dark growl rumbled from his chest, his eyes narrowing. “Ye think I can stop there, lass?” he murmured, his voice a dangerous whisper. “If I kiss ye again, it’ll lead to much more. Ye’d best mind what ye ask for.”
Her breath hitched, the heat in her stomach turning to something near panic. “Declan…” she began, her voice trembling slightly.
He looked down at her, every muscle tight with control. “I’ll warn ye only once,” he said hoarsely. “Ye keep teasing me like this, and I’ll nae be able to stop. I’m nae a saint, Isabelle.”
The words broke through her daze, and she stumbled back a step, her face burning as the realization of what had just passed between them hit her. “I, I didnae mean to, ” she stammered, clutching her nightshift.
Declan ran a hand through his hair, his breath still uneven. “Aye, I ken ye didna,” he said, his tone softer now. “But ye drive a hard line, lass. Fire and stubbornness—ye’ll be the death of me yet.”
Isabelle lowered her gaze, cheeks flushed crimson. “I dinna ken what came over me,” she whispered, her voice almost lost in the quiet of the chamber.
Declan lingered a moment longer, watching her with an expression she couldn’t read.
Is it part frustration, part longing?
He moved away from her and stood by the window, fastening the belt around his waist with sharp, efficient movements.
His tone was edged with something between amusement and disbelief. “I’d thought ye’d hate the very notion of me touchin’ ye,” he muttered, casting her a sidelong glance.
Isabelle blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness. “I dinna ken what ye mean,” she said softly, her fingers nervously twisting in her lap. “Ye make it sound as though I should hate ye.”
Declan gave a low scoff, pulling on his shirt. “Aye, and ye should. I near forced ye into this marriage, lass. Ye had no choice in the matter, and I’m nae blind to it.”
She tilted her head, her expression calm though her heart thudded at his words.
“Ye might see it that way,” she said after a pause, “but I dinnae. I see it as ye takin’ me away from a place I couldnae bear another day. Castle Ross was nay home to me; it was a prison.”
His hands stilled mid-motion, his brows furrowing deeply. “A prison ?” he repeated, his tone suspicious. “And what exactly do ye mean by that, Isabelle? Were you mistreated?”
“I… I… it’s hard to explain,” she said.
“Ye’ll tell me in full tomorrow. I’ve no time for riddles now—I’m for inspection duty. But mark me, lass, I’ll want to ken precisely what ye meant when I return. There’s more to that tale, and I’ll have it from yer own lips.”
As he straightened, Isabelle found herself watching him despite her better sense.
The morning light spilled across his long, brown hair, tied neatly back, and the faint scar at his jaw caught the glow.
His shirt clung to his broad shoulders and muscular form, and for a moment, she wondered if every Highland man carried such power so effortlessly.
Her pulse fluttered as she looked away, embarrassed by the warmth rising in her cheeks.
Declan reached for the door, his hand on the latch, ready to leave. But before he could open it, Isabelle’s voice stopped him.
“Wait, Declan,” she said quickly. “Ye’ve still nae told me what’s expected of me as yer wife. Surely I should ken me duties before ye go.”
He turned, one brow arched, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering in his eyes. “Aye, that’s simple enough,” he said in his low, steady drawl. “Ye’re to raise me daughters. They need a maither figure, and ye’ll do just fine.”
Her lips parted to speak, but he had already turned back to the door. Without another word, he left the chamber, the heavy wood closing behind him with a dull thud.
Isabelle stood there, her thoughts spinning, unsure whether to be insulted or flattered. A mother figure, he’d said, as though it were naught but another task to be done. And yet, a strange, unspoken warmth filled her chest at the thought of being needed at all.
“Daughters? He has daughters?”