Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The candles had burned low, their golden light flickering across the chamber walls as Isabelle fought sleep’s heavy hand.
She had sworn to herself she would not close her eyes until Declan returned… if he returned since he didn’t the night before.
The book in her lap had long ceased to hold her attention, her gaze blurring over the words as her head dipped. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders as the nightshift she wore was delicate and thin.
The warmth of the hearth lulled her, and she blinked wearily, on the brink of surrendering to slumber when the door creaked open.
“Who’s there?” she said, h er eyes snapping up.
Declan stepped through, broad and silent, his presence filling the room. For an instant, relief flooded her face, until the light caught the dark smears across his tunic.
Her breath hitched, her sleepy haze vanishing at once as she rose from her chair. Then she saw it was blood, streaked across his chest and hands.
“Declan!” she cried, her voice sharp and trembling. “What’s happened? Yer hurt!”
He barely looked at her, his tone rough and clipped. “It’s nothin’, Isabelle. Dinnae fash yerself.”
He moved to the whiskey and drank straight from the bottle.
“It’s nothin’? Ye’ve blood all over ye!” she snapped, hurrying to his side.
He waved her off, already unbuckling his sword belt with weary, deliberate movements.
“It’s nae me first fight, lass. I’m fine.” His tone carried that familiar edge of command, the kind that brooked no argument.
But Isabelle wasn’t one to yield easily.
“Fine?” she repeated, incredulous, as he pulled his tunic over his head. The cloth stuck slightly to the wound, and when he tugged it free, her gasp filled the room. “Saints above, Declan, that’s nae fine! Ye’ve a gash clean across yer chest!”
“It’s a scratch,” he muttered, tossing the bloodied garment aside. His jaw tightened as he reached for a cloth, refusing to meet her gaze.
“A scratch? Ye fool man, it’s bleedin’ still!” Isabelle’s heart pounded as she grabbed a clean rag from the table. “Sit down before ye fall down.”
He stiffened, his voice a low growl. “I said I dinnae need yer help.”
“Well, I’m nae askin’ ye,” she shot back, her chin lifting defiantly. “Ye’re gettin’ help whether ye like it or nae.”
Declan turned toward her then, his dark eyes flashing. “Isabelle,” he warned, his tone thick with irritation. “I’ve dealt with worse wounds than this. I’ll nae be coddled like some bairn.”
Her eyes narrowed, fire flaring in her chest. “Coddled? I’m tryin’ to stop ye bleedin’ like a stuck boar, ye stubborn brute!”
He exhaled sharply, but she was already moving. Grabbing the basin from the table, she poured water and dipped the cloth into it. Her movements were brisk, fueled by both anger and worry. He tried to step back, but she caught his wrist with surprising strength.
“Sit,” she ordered through clenched teeth.
Declan hesitated, his pride warring with exhaustion. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, glaring at the wall. “Ye’ve a sharp tongue for such a wee lass,” he muttered darkly.
“And ye’ve a thick skull for such a great warrior,” she retorted, pressing the damp cloth against his chest. He hissed softly as the water met the open cut, muscles tensing beneath her hand. “See? That hurts, so dinnae tell me it’s nothin’.”
He stayed silent, jaw set, though his breathing quickened. She worked carefully, wiping away the dried blood, revealing the long, angry slice across his skin. “What happened?” she asked quietly, her voice gentler now.
“Bandits,” he grunted. “Came at us near the ridge. We sent ’em runnin’, but one managed a lucky strike.”
“Lucky strike indeed,” she murmured, her gaze softening despite herself. “Ye could’ve been killed.”
“I’m nae that easy to kill,” he replied, his tone rough but tinged with weariness. “Ye neednae worry so much.”
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “How can I nae worry? Ye’re me husband, Declan. I ken ye think yerself made of iron, but flesh bleeds the same in every man.”
His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he looked away.
“Aye, well,” he said lowly, “ye’d best grow used to it. This is what I am. A man of battle.”
Her hand stilled, the cloth trembling slightly in her grasp. “And I’m yer wife,” she said firmly. “Which means when ye come home torn and bloodied, I’ll tend ye, whether ye like it or nae.”
Declan’s lips twitched faintly though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Ye’re as fierce as any soldier I’ve led.”
She gave a sharp sniff. “Aye, and likely twice as clever.”
For a moment, silence filled the room but for the soft crackle of the fire. Isabelle bound his wound with a strip of linen, her fingers gentle now. He watched her, expression unreadable, as if torn between pride and gratitude. When she finished, she stepped back, wiping her hands.
“There,” she said, her tone calmer. “That’ll hold till mornin’. But ye’re stayin’ abed.”
Declan gave a scoff. “I’ll not be kept down by a scratch.”
Her brow arched. “Ye will if I’ve to sit atop ye to make ye stay.”
That earned her a low, rumbling laugh, short but real, the first since he’d entered.
“Heavens, woman, ye’d make a fine commander.”
“I’d make a widow if ye dinnae listen to me,” she said softly, her tone half jest, half truth.
Something shifted in his gaze then, some of the iron melting away. He reached up, his hand brushing her wrist. “Ye’ve spirit, Isabelle,” he murmured. “More than I deserve.”
She blinked, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. “Aye,” she whispered. “But maybe that’s what ye need.”
She moved to stoke the fire, her heart still pounding from their quarrel. She looked at the empty bucket and picked it up.
“We are out of water,” she said.
“I'll go. Ye cannae wander the castle dressed in naught but yer nightshift,” he offered.
“Nay. I will; ye will rest,” she said.
Isabelle looked at the whiskey in his hand.
“If ye’re going to drink that much whiskey, then ye’ll be fed proper, mark me words. I’ll slip on me day dress.”
She turned on her heel and pulled the day dress over her head, but she didn't bother tying it tighter than needed. She covered herself with a large shawl and slid her feet into slippers. She headed toward the kitchens, the bucket heavy in her hands but her determination heavier still.
Vera, the cook, paused mid-sweep, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Isabelle entering the kitchen.
“Me Lady?” she said, curtsying low. “Ye should have called for yer maid Sarah if ye needed something.”
Isabelle shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Nay, Vera, I’m a woman that does her own work if I am able,” she said. “I’ll need fresh water for this bucket and a tray of food for me and the Laird; he’s just arrived, and he’ll need a hearty meal.”
Vera arched an eyebrow but did not protest, her hands already busy. “Of course, me Lady , but allow me to carry the tray up to ye. Ye cannae carry a bucket and the tray both, ’tis far too heavy for one.”
Isabelle nodded in acquiescence. “Very well. I thank ye,” she said, watching as the cook moved efficiently to refill the bucket with clean water. Vera poured the water with care, handing the pail back to Isabelle, and for a moment, their eyes met in mutual respect.
The walk back to the bedchamber felt longer than it should, each step weighted with anticipation.
Isabelle’s breath caught as she entered the room and saw him. Declan stood completely nude. The firelight flickered across the strong lines of his broad back, sculpted shoulders. masculine thighs, and firm buttocks.
Her eyes traced the taut muscles of his body and the curve of his spine, and she felt a heat stir in her stomach she hadn’t expected to confront so soon.
She swallowed hard, stepping lightly across the floor, unable to tear her gaze away. Every movement he made was magnetic, every subtle shift of his form sending a thrill through her.
Her fingers twitched as if she might reach out and touch him though propriety and her own self-restraint held her back. Yet the desire burned, insistent and unrelenting, making her cheeks flush with an unfamiliar heat.
Setting the bucket on the hearth arm, she positioned it carefully so the water would warm from the fire’s heat. Steam curled lazily into the air, filling the room with the scent of warmed metal and stone.
Isabelle felt her pulse quicken, acutely aware of the space between them and the strength she imagined in him just steps away. Her breath caught again, involuntarily, at the thought of how commanding and alive he seemed, his presence filling the room as though it had been made for him alone.
She straightened her shoulders, drawing a steadying breath, but her mind kept returning to him. Every line of his body seemed deliberately carved, every movement a reminder of his power and dominance.
Isabelle felt a tug at her heart, a mixture of longing and caution, knowing that the desire she felt was dangerous yet irresistible.
She reminded herself to focus on the water and the task at hand, but the thought of him lingered like a living thing in the back of her mind.
She poured a little more water into the basin to ensure it would be ready for him.
Steam rose, curling around her hands, and she felt the warmth spread through her fingers, calming some of the tension coiling in her chest. Even as she moved, she stole glimpses of Declan’s form, feeling a flutter that bordered on both fear and longing.
She could not deny the pull he had over her nor the pulse of desire that made her knees feel light and her heart race.
For a moment, she considered stepping closer, offering to wash him herself, but she hesitated.
“Here is some fresh water to wash up,” she said. Then she turned her back to him.
The distance kept between them was a line she was unsure whether she dared cross just yet. Yet even standing where she was, she felt the weight of him, the heat of his presence, and the sharp edge of longing that made her breath hitch.
Her heart pounded in her chest, a reminder that while she came to care for him as a duty, the desire that surged was wholly her own.
The room felt charged, alive with desire and unspoken tension, and Isabelle realized she was caught in it completely, unable to step away or to calm the fierce stirrings in her heart.
Isabelle shifted uneasily on the edge of the chair, her eyes darting between Declan and the flickering firelight as he stood before the wash basin.
The water ran over his hands, the blood and grime of the road and battle sliding away, yet he remained towering, commanding, every movement exuding the authority she could not ignore.
“Tell me, Isabelle,” he said, his voice low and firm, “why do ye not look at me? Ye are me wife, after all.” Her cheeks flamed, and she could barely summon a whisper, turning her gaze to the window instead.
“I… I have never seen a man… without clothing before,” she muttered, her voice almost lost in the room’s warmth.
Her hands twisted nervously in her lap as she tried to focus on the moonlight outside though her mind refused to cooperate.
Declan let out a deep, amused sigh, shaking his head but saying nothing further as he finished scrubbing the grime from his chest.
Even in the act of cleaning, the curve of his muscles and the sharp lines of his shoulders made her heart pound in a mixture of fear, awe, and desire.
Once satisfied, Declan lifted the fresh kilt from the chair, wrapping it around his waist with practiced ease, leaving his upper body bare. The absence of a tunic made him appear even more formidable, the firelight tracing every ridge and hollow of his chest and arms.
Isabelle felt herself drawn to the sight, yet she willed her gaze away, blinking rapidly as if to reset her thoughts. She could not help but notice the arrogance in his posture, the confidence that radiated from him, and it both terrified and intrigued her.
A sudden rap at the door made her jump.
“Enter,” he said.
Vera stepped in, carrying the tray with careful hands. “Me Lady,” Vera said, bowing slightly as she entered, “I brought ye this, fresh from the kitchens, as ye wished.”
Isabelle’s eyes widened at the sight: steaming bowls of stew, oatcakes stacked high, roasted small fish fresh from the loch, fresh buttered bread, and small bowls of berries, all arranged neatly. The aroma filled the room.
“Vera… thank ye,” Isabelle managed, her voice catching slightly as she looked back toward Declan, who had turned his attention back to the basin.
“Set it here, and he can eat once he is done, yes?”
Vera, sensing the tension, gave Isabelle a slight nod and stepped back toward the door.
“I’ll leave ye to it, me Lady ,” she said softly, curtsying.
Isabelle exhaled quietly, finally alone with Declan, her mind spinning with the heat of his presence and the mundane intimacy of feeding a man after battle.
She dared a glance at him, wondering if he would acknowledge her efforts in trying to serve him as his wife, or if he would scrutinize her, every glance a measure of her worth as his wife.
“Shall we dine together?” she asked, her voice coming out more a whisper than she intended.
He turned to her and moved toward the table.
“Aye,” he agreed.
He pulled out the chair for her. She sat down. He sat next to her. She began to place the items before him and pushed the tray aside.
She could feel his eyes on her, but she did not dare look at him. But when she finished moving the food about, she looked at him.
Her eyes started on his broad shoulders, but bef ore she knew it, her eyes roamed down his chest.
“Be careful lass. Ye look at me that way, I shall nae be able to control me response,” he said.
“I dinnae ken what ye mean,” she said.