Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Isabelle stirred beneath the soft furs, her body sinking deeper into the warmth of the bed. When she reached out her hand, she felt only the coolness of empty sheets beside her. Her lashes fluttered open, and she blinked against the dim morning light filtering through the tall, narrow window.
“Declan?” she whispered.
She sat up slowly, clutching the coverlet to her chest. The faint scent of him lingered in the air—woodsmoke, leather, and a trace of whiskey. Her heart gave a small twist as she glanced around the chamber, half expecting to see him at the washbasin or fastening his boots.
The silence pressed in, broken only by the soft hiss of the dying embers in the hearth. She sighed, wondering if she had gone too far the night before, surrendering to his touch, his voice, his fire.
Her fingers brushed over her bare shoulder as she rose from the bed, the memory of his hands upon her skin still vivid. It had not been just passion; it had been something deeper.
“He’s a complicated man,” she murmured under her breath, “and I’ve likely made things worse by lettin’ him close.”
She moved quietly about the room as she looked for her robe.
Finding it, she tied the sash around her waist and stood before the window, watching the mist roll off the loch beyond the castle walls.
Her heart tugged at the thought that perhaps Declan regretted it, that perhaps he had already thrown himself into his duties to avoid her.
“Foolish lass,” she chided softly, her lips curving into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Ye’ve gone and lost yer head over a man who doesnae trust easily.”
A knock at the door startled her from her thoughts.
“Enter,” she called, her voice composed though her heart still fluttered.
The door opened, and in came Sarah, balancing a large tray filled with the scents of a hearty morning meal.
“Good mornin’, me Lady ,” the maid greeted cheerfully, bobbing a quick curtsy as she set the tray down upon the table.
Isabelle smiled kindly, stepping toward her. “Good mornin’, Sarah. Ye’re up bright and early, I see.”
The maid’s grin widened as she lifted the linen cloth from the tray, revealing a meal fit for a laird’s household—a plate of oatcakes, smoked haddock, thick slices of bannock, fried eggs, and a small bowl of honeyed porridge. Beside it stood a steaming pot of tea and a dish of berry preserves.
“Me Laird said to bring ye a hearty breakfast,” Sarah said, her tone carrying a hint of playfulness that made Isabelle’s cheeks flush crimson. “Said ye might need it after a long sleep.”
Isabelle’s jaw dropped slightly, her eyes widening before she tried to compose herself. “Did he now?” she managed, her voice soft but edged with mortification.
Sarah nodded, arranging the dishes neatly. “Aye, me Lady . The Laird’s thoughtful that way.”
Isabelle cleared her throat, pretending great interest in the oatcakes to hide her embarrassment. “Aye, thoughtful indeed,” she murmured, her tone dry enough to make Sarah bite back a giggle. “Tell me, Sarah,” Isabelle continued after a pause, “have ye seen the Laird this morn?”
The maid folded her hands before her apron and nodded briskly. “Aye, me Lady . Last I saw him, he was in his study. But the man doesnae stay still for long, always off to some matter or another.”
Isabelle smiled faintly, picturing him hunched over his maps or pacing near the fire, issuing orders to his men. “That sounds like him,” she agreed quietly, more to herself than to Sarah.
“I’ll return in an hour to help ye dress for the day,” Sarah said, backing toward the door. “Would ye like me to prepare the green gown or the blue one, me Lady ?”
Isabelle considered for a moment then replied, “The green, I think. It’s fitting for the Highlands.”
Sarah curtsied again. “Very well, me Lady . Enjoy yer meal.”
When the door closed and the sound of footsteps faded, Isabelle sank into the chair beside the table.
The breakfast smelled divine, the steam curling upward in gentle wisps, but her appetite warred with her tangled thoughts.
She reached for a slice of bannock, spreading it with the berry preserves, and took a small bite.
The sweetness filled her mouth, but her mind wandered back to Declan, to the way he’d kissed her, and to the strength of his arms as if he feared she’d vanish.
Her cheeks warmed again as she recalled the night’s events, and she pressed a hand to her face.
“Saints preserve me,” she whispered, mortified.
“The whole castle will ken what happened.” She could already imagine the servants gossiping below stairs, the whispers carried from hall to hall.
Her heart raced at the thought though part of her, deep down, felt a flicker of pride that the Laird had claimed her so openly.
Still, uncertainty gnawed at her. What if he saw last night as a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness? She bit her lip, staring down at the half-eaten bannock.
“I dinnae ken what he truly feels,” she thought miserably, tracing a finger along the rim of her teacup. “One moment he’s cold as stone, the next he’s burnin’ like fire.”
The tea had grown lukewarm by the time she lifted it to her lips, sipping absently as her mind spun.
Outside, she could hear the faint hum of activity—the clatter of pails, the murmur of stable hands, the distant roll of waves against the rocky shore.
The world went on as if nothing had changed, yet everything within her had shifted.
She rose at last, crossing to the mirror above the dresser where her reflection met her, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes still soft from restless dreams. “Ye look a fool in love,” she told herself, shaking her head with a rueful smile.
“And he’s likely already forgotten it.” But even as she said it, her heart refused to believe the lie.
She turned back toward the bed, her hand brushing across the rumpled sheets.
“If I’m to be his wife, I’ll do it with dignity,” she whispered. “No matter what tongues wag.”
With that, she straightened her shoulders and looked toward the door, determination mingling with the blush still coloring her cheeks. She would face whatever the day brought, even the curious stares and knowing smiles, with her head held high.
But as she looked once more at the empty side of the bed, she could not shake the quiet ache within her chest, the longing for the man who had ignited both her heart and her fears in a single night, and she wished he had been beside her when she woke.
The soft knock at the door came just as Isabelle had finished her morning tea. Sarah entered, arms laden with freshly pressed garments, and gave a cheerful curtsey.
“Good meal, me Lady ? Everything to yer liking?” she asked, her smile warm.
“Aye, everything is perfect, Sarah; thank ye,” Isabelle said.
Sarah set to work preparing the layers of clothing for the day ahead.
The dressing took time as was customary in the Highlands. First came the linen shift, light and modest, then the corset to shape her waist. Sarah tightened the laces carefully, murmuring, “the cold calls for layers, but a fine day it seems. ”
Over that came the heavy woolen skirt, deep green with embroidered trim, and a bodice fastened with silver clasps that gleamed in the light.
When the plaid was pinned over her shoulder, Isabelle caught her reflection in the looking glass and paused. She looked every bit the Lady of McCallum Castle, though her heart still fluttered with doubt and unease.
Sarah adjusted her hair into neat braids and smiled proudly at her work. “There ye are, me Lady . Fit for a queen,” she said softly.
Isabelle smiled faintly though her mind lingered elsewhere. “Thank ye, Sarah. Ye’ve a fine hand with the braid.”
The maid blushed and curtsied before gathering the spare linens. When the door shut behind her, silence filled the chamber once more, save for the faint echo of her own thoughts, drawn again to Declan.
She walked through the winding halls of the castle, her soft slippers whispering over stone floors, in search of him.
Servants passed her with respectful nods, but none could tell her where the Laird had gone. Her steps led her past the great hall and the courtyard, yet Declan was nowhere to be seen.
At last, she turned toward the west wing where the chapel lay and where Mabel was often found at prayer.
The air in the small chapel was cool and still, the scent of beeswax and herbs faint in the air. Mabel knelt before the altar, her hands folded in quiet devotion.
Isabelle waited until she finished before stepping closer. “Good morn, Sister Mabel,” she said softly, dipping her head.
Mabel rose and smiled, her expression kind yet knowing. “Good morn, Lady Isabelle. Ye look troubled; has something weighed on yer mind?”
Isabelle hesitated, unsure how to speak her worries aloud. “I cannae seem to find the Laird,” she said at last. “I’d hoped to speak with him, but he’s vanished since afore I woke.”
“Aye, that sounds like me braither ,” Mabel replied with a faint laugh. “He never could stay still longer than a breath. Likely he’s about his duties.”
Isabelle smiled politely though her heart thudded with uncertainty. She wanted to ask Mabel how to reach his heart and mind and how to speak freely with a man who so easily set her soul aflame and her reason adrift.
Before Isabelle could ask more, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. The young maid who tended the upper floor appeared in the doorway, breathless from her run.
“Beg pardon, me Lady ,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsey. “The Laird has summoned ye to the bedchamber straightaway.”
At once, Isabelle felt her chest tighten. The air seemed to still around her as her heart pounded.
“Did he… say what for?” she asked, her voice barely steady.
The maid shook her head quickly. “Nay, me Lady , only that ye come at once.”
Mabel’s brow furrowed slightly, but she only nodded. “Go, Isabelle. He wouldnae summon ye lightly.”
Isabelle managed a small nod in return, her throat dry. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gathered her skirts and made her way toward the stairwell.
The walk through the corridors felt longer than before.
Every echo of her step seemed to carry her deeper into uncertainty.
Her thoughts tangled between fear and longing, between what she hoped and what she dreaded.
Declan McCallum was a man of power, one who took what he wanted without hesitation, and now, after the night they’d shared, she feared what that might mean.
Her palms were damp by the time she reached the familiar oak door. She paused before it, willing her breath to steady, her pulse to quiet. The memory of his touch lingered—his rough hands, his whispered words, and the heat that still lived beneath her skin.
She wanted him still though she scarcely understood why; the thought both thrilled and terrified her.
When she lifted her hand to open the door, her fingers trembled.
The castle seemed to hold its breath with her, as though the very walls waited to see what she would do.
Her heart warred between courage and retreat, yet she forced herself to stand tall.
Whatever awaited her beyond that door, desire or discipline, she knew she could no longer avoid it.
Isabelle stepped into the bedchamber.
“Declan. I'm glad ye...” she stopped.
The room was still and empty. The hearth had burned low, its embers faintly glowing against the stone.
She moved to the chair near the window and sat, her hands folded in her lap.
What reason has he to summon me then vanish like mist?
Time stretched thin. The hour passed, and still, there was no sound of his step nor word from a servant.
“Saints preserve me,” she muttered, “does the man summon me only to forget I exist?”
At last, her patience frayed. Rising, she strode to the door and flung it open.
A passing guard halted at once, startled by her sudden appearance.
Isabelle straightened, smoothing her gown, though her temper flared beneath her calm voice.
“Good lad, have ye seen the Laird this morn?”
The guard blinked then nodded with a polite bow.
“Aye, me Lady . Last I saw, the Laird was in the trainin’ yard, sparrin’ with his men.”
Isabelle lifted her chin. “Thank ye kindly,” she said. “I’ll see to him there.”
The guard stepped aside, and she swept down the corridor with renewed purpose.
She descended the grand stairway, her footsteps quick against the stone. She crossed the courtyard, her skirts brushing against the dusty ground. The clang of swords rang faintly in the distance, but when she reached the yard, she found only two soldiers finishing their drills.
“Where’s the Laird?” she asked, voice firm though breath quickened by her search.
One of the men lowered his blade and bowed. “He was here, me Lady , but not for long. Said he had to speak with the steward about the stores. Went toward the kitchens, he did.”
Isabelle gave a curt nod. “Thank ye.” Her tone was polite, but frustration was plain in her eyes.
By the time she reached the kitchens, the smell of roasting meat and baked bread filled the air.
Servants hurried about, busy with noon preparations, and Vera looked up from a tray of bannocks when Isabelle entered.
“Good day to ye, me Lady ! Has the Laird sent ye for somethin’?”
Isabelle shook her head, her voice measured. “Nay, Vera. I seek him. Have ye seen the man at all this morn?”
Vera frowned and wiped her hands on her apron. “Not since dawn, me Lady . He was here for a bite of bread and off again; didnae say where.”
Isabelle sighed, her shoulders sagging with exasperation. “Of course, he didnae,” she muttered. “The man runs more than the wind itself.”
She turned sharply, the servants parting to let her pass. Her pulse beat faster, not from fear but sheer vexation. He had summoned her, his words carried weight, and now, he’d vanished as though the summons meant naught.
“If he thinks to toy with me patience again,” she muttered under her breath, “he’ll learn soon enough the McCallum castle’s walls cannae hide him forever.”