Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Saints help me, I’m losin’ me wits o’er that woman.”
Declan could not find peace within his own thoughts, for Isabelle lingered there, soft and defiant all at once. Every look she gave him, every word from her lips, made him feel less the warrior and more the man, and that terrified him.
He had spent years mastering control, burying every flicker of tenderness beneath duty and discipline. Yet with her, the walls he’d built began to crumble like sand under tide. The memory of her beneath his hands, her breath against his skin, haunted him even now.
He feared the darkness in himself more than any enemy blade.
He feared what might happen if passion twisted to anger, if he ever lost hold of restraint.
His father had been such a man, a brute who took what he wanted and left ruin behind.
Declan swore he’d never be the same, but the way his body and heart tangled around Isabelle made him doubt the strength of that vow.
He had meant to go to her, yet as he neared the stairwell, boots clattering quick on stone, Liam appeared breathless from the far corridor.
“Me Laird!” the man called, halting with a sharp bow. “We’ve word of the bandits that ambushed us on the road.”
Declan’s brow hardened, the tenderness in his chest shuttering behind command.
“Go on, lad. Speak.”
Liam drew in a deep breath, wiping sweat from his brow. “We tracked them west of the glen but lost the trail by the river’s edge. They’re clever bastards, coverin’ their tracks with branches an’ mud.”
“Aye. They ken the land better than they ought. Likely not mere wanderin’ thieves.” He stepped closer, his tone low but firm. “Tell Killian I’ll have him meet me in the barracks now. Choose ten men to join him. We’ll nae let these vermin strike at McCallum men an’ vanish into the woods.”
Liam straightened, nodding briskly. “Aye, me Laird . I’ll see to it straightaway.” With that, he turned and strode off.
Declan watched him go, a heaviness settling on his shoulders. The talk with Isabelle would have to wait; duty called louder than his heart.
He made his way toward the barracks. The scent of oiled leather and steel met him as he entered.
Killian was there already, sharpening his blade by the hearth, his broad shoulders glinting with sweat. When he looked up, his familiar grin faded at the Laird’s expression.
“Ye sent for me, Laird?” Killian asked, setting the blade aside.
“Aye,” Declan said, stepping nearer. “Liam tells me they lost the trail of the bandits out west.”
Killian nodded grimly. “That they did. They’re nae the usual riffraff—too organized by half I would wager.”
Declan folded his arms across his chest, the firelight catching the hard line of his jaw.
“That’s what troubles me. Bandits dinnae move with such cunning unless there’s a greater hand guidin’ them.
I want ye to take a few good men an’ ride on a scouting mission.
Search the riverbanks, the hills, every cursed cave if ye must. Find out what they’re after. ”
Killian’s brows drew together, his tone steady. “Ye think there’s more to this than thievin’, then?”
Declan nodded once. “Aye. They attacked me men as though they kenned we’d pass that road. It felt too well-timed if it be the same bandits.”
Killian rose, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. “I’ll take Gregor an’ Hamish with me. They’re sharp-eyed an’ quiet as foxes.”
Declan gave a curt nod. “Good. An’ keep yer heads low. I want answers, nae graves.”
“I’ve no plans of dyin’ yet. There’s still whisky left in the cellar,” Killian said.
Declan’s lips twitched though the humor never reached his eyes. “If ye do find yerself facin’ death, best get out of it. I’ll nae waste fine liquor on a funeral.”
Killian chuckled and gave a nod. “Aye, that’s fair enough. I’ll report when we return.”
Declan clasped his forearm in brotherly respect, his voice low. “Ride with care, Killian. There’s somethin’ foul brewin’; I can feel it in me bones.”
Killian’s smile faded, and he inclined his head. “I’ll nae fail ye.”
Declan left the barracks making his way to his study. He rolled out a map of the McCallum lands across the tabletop, its edges curled and stained from years of use.
He leaned over it, marking in careful lines where Liam had last reported the bandits’ trail, tracing the dense woods and rocky terrain west of the glen.
Then, with a steady hand, he drew another line where Killian and his men now headed, their path veering north along the river.
Every decision bore consequence, and every misstep could cost lives. While his body still ached from the wound earned in battle on his own chest, he had no time to dwell on pain when the safety of his clan hung in the balance.
He leaned back in the chair with a quiet sigh, letting his eyes trace the flicker of candlelight across the maps.
He should have gone to Isabelle by now, to speak the words he’d meant to say since dawn.
But each time he thought of her, her fiery eyes, her defiance, the softness that haunted him afterward, his resolve faltered.
Aye, he was the Laird of Castle McCallum, yet around her, he felt anything but in command.
The door burst open without warning, slamming hard enough against the wall to rattle the shelves.
Declan straightened sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt before realizing who stood before him.
Isabelle stormed into the room, her cheeks flushed, her voice trembling not with fear but with fury.
“Where’ve ye been hidin’?” she snapped, slamming the door behind her.
Declan’s brows rose, his tone cool and steady.
“I wasnae aware I’d been hidin’, wife. Ye ken where me study lies.” He leaned back slightly, watching her approach, every line of her figure tense with indignation. “Ye look ready to take me head off with that glare. What’s put ye in such a state?”
She crossed her arms, her gaze sharp enough to cut through armor.
“What’s put me in such a state is that I’ve been searchin’ this whole cursed castle for ye!
Ye were the one who asked to speak with me, yet I waited an hour then another, wanderin’ from the kitchens to the courtyard and everywhere in between like a fool! ”
Her words came out quick, filled with hurt and impatience, though her voice trembled slightly at the end.
Declan’s mouth twitched into a smirk, but his tone carried more command than warmth.
“Aye, I meant to speak with ye, but matters of the clan come first, lass. If the Laird is delayed, his wife waits. That’s the way of it.”
He turned his gaze back to the maps as though the matter were closed, the movement deliberate, meant to remind her who he was.
Her breath hitched in disbelief, and she stepped forward, the sound of her skirts brushing against the stone floor sharp in the silence.
“So that’s all ye’ve got to say? I’m just to sit quiet an’ wait like one of yer servants till ye decide I’m worth yer time?”
Declan’s eyes flicked up to her, steel meeting fire. “Dinnae twist me words, Isabelle. Ye’re no servant, but ye are the Lady of this keep, an’ with that comes understandin’ that duty sometimes keeps a man away.”
She scoffed, her tone cutting. “Aye, an’ yet duty didnae stop ye from callin’ for me in the first place. Seems to me ye’ve no problem makin’ demands when it suits ye, but when I hold ye to yer word, suddenly there’s maps an’ work to hide behind!”
Declan’s jaw tightened, and he rose slowly from his chair, his height dwarfing her. “Mind yer tongue,” he said softly though the warning in his tone was unmistakable. “Ye forget who ye speak to.”
Her chin lifted, defiant as ever. “Nay, I remember well enough. The mighty Laird McCallum, too busy for his wife after he dragged her to this island!”
The words struck him harder than he’d admit, but pride flared hotter than hurt.
“Dragged?” he repeated with a dangerous calm. “Ye’d rather I’d left ye to fend for yerself, then? Sent ye back to yer kin with tales that the Laird McCallum lacked the spine to bed the lass he took to wife ?”
Color rose to her cheeks, half from anger, half from memory. “Ye twist everything I say!” she cried, though her voice faltered under his piercing gaze. “All I ask is honesty. Ye summoned me, yet ye vanish like a shadow, leavin’ me to chase after ye!”
Declan exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. “Isabelle, ye dinnae ken the weight I carry. There are matters I cannae speak of, matters of danger. If I keep things from ye, it’s for yer protection.”
Her tone softened for but a heartbeat before flaring again. “Protection? Is that what ye call ignorance? Ye keep me on an island like a caged bird, an’ then tell me it’s for me own good!”
Declan’s eyes narrowed, his patience thinning.
“Better caged than buried,” he said harshly.
“There are things out there that’d take more than yer pride, lass, they’d take yer life.
” He regretted his words almost as soon as he said them.
He had vowed she would never feel caged again, and here he was, rationalizing why it was fine to restrict her.
He watched Isabelle look away, her lips pressed tight, hurt flickering in her gaze.
Declan felt the regret almost instantly, but pride held his tongue in check.
He wanted to reach for her, to pull her close and make her understand, but the wall between them was built too high, made of both stubborn hearts and unspoken fear.
At last, she turned to the door, her voice trembling but steady. “If ye cannae speak to me plain, Declan, then dinnae summon me at all.”
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with that stubborn spark that both amused and unsettled him.
It struck him how easily she could rattle his composure, how one glare from her could set his pulse hammering faster than a sword fight ever had.
The lass had him wrapped in knots, and he could scarcely tell whether he wanted to pull her close or send her away before he lost what little sense remained.
“Why did ye summon me, Declan? I’m here, yet ye’ve not even said why.” Her words came sharp and quick, but there was a softness beneath them that betrayed hurt more than anger.
Declan exhaled slowly, his voice low but steady.
“I wanted to speak with ye about somethin’ ye said before, back when ye told me ye never felt at home in yer faither’s keep.
I’ve been thinkin’ on that, lass. Tell me what ye meant by it.
” His gaze softened, the edge in his tone giving way to genuine curiosity.
Isabelle looked away for a long moment, her hands clasped in front of her gown as if to keep them from trembling. “There’s no grand tale to tell,” she murmured. “I never did belong there, not truly. Me faither’s love was a thing to be earned, and I never could reach it no matter how I tried.”
Declan frowned, his jaw tightening. “How could a faither nae cherish his own daughter? He must be blind as a bat if he couldnae see the worth in ye. Go on, lass. I want to hear the rest.”
She hesitated then continued, her voice a whisper tinged with bitterness.
“The only one who ever made me feel at home was me sister, Norah. She’d sit with me when Faither scolded me, tellin’ me I was good enough just as I was.
But she married and left for another clan, and after that, the walls of Castle Ross never felt like home again.
” Isabelle’s eyes glistened though she held her chin high.
“Rosaline, me cousin. She’s perfect in his eyes. Beautiful, and every word from her lips sweet as honey. It was always ‘Why cannae ye be more like Rosaline, Isabelle?’” She gave a soft, humorless laugh. “That’s why it was she they chose for ye, Declan. Not me.”
Declan’s brow furrowed deeply, his hands curling into fists.
“Rosaline is nae half the woman ye are. I dinnae give a damn. Yer faither’s a bampot for ever thinkin’ ye less than anyone.
I married a woman with fire in her blood, and I’ll nae have ye doubtin’ yer worth.
” His tone was fierce, but his gaze carried the warmth of conviction.
“Ye dinnae ken what it was like,” she said softly. “He never looked at me without seein’ what he’d lost. Me maither died bringin’ me into this world, and he’s ne’er forgiven me for it. Every word he ever spoke was a reminder that I took her place.” Her voice cracked at the end, raw and trembling.
Declan’s blood burned in his veins, fury rising sharp and hot. “By the saints,” he muttered, pacing a step before turning back to her.
“He blamed ye?” His voice thundered though it was tempered with a deep sorrow for her pain and his own, for his father had given him the same blame.
Isabelle’s eyes filled with tears, but she brushed them away quickly.
“It matters no more,” she said with forced calm. “I’m far from Castle Ross now. His words cannae touch me here.” Still, her voice wavered, betraying the ache beneath her composure.
Declan stepped closer, his expression dark with purpose. “It may nae matter to ye, lass, but it does to me.”
His voice dropped lower, dangerous in its resolve. “I’ll find a way to make that man pay for what he’s done. Mark me words, Isabelle, Laird Ross will answer for every slight he’s cast upon ye.”
Her eyes widened, alarm flickering across her features. “Declan, ye mustnae; he’s still me faither,” she said quickly, though her tone held both fear and an odd warmth at his protectiveness. “I dinnae wish for blood between clans. Let it rest.”
He shook his head, his voice a low growl. “I’ll nae spill his blood if I can help it, but I’ll nae let him think he can shame ye without consequence. A man’s pride can be broken in more ways than one. Ye’ve carried his cruelty long enough. Ye’ll carry it no more while I draw breath.”
“Ye’re a stubborn man, Declan,” she murmured with a small, weary smile. “But I thank ye all the same.” Her voice softened into something almost tender.
Declan’s mouth curved in a faint smirk, his tone lightening. “Aye, stubborn I may be, but I’ll always stand for what’s mine. And ye, Isabelle, are mine to protect, whether ye like it or nae ,” he said, the promise in his words running deep as steel.