Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the chamber as Isabelle and Declan prepared for bed. The room was quiet, save for the sound of fabric rustling and the distant howl of wind against the stone walls.
Isabelle washed her face and hands, attempting to keep her eyes on her nightly ritual, but she could not. Her eyes wandered to Declan, who stood near the wardrobe, his back to her as he pulled off his tunic.
The soft scrape of linen sliding over skin made her breath catch. His shoulders were broad and powerful, muscles shifting beneath tanned skin marked by faint scars, remnants of a life hard lived.
Her gaze traced the strong lines of his back, the curve of his waist, and the faint taper of muscle leading down to where his kilt hung low on his hips. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she turned slightly away though her eyes lingered still, drawn as if by instinct.
When he turned toward her, she caught sight of his chest, the bandage still there. His body was built of strength and labor—solid, sculpted, yet softened by something human and weary.
Isabelle’s pulse quickened, her eyes roving across the expanse of muscle and skin, each scar a story untold.
Declan noticed her gaze and arched a brow, half amused, half wary. “What are ye starin’ at, lass?” he asked, his tone teasing though his eyes betrayed curiosity.
“Nothin’,” she said quickly though the warmth in her cheeks betrayed her. “Only makin’ sure ye dinnae tear that wound open again.”
He chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating through the quiet room. “Ye worry too much. It’s nothin’ but a scratch.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, standing and crossing to him. “Let me be the judge of that.”
Declan raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. “Aye, fine then,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Have at it, nurse.”
She ignored his smirk and reached for the bandage, her fingers brushing against his warm skin as she began to unwind it.
The simple touch made her heart skip, and she forced herself to focus on her task.
When the last fold of linen came free, she could see the wound—clean, closed, a faint pink mark where the skin had knitted.
She dipped a clean cloth in the wash basin, wringing it out before pressing it gently against his chest. “It’s healed nicely,” she said softly. “Ye’ve been lucky this time.”
Declan looked down at her, a faint smile curving his lips. “Aye, see? Told ye it was nothin’ but a scratch. Ye worry for nothin'.”
She gave him a playful glare though her touch lingered longer than it needed to. “If I dinnae look after ye, who will?”
His eyes softened, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the rough line of his jaw and the faint glint in his gaze.
“Aye,” he said quietly, his voice deepening. “I suppose ye’re right, Isabelle.”
Her name on his lips made her pulse jump. She withdrew her hand quickly, setting the cloth aside before she could betray the tremor in her fingers.
“There,” she said briskly. “That should do. Dinnae go strainin’ it, mind ye.”
He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment and began to settle into bed.
She turned away, suddenly unsure where to put herself, before finally slipping beneath the blankets on her own side.
The warmth of the fire had filled the room, but she felt a different kind of heat—restless, persistent, alive beneath her skin.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The quiet stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of firewood and the faint rustle of linen as Declan shifted beside her.
Isabelle stared up at the low ceiling beams, her thoughts tumbling like stones in a river.
Every breath she took seemed too loud, too aware of how close he was.
She could feel him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of soap and smoke that clung to his skin.
Her heart drummed faster as her mind wandered to dangerous places.
She imagined what it would feel like to reach across that small space between them, to lay her hand against his chest and feel the strength beneath.
The thought made her stomach flutter and twist all at once.
What am I thinkin’? He’s me husband, aye, but I barely ken how to speak to him without a quarrel. And yet…
Her thoughts betrayed her, filling with flashes of his eyes, the feel of his lips when he had kissed her earlier that evening, and the sound of his laugh when it was rare and genuine.
That kiss had changed something between them, and now, she could not look at him without remembering the heat of it and the way her heart had leapt like a startled bird.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to see him in the dim glow of the hearth. Declan lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his eyes closed but his breathing too slow, too careful. He wasn’t asleep; she knew it instinctively. The line of his jaw was tense, his body still.
Her lips parted as if to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
Should I tell him? Should I tell him that I want him, that I’m ready for us to be husband and wife in truth?
The thought terrified her. She had been raised to be modest, careful, proper. But nothing about Declan or this castle felt proper. He was raw strength and quiet sorrow, a man made of contradiction, and she wanted him more fiercely than she dared admit.
Her hand shifted slightly on the blanket, her fingers brushing against the edge of his body. The faint touch sent a shiver down her spine. She withdrew quickly, afraid of what she might do if she didn’t stop herself.
He would think ye shameless. He’s still mournin’ his braither , still carryin’ that weight. Ye cannae burden him.
Yet even as she tried to reason it away, her body betrayed her, her pulse quickening with every breath he took.
Declan stirred then, rolling slightly onto his side so that he faced her. His eyes opened, dark, calm, and unreadable in the dim firelight. For a long moment, he simply looked at her, saying nothing. The silence was heavy, thick with everything neither of them dared to speak aloud.
“Ye’re nae sleepin’ either,” he said at last, his voice roughened by the late hour.
She swallowed hard, forcing a faint smile. “Too much on me mind,” she said softly.
He nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on her face. “Aye,” he murmured. “I ken the feelin’.”
Their eyes met, holding there, and Isabelle felt her heart flutter wildly. The warmth of his gaze made her want to speak, to confess everything that burned inside her, but her courage faltered.
But as Declan’s hand brushed lightly against hers beneath the covers, just a faint, fleeting touch, Isabelle realized he already knew her lustful thoughts. She blushed pink.
After a long silence, she turned toward him, her fingers brushing through the dark strands of his hair.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice low and trembling. “For bein’ silent these past days. I shouldnae have shut ye out.”
Declan opened his eyes, his gaze warm despite the shadows.
“Aye, lass,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Ye’ve every right to be angry. I ken I can be a stubborn man.
” His hand came up to trace her cheek, rough thumb grazing her soft skin.
“But I’d rather face yer words than yer silence. That near killed me.”
Her eyes softened, guilt and longing mingling in her chest.
“I was frightened,” she admitted quietly. “After we were… together that night. Ye turned so cold the next day, I thought…” She bit her lip, hesitating. “I thought ye didnae want me anymore.”
Declan’s expression changed instantly. He sat up, eyes blazing with disbelief.
“What nonsense is this?” he said, his voice husky. “I’ll never nae want ye, Isabelle. Ye drive me mad with desire every time ye walk past, every time ye breathe me name.”
His hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing her lower lip as though to prove his words.
Her breath hitched, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. The heat between them seemed to hum in the air, heavy and alive.
“Then I dinnae want to wait any longer,” she whispered. “I’m ready, Declan.”
He froze for a moment, searching her eyes. “Are ye certain, lass?” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I’d never rush ye into somethin’ ye dinnae want.”
Her hand found his, fingers twining tightly. “I’m certain,” she said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “I want this. I want ye. I want to consummate this marriage.”
“Ye’re so bonnie,” he murmured, voice husky and low. “Every time I look at ye, I cannae breathe right.”
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and lingering, and she shivered under the weight of it.
Her fingers came up to rest over his heart, feeling its strong, steady beat beneath her palm.
“I dinnae ken how ye do this to me,” she whispered. “Ye make me whole body feel alive.”
He smiled faintly, his forehead pressing to hers. “Then we’re the same, lass. Ye’ve had a spell on me since the moment ye set foot in this castle.”
He cupped her cheek, and his mouth found hers, soft and searching. The kiss deepened as she melted against him, her hands sliding up the firm plane of his shoulders.
His warmth enveloped her, his breath mingling with hers as they lingered there, lips brushing, parting, returning. Isabelle felt the world shrink to that moment, their breathing, their hearts, the closeness between them.
“Declan…” she breathed, her voice trembling.
He drew back slightly, brushing his thumb across her lower lip. “Aye, love?”
Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his. “Take me,” she said softly.
His arms circled her, pulling her against him. She felt the solid strength of him, his chest against her.
“I thought I’d forgotten how to feel,” he murmured, voice low. “But ye’ve reminded me. Every time ye smile, every time ye speak me name.”
He threw back the covers and hungrily pushed her nightshift up her body. Isabelle felt her skin come alive under his touch. She lifted her arms so that he could pull the fabric off of her completely.
He kissed her naked breasts, slowly, his lips soft and lingering against her. She responded with a sigh, her fingers threading through his hair.
Their movements were unhurried, filled with the ache of connection long denied. Her hands slipped to his shoulders, down the curve of his back, feeling the solid warmth beneath the linen.
His lips brushed her neck, the line of her collarbone, kissing her all over before coming to rest at her waist. His hand moved between her thighs allowing his thumb to press against her rosebud.
She released a gasp.
Each touch sent ripples through her, each breath he took matched her own. “Ye tremble,” he whispered.
“Aye,” she breathed. “Because of ye.”
He smiled against her skin. “I’ll be gentle, lass.”
“I dinnae want ye to be gentle,” she whispered, her voice full of yearning. “I just want ye.”
Her words seemed to undo him. He kissed her again, a kiss that spoke of every emotion he’d buried, hunger, fear, tenderness. With that he placed his body between her thighs.
She felt the plunge of his hard manhood entering her. Her hands grabbed at his back. He moved, sliding inside of her with a groan.
Isabelle clung to him, her arms winding around his neck. Their bodies moved together as if drawn by some silent rhythm, not of passion alone but of belonging.
“Ye’re mine, Isabelle,” he whispered against her lips, his breath ragged.
“Aye,” she murmured. “And ye’re mine, Declan.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, and for a long moment, they simply moved together. She wiggled under him as his throbbing flesh explored her. She opened her thighs wider, allowing him to slide in deeper.
“Oh, ye feel like heaven, lass,” he murmured.
The fire crackled in the hearth, the soft wind outside brushing against the stone walls. Isabelle felt as though the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them, two hearts beating in unison.
Her hand lifted to his face, tracing the line of his jaw.
He caught her fingers and kissed each one softly. “Ye dinnae ken what ye do to me,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“I think I do,” she said, smiling faintly. “For I feel the same.”
The warmth of his body seeped into hers, and she felt utterly safe for the first time in years. Every wall she had built, every wound she carried, seemed to fade beneath his touch. The weight of his strength pressed her into the mattress.
He placed his hand around her thigh and pulled it up her body. “Ye’re me peace, Isabelle,” he said softly. “And me storm.”
Her heart ached at the tenderness in his words. “Then may ye never wish for calm,” she whispered, and leaned up to kiss him again.
Their lips met once more, slow, deep, and full of promise.
His hands slid over her—her shoulders, the curve of her arm—grounding her in the moment.
She breathed in his scent, her body trembling beneath his touch, and she knew there was no turning back.
She felt the familiar pulse growing in her belly.
“I feel it once more. ’Tis happening...” she whispered.
“Good, let me pleasure ye,” he groaned.
She threw her head back as the tremor tore through her. Everything shuddered as she moaned loudly in release.
Declan moved his hips faster, pounding against her skin. As though her moans brought him to the brink, he released with a loud echoing groan.
She felt the flood of his juices inside of her. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, both breathless.
Isabelle smiled softly, her fingers tracing idle circles on his chest.
“Ye ken,” she whispered, “I never thought I’d find home in another person.”
He looked down at her, his eyes dark and tender. “Then I’ll spend the rest of me life provin’ that ye have.”
He drew her close again, and they lay tangled together beneath the warmth of the furs, hearts steady and slow.
Outside, the wind swept over the loch, carrying with it the faint promise of snow. Isabelle was deep in blissful thought.
I am a true wife at last.