Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The morning broke gray and cold over the castle grounds, the kind of Highland dawn that clung to the bones of winter.
Declan strode through the corridor, his boots striking sharp against the flagstones, jaw tight and shoulders set. Servants darted out of his path like startled birds, sensing the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“Sarah.” He reached the landing, spotting Sarah, the young maid with the flaxen hair, and called out her name.
She nearly dropped the linens she carried as she turned. “Aye, me Laird ?”
“Get the Stone Hearth chamber ready,” he ordered, his tone brisk, leaving no room for question. “I’ll be takin’ it as me own from this day forth. Fresh sheets, a fire stoked high. Make it ready before the hour is up.”
Sarah blinked, the surprise flashing in her eyes quickly masked by obedience.
“Aye, me Laird ,” she said, curtsying low before scurrying off down the hall.
Declan watched her go, his throat tight with the decision he’d just made. The Stone Hearth room, named for its great curved fireplace, was on the far side of the keep, away from the chambers he shared with Isabelle.
It would be quiet there. Cold. Empty. Just as he needed it. He couldn’t keep sleeping beside her, couldn’t bear the heat of her body inches from his, the softness of her voice in the dark. Every night spent in that bed was a battle against himself, and sooner or later, he’d lose.
Better distance than danger. Better silence than regret.
That was what he told himself as he pushed down the ache forming in his chest. He would keep her safe, even if it meant breaking her heart.
By midmorning, Declan was already in a foul mood. He stalked across the bailey, his cloak snapping in the brisk wind, his men scattering before him.
“Where’s the tower guard?” he barked. “If I find one more man asleep on watch, I’ll have his hide nailed to the gates.”
The young sentry stammered an apology, but Declan waved him off with a glare sharp enough to cut through steel.
He moved on to the pens where the sheep herder, old Fergus, was counting the morning flock.
“What’s this?” Declan growled, pointing toward the fence. “That gate’s loose again. I told ye last week to make sure it is mended proper.”
Fergus bobbed his head nervously. “Aye, me Laird , I’ll see to it right away.”
“See that ye do,” Declan snapped. “I’ll nay have another beast lost to the loch because ye cannae hammer a nail straight.”
He turned on his heel and strode off before the man could answer, his frustration echoing in the tense silence he left behind.
The castle itself seemed to shrink beneath his temper. Hall boys ducked into side corridors. Stable hands pretended to busy themselves with nonexistent tasks. Every clatter of his boots sent ripples of unease through the air, and somewhere in his mind, Declan hated himself for it.
He’d become his father that morning—cold, sharp-tongued, quick to anger—but the thought only hardened him further.
When he reached the kitchens, the scent of baking bread and roasted meat did little to soften his mood.
Vera, the castle cook, was bustling about with her apron dusted in flour, stirring a pot over the hearth. She froze when she saw him fill the doorway, his presence dark and towering.
“Vera,” Declan said curtly, his voice echoing against the stone walls. “When supper’s ready, ye’ll take mine to the Stone Hearth room. I’ll be dining there from now on.”
Vera hesitated, her plump hands twisting in her apron. “Of course, me Laird ,” she stammered. “Will, will Lady McCallum be joinin’ ye?”
He stiffened. “Nay. She’ll take her supper with me sister Mabel in the solar. Make sure of it.”
The woman’s eyes widened, but she bowed her head quickly. “Aye, me Laird . I’ll see to it.”
“Good,” he muttered, his tone clipped. “And make sure the fire’s strong in that room. I’ll nae have the cold creep in.”
“Yes, me Laird .” Vera turned at once to scullery maids, her voice trembling slightly as she began barking orders of her own.
“Get ye to the solar and prepare the room for the ladies to dine,” Vera said.
Declan stood there a moment longer, watching her shuffle about in flustered haste, before turning to leave. The heavy door swung shut behind him with a dull thud that echoed down the corridor.
He paused just outside the kitchen, the sound of his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears.
“A fool, that’s what I am.”
The anger that had carried him through the morning was beginning to fade, leaving behind a hollow ache that no amount of command or noise could fill.
He could still see Isabelle’s face in his mind, the softness in her eyes when she looked at him, the way her lips had parted when she whispered his name. The memory burned like the touch of fire.
She had trusted him, allowed him to make love to her, reached for him with no understanding of the war he fought within himself.
And what have I done? I’ve retreated to the farthest corner of me castle, like a coward hiding from the very thing I desire most. I am nae worthy of her or our heir.
Declan straightened, forcing the emotion from his expression before anyone saw. He was Laird after all. The clan depended on him for strength, not weakness. But somewhere up there, Isabelle had been waiting for him, only for him to not warm her bed the previous night and now another.
When the sun dipped behind the western ridge, Declan went to retire in the Stone Hearth room. It was comfortable, welcoming even, yet when he stepped inside, the room felt like exile.
He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it onto the chair, standing before the fire with his hands clasped behind his back.
“This is for her own good,” he groaned.
But in truth, it was his own fear that drove him here—fear of breaking what was pure, fear of becoming the man he despised.
Declan let out a weary sigh and lowered himself into the chair by the hearth with a glass of whiskey.
The heavy door burst open with a slam that rattled the hinges. Isabelle stormed in, her cheeks flushed, her eyes blazing with fury.
“Declan Cain!” she cried, her voice sharp as a whip. “What is the meanin’ of this? Why are ye nae sleepin’ in our chamber?”
Declan straightened, his hand tightening around a glass of whiskey.
“Isabelle,” he said slowly, his tone warning, “this is nae a matter for ye to shout about. I told the maid to ready this room, aye, but it’s for me own peace of mind.”
“Peace of mind?” she repeated, incredulous. “Ye think leavin’ me alone in our bed will give ye peace? Ye used me to warm yer bed for one night, and now, ye wish to forget I exist!”
Her words struck him like a blade, but he kept his face hard.
“Ye’ve it all wrong, lass,” he said gruffly. “There’s nae insult meant. Many a man and wife sleep apart. I’ve work that keeps me late into the night. I cannae be wakin’ ye each time I rise.”
She took a step closer, her fists clenched at her sides. “Do ye take me for a fool? I ken well enough what this is! Ye’ve changed yer mind about me, Declan. Ye willnae even look me in the eye. What have I done to drive ye from me?”
Declan rose to his feet, his towering presence filling the room. “Ye’ve done nothin’ wrong,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I’ll nae have this conversation like a pair of quarrelsome bairns. Go back to our chamber, Isabelle. I’ll join ye when I see fit.”
Her eyes glistened, her voice breaking as she said, “Ye willnae join me. Ye’ve nae the heart for it. Ye’d rather sleep in this cold room than beside yer wife!”
“That’s enough!” Declan’s voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls. “Ye’ll nae question me decisions. I am Laird of this castle, and if I choose to sleep here, then here I’ll stay.”
Her breath hitched, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Laird or no Laird, ye’re still me husband,” she said, her tone trembling. “And I’m yer wife, one who deserves to ken why ye’re shuttin’ me out… again!”
Declan turned away, staring into the flames. His throat tightened with words he couldn’t say.
Because I’m afraid, lass. Afraid I’ll bring ye pain, the same as me faither brought to me.
But aloud he only muttered, “Ye wouldnae understand, Isabelle. It’s better this way.”
“Better?” she repeated, disbelief lacing her tone. “Better for whom, Declan? For ye? Because ye cannae bear to face me after what happened between us?”
He slammed the glass down on the table, the sound sharp and final. “That’s enough, Isabelle! Ye’re twistin’ this into somethin’ it’s nae! I’ve duties that weigh heavy on me shoulders. I cannae have distractions.”
“Distractions?” she gasped, her voice cracking. “Is that what I am to ye? A burden? A nuisance to yer grand Laird duties?”
His jaw clenched, and his voice turned hard as iron. “Ye’re puttin’ words in me mouth. Ye ken naught of the responsibilities I bear. If ye cannae stomach me choices, then perhaps ye’d best stay out of me way.”
Isabelle’s hands trembled, her breath ragged as she took a shaky step back. “Ye can be a cruel man, Declan,” she whispered. “Cruel and cold. I thought there was kindness in ye. I saw it when ye smiled, when ye spoke to the children. I saw it when ye bedded me. But I see now, it was only a dream.”
Declan’s heart wrenched, but he steeled himself.
“Go,” he said, his tone low and commanding. “Before I say somethin’ I’ll regret.”
“Ye already have,” she whispered hoarsely. Her tears shimmered in the firelight as she turned toward the door.
He felt his chest tighten as she reached for the handle, but he forced the words out anyway.
“Leave me be, Isabelle. I’ll nae be hounded in me own house.”
She spun around, eyes blazing once more. “Then may yer ‘peace’ keep ye warm, me Laird ,” she snapped, “for it’ll be colder than this cursed stone room ye hide in.”
Declan took a step forward, fury and regret battling in his gaze. “Ye’ll mind yer tongue, woman.”
“Or what?” she cried, her voice cracking. “Ye’ll command me like the rest of yer servants? Ye’ll chase me from every room until I’m naught but a ghost in yer castle? Ye’ve made yer wish clear, me Laird .”
She turned and fled from the room, her skirts swishing against the floor, the sound fading into the echoing corridor. The heavy door slammed behind her with a force that made the walls tremble.
Declan stood frozen. His breath came harsh and shallow, his fists clenched at his sides.
The echo of her words, cruel and cold, rang in his ears like a curse. He sank back into the chair, the weight of his own choices pressing down on him like a mountain.
“Damn it, Isabelle,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough. “Why must ye make me feel so damned alive?”
And though he told himself it was for the best, the truth gnawed at him; he had never felt lonelier in his life.