Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Days had crawled by since Isabelle had truly spoken to Declan, and she had reached her limit. Declan’s distant glances and cold silence gnawed at her patience until she could bear it no longer.
She stormed through the corridors, ignoring the startled glances of passing servants. When she reached the heavy oak door of his study, she didn’t bother to knock. She shoved it open with enough force that it struck the wall.
Declan stood behind his desk, bent over a spread of maps, his head snapping up at the intrusion. His dark eyes flashed with surprise then hardened like tempered steel.
“Isabelle,” he said slowly, his voice deep and edged, “ye shouldnae be burstin’ into rooms unannounced.
She crossed the threshold with her chin high, fury giving her courage.
“I dinnae care,” she shot back, closing the door behind her with a sharp thud. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense, Declan.”
His brow furrowed though she saw the faint twitch of his jaw that betrayed unease.
“Ye’ve been skulkin’ about like a ghost, sleepin’ in that cold stone room as though I’ve the plague. I want ye back in our chamber, tonight.”
The words hung in the air between them, bold and unyielding.
Declan straightened, his hands braced on the edge of the table.
“It’s for yer safety,” he said firmly.
Isabelle let out a scoff, stepping closer until the firelight glinted in her eyes.
“Safety? I’m safer with ye in me bed than anywhere else. Dinnae stand there tellin’ me ye’re protectin’ me while ye hide away like some sulking bairn.”
He glared at her then, the tension snapping taut. “Ye dinnae ken what ye speak of,” he growled. “I’m nae hidin’. I’m sparin’ ye from what I am.”
Isabelle tilted her head, lips curving with defiance. “Och aye, and what is it ye think ye are, then? A bampot? A laird too proud to share a room with his own wife?”
Her tone dripped with sarcasm, and he let out a sharp exhale, nostrils flaring.
“I’m a man ye shouldnae want near ye,” he bit out. “A man with blood on his hands and ghosts that dae nae rest.” His voice was low, dangerous, the words cracking with something deeper than anger. “Ye’d do well to keep yer distance, Isabelle. I cannae give ye what ye want. I am a monster.”
She took another step closer, refusing to be cowed.
“I dinnae see a monster, Declan,” she said softly though her chin remained high. “I see a man who loves his bairns. A man who keeps his people safe. If ye were half the monster ye claim, I’d ken it by now.”
“Ye ken nothin’ about me,” he said roughly, his back still to her. “Ye’ve seen only what I’ve let ye see.”
Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. “Then show me more,” she challenged. “Show me the man ye truly are instead of hidin’ behind this cold mask.” Her voice trembled with both anger and longing, her heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Declan turned then, his expression shadowed and fierce. “Dinnae tempt me, lass,” he warned, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the room. “Ye’ve nay idea the fire ye’re stokin’.”
Isabelle met his gaze, unflinching. “Maybe I do,” she whispered. “And maybe I dae nae care.”
He moved toward her then, each step deliberate, until the distance between them vanished. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension so thick it was almost unbearable.
“Ye should,” he said, his voice roughened, almost pained. “Because once I start, I cannae promise I’ll stop.”
Her breath caught, but her chin tilted up, defiant to the last.
“I’m nae afraid of ye, Declan,” she murmured. “Ye can keep sayin’ ye’re a beast, but I ken better. A beast wouldnae kneel before his daughters, mend their ribbons, or teach them to laugh again.”
He turned away again, pacing toward the fire, his voice harsh with conflict.
“Ye make me weak, Isabelle,” he said, half to himself. “And weakness gets folk killed.”
Isabelle shook her head, stepping after him, her hand brushing his sleeve.
“Weakness?” she echoed. “Nay, it’s love that keeps ye strong. It’s what makes ye fight for them, for me.” Her voice broke on the last word, but she didn’t back away.
Declan froze at her touch, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he looked down at where her fingers rested against his arm. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
“If ye stay close to me, ye’ll regret it.”
Isabelle’s grip tightened. “Then I’ll regret it beside ye,” she said fiercely. “Because I’m done waitin’ for ye to see what’s plain to everyone else—that ye’re nae the monster ye think ye are.”
He turned toward her, his eyes dark with battle between desire, fear, and something rawer still.
“Go back to the chambers, Isabelle,” he said hoarsely. “Before I forget what’s wise.”
She saw it then. N o matter what she said, no matter how she reached for him, he had built walls so high even she couldn't climb them. Her chest ached as she exhaled sharply, anger and heartbreak warring inside her.
“Fine then,” she said, her voice trembling though she forced it to sound strong. “Stay with yer maps and yer cold bed, me Laird . I’ll nae waste another breath tryin’ to warm the heart of a man who insists on livin’ like an ice block.”
Declan’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Isabelle felt tears sting her eyes, and before he could see them, she spun on her heel and stormed toward the door.
The heavy oak slammed behind her, echoing down the corridor.
“Stubborn fool… thinks he’s protectin’ me when all he’s doin’ is breakin’ me heart.”
Her boots clicked against the stone floor as her frustration bubbled over, and she nearly didn’t see the figure rounding the corner until it was too late.
She collided hard into Mabel, nearly sending both of them sprawling.
“Och!” Mabel exclaimed, steadying herself with a hand to Isabelle’s arm. “Isabelle, dear, what on earth? Ye look ready to throttle someone!”
Isabelle drew a deep breath, forcing composure though her cheeks were flushed.
“Forgive me, Mabel,” she said quickly. “It’s yer stubborn braither . He’s enough to make a saint lose her patience.”
Mabel’s eyes softened, and she tilted her head knowingly. “Ah, Declan again, is it?” she said, half in sigh, half in sympathy.
Isabelle huffed, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Aye. I cannae get through to him, Mabel. He’s colder than the stones in that cursed hearth room he sleeps in.”
Mabel gave her a gentle look, but before she could reply, Isabelle lifted her chin.
“I need air before I do or say somethin’ I’ll regret.” With that, she offered a brief, apologetic smile and swept past her.
As Isabelle’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Mabel called softly after her, “Go easy on him, lass. He carries more weight than he lets on.”
Isabelle didn’t respond. She couldn’t, not when her emotions were tied in knots. Her throat was tight, her heart bruised. She hurried up the stairs toward her chamber, each step echoing like the pounding of her pulse.
When she entered, the room felt too quiet, too empty. The fire had burned low, the chill of the stones creeping into the air. Isabelle crossed to the chair near the hearth, gripping its carved back as she tried to steady herself.
“Foolish man,” she whispered under her breath. “I offer him love, and he offers me distance.”
She turned toward the wardrobe, pulling out her cloak with trembling hands. The wool was soft against her fingers, the familiar weight grounding her.
“A walk,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll take a walk and clear me head before I lose what’s left of me sense.” She fastened the clasp and drew the hood up over her hair, casting a last glance around the room.
As she approached the window, she paused. Her gaze drifted to the far bank, and there it was again. That fishing boat. The same one she’d seen days before.
It sat low on the water, unmoving, the faint shape of a figure inside it. Isabelle frowned, pressing a hand to the glass.
“Strange,” she murmured.
She squinted, trying to make out more through the haze, but the mist thickened, swallowing the shape whole.
“Perhaps ’tis just a fisherman,” she told herself softly, though her voice wavered.
With a quiet sigh, she turned away from the window. But as she stepped into the corridor once more, the image of that shadowed boat lingered in her mind, dark and still, waiting on the far side of the loch like a secret yet to be told.
She swept into the kitchens with her cloak still half-drawn, her boots clapping against the flagstones. The warmth of the hearth and the scent of roasted meats hit her all at once, but it did little to soften her mood.
Vera, the stout cook with rosy cheeks and flour dusted on her apron, looked up from kneading dough and immediately knew something was amiss.
“Och, lass,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “ye’ve got the look of a storm brewin’. What’s wrong this time?”
Isabelle let out a sharp sigh, tugging off her gloves and tossing them onto the counter.
“It’s yer Laird again,” she muttered, bitterness curling her tone. “The man could freeze the blood in me veins with a single glare.”
Vera raised her brows, lips twitching in sympathy. “Aye, well, the menfolk are thick-headed creatures by nature. How can I help ye then, Lady McCallum?”
“I need somethin’ to warm me bones,” Isabelle said. “I’m takin’ a walk by the loch to clear me head.”
Vera’s eyes flicked to the window where snow still drifted lightly through the courtyard. “A walk, is it? In this chill?” she asked, half amused.
Isabelle nodded firmly. “Aye. The cold’s kinder company than a man who willnae speak a word of sense.”
Vera chuckled softly, turning toward the large kettle by the hearth.
“Then a cup of tea should do the trick,” she said, reaching for a mug.
Isabelle shook her head, her tone flat but weary. “I think I need somethin’ stronger.”
The cook paused, then gave a knowing look before opening a small cupboard above the shelves.
“Ah,” Vera said, retrieving a squat brown flask and pulling the cork free.
“This here will do the trick. Good Highland whiskey, smooth as honey and twice as strong. I’ll fill ye a bit, just enough to chase the frost away.”
Isabelle watched as the amber liquid poured into the flask, steam from the nearby hearth curling in the air between them.
When Vera handed it over, Isabelle accepted it with both hands, a small, grateful smile softening her expression.
“Ye’ve saved me, Vera,” she said quietly. “I’ll bring the flask back once I’ve finished cursing yer Laird’s name into the wind.”
The cook laughed, shaking her head. “Ye do that, lass. And if the wind answers back, tell it I’ve no patience for men who drive their wives to the drink.”
Isabelle’s laughter was short but genuine, and it eased some of the tightness in her chest.
Tucking the flask into her cloak pocket, she turned toward the door. “Thank ye, Vera. Truly.”
“Aye, go on then,” Vera said, waving her off. “Take care near the loch, Lady McCallum. There’s a bite in that wind that’ll steal the warmth right from ye.”
Isabelle nodded once before pushing open the heavy kitchen door and stepping into the courtyard.
The cold struck her instantly, the crisp air filling her lungs.
Snow crunched under her boots as she crossed the courtyard, the castle’s stone walls looming gray against the white sky.
The world felt hushed, as though holding its breath.
The only sounds were the wild wind and the distant creak of the gates as she passed through them.
Once outside the walls, Isabelle drew her cloak tighter around herself and began the descent toward the loch.
Her breath fogged before her face, and the flask knocked gently against her hip with each step.
The water stretched before her like a sheet of silver, frozen at its edges but rippling faintly near the center.
And there, just as before, sat the fishing boat.
Her heart skipped. It was still there. The same dark shape, resting low on the water, its outline half-swallowed by mist. Isabelle narrowed her eyes, trying to make out if someone was inside.
Her fingers brushed against the flask at her side, and she took a long breath to steady herself before stepping closer to the shore.