Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Och, that Laird, he’ll drive a soul mad with his pride,” she hissed, tugging her cloak tighter against the biting wind.
Isabelle trudged along the blustery shore, muttering under her breath about her stubborn husband.
Her eyes caught sight of the small fishing rowboat she had seen days before, pulled up on the sand. There was nothing unusual about it as boats bobbed up and down on the loch most days.
As she approached, two figures emerged from the boat, their movements deliberate and eerily precise.
“Good day to ye,” Isabelle called cautiously, her voice carrying over the gusting wind.
The men stopped and bowed low, almost in unison, their eyes never leaving hers.
“Lady McCallum,” one said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge she could not place, sending a shiver down her spine.
“Do ye hail from a nearby village?” Isabelle asked, forcing a friendly tone despite the unease curling in her stomach.
The men exchanged a brief glance then nodded, stepping closer, their presence oddly commanding.
“Aye, we’re from the village east of here,” the taller one replied, his eyes scanning her as if measuring her, every movement controlled and unnervingly precise. “We’re stockin’ up fish for the winter.”
Isabelle’s heart quickened as she saw the scars on their faces and realized these were no ordinary fishermen; there was a hardness in them, a sense of purpose that made her chest tighten.
She took an instinctive step back, her hand gripping the edge of her cloak.
“Ye seem far from the castle walls, walking alone in this wind,” the second man said, his voice low, almost menacing.
Isabelle swallowed, trying to keep her composure, but a knot of dread tightened in her stomach.
“I… I’m merely out for a walk, but I am nae alone.
There’s a guard with me; he merely stopped for a moment by a tree,” she lied, forcing a calm she did not feel, her eyes darting between the two as they closed the distance slowly.
The men’s gaze never wavered, and Isabelle felt a cold trickle of fear run down her spine. Something about the way they moved, silent, purposeful, unnervingly close, made her pause and reassess her position.
She could feel the wind tug at her cloak, and the snow beneath her boots seemed suddenly unstable, as if warning her to retreat. Her instincts screamed that these men were more dangerous than they appeared.
“Ye are far from any protection, Lady McCallum,” the taller man murmured, tilting his head slightly as if studying her.
Isabelle’s pulse raced, but she held her ground, refusing to appear weak despite the dread curling in her chest.
“I… I am not,” she said, masking the tension she felt though her voice trembled slightly.
The men moved closer, silent except for the soft crunch of their boots on the snow, and Isabelle’s eyes widened as the realization struck her. They were not here merely to fish.
Isabelle’s heart hammered as the men closed in, their steps measured and unyielding.
“I… I must be returning to the castle,” she stammered, her voice tight with fear.
The taller man tilted his head, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. “Nay, ye won’t be goin’ back, Lady McCallum,” he said. “Ye’ll be coming with us.”
Panic surged through her veins as she took a hurried step back, scanning the shore for a way to escape.
“I dinnae ken what ye want with me! Let me be!” she shouted, but the wind tore her words away, scattering them across the icy loch.
The second man’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm with iron strength. Isabelle twisted and kicked, feeling her boots slip on the frozen snow as fear clawed at her chest.
She tried to pull free, her heart screaming in terror, but the men’s grip was unyielding.
“Let me go! Someone, anyone!” she yelled, her voice swallowed by the gusting wind.
The icy ground betrayed her, and she slid helplessly on the snow, unable to find traction. One of the men caught her by the waist as the other seized her arms, holding her fast.
Her limbs flailed, every ounce of her strength fighting against them, but it was hopeless. The wind tore at her hair and tore across her face, masking her screams from anyone who might have heard.
“Ye are coming with us whether ye like it or nae!” the taller man hissed, his grip like iron.
Isabelle gasped, her chest heaving, but she was already losing the battle as they forced her toward the rowboat.
Before she could resist further, they hoisted her into the small vessel, her cloak snagging on the edge as she struggled. She thrashed and kicked, but the two men were too strong, holding her down and pinning her to the bottom.
The oars dipped into the icy water, and the boat was shoved off the shore, sliding over the snow-matted sand.
Isabelle’s heart pounded violently, her wide eyes darting between the men, realizing with horror that escape was impossible now.
The wind whipped across her face, stinging her skin, and the boat rocked on the cold, dark waters. She clawed at the sides, holding on.
The boat pitched violently on the icy water, each wave lashing against its sides with a bitter hiss. Isabelle clutched the edge, knuckles white, her cloak whipping around her in the blustery wind.
“Let me go!” she demanded, her voice trembling despite her courage.
The taller man’s eyes glinted as he leaned close, his grip firm on her arm. “Ye scream, and ye’ll find yerself in the loch afore ye ken it,” he warned, his tone flat and chilling.
Isabelle swallowed, nodding in grim agreement, her throat tight with fear.
The vessel rocked again, throwing her off balance as the wind tore at her hair. Small shards of ice floated past, shimmering in the dull light, a stark reminder of the water’s deadly chill.
The men’s hands remained relentless, holding her steady, yet the constant sway of the boat made every motion a struggle. She pressed herself against the hull, heart hammering, feeling utterly powerless as the loch stretched endlessly before her.
A shiver ran through her as she realized just how unprepared she was for this. She didn’t know how to swim, and the icy waves promised a swift and cruel end if she fell.
The wind cut through her cloak, chilling her bones, and she could feel the water’s frigid mist. Isabelle’s mind spun, picturing the castle, the stone hearth, and the faces of the triplets she loved so dearly.
Tears threatened to spill as the reality struck her.
I may never see Declan or the children again.
Her chest ached with the thought, a raw, suffocating grief she had never known. The boat swayed on the waves, rocking them side to side, the sound of the oars slicing through the icy water like knives.
Each moment seemed to stretch into eternity, and Isabelle hugged herself, trying to ward off the panic that clawed at her chest.
She stared back at the distant castle, its spires blurred by the snow and wind, feeling her heart fracture with longing. Her mind raced, trying to find some plan, some escape, yet every thought ended in helplessness.
The boat rocked again, throwing her against the side, and she closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, wishing desperately for a miracle.
The men muttered to each other, their conversation a low, grating murmur lost to the howl of the wind.
Her heart ached with fear and longing, and the thought of Declan and the triplets burned in her chest, making her shiver beyond the cold.
The wind screamed through the trees, carrying with it the sting of snowflakes as the boat ground against the opposite shore. Isabelle was yanked roughly to her feet, her boots sinking into the icy mud, and the two fishermen flanked her.
“Ye’re comin’ with us, Lady McCallum,” one growled, gripping her arm like iron.
“I want no trouble,” Isabelle said, her teeth chattering,
This isn’t how I wish to leave me home or me husband.
Her heart clenched at the thought of Declan, imagining her last words with him filled with anger instead of love.
“If I never see him again… I will regret every harsh word,” she whispered, voice lost to the gale.
The men ignored her murmuring, dragging her toward the dark line of trees at the edge of the shore.
Suddenly, Isabelle’s fear ignited into action, and she twisted from their grasp, breaking into a run along the snow-covered bank.
“Stop her!” one barked, and the other lunged, boots cutting into the frozen ground.
Her eyes scanned frantically for the castle watch high on the walls or any sign of help, but the misty air swallowed everything in a blur of white.
A misstep sent her sprawling, sliding and rolling toward the icy edge of the loch, terror clawing at her chest.
A hand caught her just as she teetered at the brink, pulling her backward onto solid ground.
Isabelle gasped, heart hammering, and scrambled to her feet, snow clinging to her cloak and hair.
“Ye think ye can escape us?” one growled, breath misting in the cold air, but she refused to stop.
Her resolve hardened, she would not be taken without a fight, not without a chance to see Declan and the children again.
She flailed her arms as they dragged her up the slippery shore into the shadowed trees, boots crunching over ice-crusted roots and branches.
Isabelle’s breath came in ragged gasps, and the cold bit through her gloves and cloak, but her spirit flared with defiance. The wind howled like a chorus of spirits, whipping the branches above her into a frenzied dance.
And then, barely more than a whisper, she swore she heard it—her name carried on the wind, rough and familiar, curling around her like a balm.
She froze, heart leaping, scanning toward the opposite shore, trying to believe that it could be real.
“Help!” she called into the gale, her voice trembling with hope and fear.
The fishermen cursed, tugging at her arms, but she stood firm, listening for any hint of that voice again. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the wind pausing for a heartbeat as if acknowledging her plea.
Isabelle’s mind raced, torn between panic and hope, each step forward heavy with uncertainty. Her thoughts leapt to the castle, to Declan, to the triplets, and the life she might never see again.
She gritted her teeth, refusing to surrender to despair, refusing to let herself be swallowed by fear. Even as the men dragged her deeper into the shadowed trees, she felt a spark of something larger, a sense that she was not alone.
The snow crunched beneath her boots as they pressed on, yet the memory of the whisper of her name clung to her, warm and insistent. It gave her courage to struggle harder—to kick, twist, and claw for freedom.
“Ye’ll not take me quietly!” she shouted, her voice sharper than the wind around them.
Even as the fishermen pulled her along, Isabelle’s heart refused to yield to despair. She imagined Declan’s strong hands, the warmth of the hearth, and the laughter of the triplets.
She clung to those images, each step through the snow and trees fueling her determination to survive. Somewhere in that cold, wind-lashed forest, she swore she would not let them win, and if fate was kind, she would find a way back to them all.