Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Isabelle!” he bellowed, his voice raw with panic.
Declan’s heart thundered in his chest as his eyes locked on the sight across the loch—two figures dragging a woman through the snow. Even in the dim light, he knew that silhouette, that tumble of hair whipping in the wind.
Without a thought, he sprinted to the nearest rowboat, the cold biting through his boots as fury surged through his veins.
The oars slammed into the icy water, each pull fueled by rage and fear.
“By God, if they’ve laid a hand on ye…” he muttered through gritted teeth, the muscles in his arms straining as the boat cut through the churning loch.
The wind roared, spitting flakes of snow into his face, but he didn’t slow. His jaw tightened with every stroke; no man would take what was his and live to boast of it.
“Isabelle!” he shouted again, his voice carrying across the water.
The echo of her name vanished into the wind and mist, and his gut twisted with dread.
The loch tossed the boat from side to side, but he rowed harder, uncaring of the danger, his breath steaming in the frozen air.
I willnae lose her, nae to fate, nae to other men. I will kill them.
At last, the boat scraped against the opposite shore, the sound sharp against the howl of the wind.
Declan leapt out, boots sinking into the slush, and caught sight of the fishermen’s abandoned craft.
“Cowards,” he growled, unsheathing his sword in one swift motion.
His eyes burned with purpose as he charged into the tree line, following the tracks through the snow.
Branches whipped at his face as he ran, his breath coming in sharp bursts. The storm muffled every sound, turning the forest into a blur of white and shadow.
“Isabelle!” he called again, louder, his voice breaking with desperation. For a heartbeat, there was nothing, only the wind and his pounding heartbeat.
Then it came. A cry, faint but unmistakable.
“Help!” Her voice. Isabelle’s voice.
Declan’s pulse surged, and he broke into a sprint, the snow dragging at his boots as he tore through the undergrowth.
“Hold fast, lass! I’m comin’!” he roared, his sword gleaming in the dim light as he pushed toward the sound.
The fury within him burned hotter than the cold ever could. He would find her, no matter the cost, no matter who stood in his path.
Every step drew him closer, the shouts ahead growing clearer.
Declan’s mind was a storm of fear and resolve, his love for Isabelle thundering louder than the wind itself.
Somewhere beyond the trees, she was fighting, and he swore to himself, By blood and by God, I'll reach her before they dare to harm her.
Declan slowed his pace, his pulse pounding in his ears as Isabelle’s cries cut through the wind. He crouched low, sword in hand, his boots silent against the snow.
The trees thickened, and he moved with the stealth of a hunter, following the desperate sound of her voice. Each step brought him closer, every shout pulling him deeper into the dark woods where danger waited.
Through the tangle of pines, a faint orange glow flickered ahead. Declan dropped lower, edging closer until he saw them: a small campfire, two men, and Isabelle bound beside them.
His jaw clenched as he counted three figures… then his blood ran cold. A woman stepped into the firelight, her hood falling back to reveal a smile that twisted his stomach—Rosaline.
He stayed hidden behind a fallen log, the shadows cloaking him so that he could better assess how many men there were or if more were on the way.
Isabelle’s chin was lifted high though fear trembled in her voice.
“What is it ye want from me?” she demanded.
Rosaline stepped closer, her laughter sharp as glass. “Ye? I dinna want ye, lass. I want what ye stole.”
Isabelle frowned, confusion flickering in her eyes.
“I’ve stolen nothin’.”
Rosaline’s smile widened, bitter and cruel. “Ye stole Declan, the Laird McCallum. He was meant to be mine before ye came along, flutterin’ yer lashes and pretendin’ to be some sweet, helpless thing.”
“I did nae pretend,” Isabelle said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “Declan chose me of his own accord.”
Rosaline’s eyes blazed. “He wouldnae have if it weren’t for yer cursed face and soft words. Ye bewitched him, made him forget his duty, his promises, me!”
Declan’s grip on his sword tightened, rage boiling in his chest, but he forced himself to stay hidden so he could move around the backside of the camp.
Isabelle’s breath came quick, but she didn’t look away from Rosaline.
“If Declan wanted ye truly, ye wouldnae have to steal me away like a thief in the night,” she said sharply. “He’s no man to be won by deceit.”
Rosaline’s lip curled, her voice dripping venom. “Ye think he truly loves ye? Och, he pities ye, that’s all. A soft-hearted fool playin’ protector. Once he tires of ye, he’ll see ye for what ye are, nothin’ but an ugly woman wrapped in silk.”
Isabelle’s eyes flashed, her back straightening. “I am Lady McCallum, his wife in name and heart both. Ye can sneer all ye like, but it’ll nae change that truth.”
The fire cracked between them, the wind howling through the branches above. Rosaline took a step forward, her voice lowering to a hiss.
“We’ll see how proud ye are once he’s buried ye.”
Isabelle flinched, shock flickering across her face. “What did ye say?”
Rosaline’s smile turned feral.
“Aye. Death follows Declan Cain, lass. Ye should’ve stayed far away cause ye are next.”
Isabelle shook her head, defiant even as fear glimmered in her eyes. “I’ll take me chances with me husband. I’ll take him over ye and yer poison any day.”
Declan’s heart pounded like thunder. He’d heard enough. His rage was cold now, sharp and sure as steel. Rosaline’s words echoed in his skull, but one truth drowned them out-—no one would ever harm Isabelle again.
Declan crouched low, every muscle in his body taut as he listened to the venom spilling from Rosaline’s mouth. His breath steamed in the cold air, his fury mounting with each cruel word she threw at Isabelle.
“Ye are nae but trash, Isabelle. Once ye are dead, I will give McCallum some time to heal then he will marry me as he should have that day at Castle Ross,” Rosaline spat.
That Rosaline, the woman who had once been promised to him, had sunk to this treachery burned in his chest like fire. He had known she was bitter but not mad enough to scheme with bandits.
Moving like a shadow, Declan crept through the underbrush until he was directly behind one of the so-called fishermen. The man reeked of ale and filth, his knife glinting faintly in the firelight.
Declan rose, swift and silent, and pressed the edge of his sword against the bandit’s neck.
“Daenae move,” he growled, his voice a low thunder.
Rosaline spun, her eyes wide as she caught sight of him emerging from the darkness.
“McCallum,” she gasped, her face paling.
Isabelle turned sharply at the sound of his voice, her bound hands trembling.
“Declan!” she breathed, relief and shock mingling in her tone.
He stepped forward, dragging the bandit with him, the sword biting just enough to draw a thin line of blood. His glare cut to Rosaline.
“Ye dare touch me wife then stand there speakin’ of worth? The only trash here, Rosaline, is ye.”
Rosaline’s face twisted with rage, and she stamped her foot like a spoiled child.
“Ye were supposed to marry me!” she said. “Ye made me a promise before that wretch turned yer head!”
Declan’s jaw clenched, but his voice was cold and steady. “Aye, I made promises once, but I broke them the moment I saw the kind of heart ye carried. Isabelle is me wife, me choice, and me heart. Nothin’ ye say will ever change that.”
Rosaline’s eyes glistened, fury flashing as she turned toward the two bandits.
“Get him,” she hissed.
Declan pressed harder on the blade, forcing his captive to grunt.
“Release her,” Declan ordered, his voice like steel scraping over stone. “Do it now, or I’ll send yer blood to stain this snow.”
The bandits exchanged uneasy glances, the one in Declan’s grasp trembling.
“We’ve our orders, and willnae be paid ’til we see them done,” one muttered, raising his dagger.
Declan’s eyes darkened, the firelight catching on his blade. “Aye,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “then ye’ve chosen death.”
The air crackled with tension, the only sounds the wind through the trees and the crackle of the fire.
Rosaline stepped back, a flicker of fear crossing her face as Declan shifted his stance.
He looked every bit the laird then—unyielding, fierce, and ready to kill for the woman he loved.
Declan moved with deadly precision, his sword flashing in the firelight. The man he held tried to twist free, but Declan was faster. He drove his blade clean through the man’s neck, sending him crumpling into the snow.
“Ye’ll pay for that, bastard laird!” the other lunged forward, roaring.
Declan met him head-on, parrying his strike with a clang that echoed through the trees.
“Ye fight like a drunk pig swingin’ at flies,” Declan snarled, shoving the man back with a boot to the chest.
The bandit stumbled, caught his balance, and came again, his blade slicing through the air. Declan caught it with his own sword, turned his wrist, and sent the weapon flying into the dark.
“Come then,” Declan barked. “I’ll send ye to meet yer coward kin.”
The bandit charged barehanded, snarling curses, but Declan sidestepped and slammed his elbow into the man’s jaw. The crack of bone split the night. As the bandit fell to his knees, Declan drove his sword through his chest, the steel meeting no resistance.
Rosaline screamed, stumbling backward in horror, her skirts tangling in the snow.
Declan didn’t even glance her way. His breath steamed, his eyes wild as he turned toward Isabelle, still bound and pale as the frost. He crossed the space between them and cut her ropes with one swift stroke.
“Ye’re safe now,” he said roughly, his voice shaking despite his strength.
Isabelle trembled as her freed hands clutched his tunic.
“Declan,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she collapsed into his arms.
He caught her, holding her tight against his chest, feeling the tremor in every breath she took.
“I was sure I was goin’ to die,” she said between sobs. “Or they’d sell me off like some worthless thing.”
He pressed his lips to her hair, his heart twisting.
“Never, lass,” he murmured hoarsely. “I’d burn the whole of Scotland before I let harm come to ye.”
She clung to him tighter, her tears warm against the cold of his neck. The world around them, the dead men, the blood, even Rosaline’s trembling figure, faded until there was only the two of them, alive and holding on in the snow.