Page 12 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
“Ye cannae allow this!” Rosaline cried, her cheeks flushed red with rage. “It’s humiliatin’! Isabelle has always been the one to cause trouble, and now, she’s to be rewarded for it?” She stamped her foot again, her golden curls quivering with the motion.
Laird Ross turned toward her with a weary sigh, his face drawn tight with frustration and embarrassment.
“Enough, Rosaline,” he said, his tone stern though his eyes flicked nervously toward Declan. “What’s done is done, and ye’llshow respect to yer cousin and to Laird McCallum. The matter cannae be undone without bringin’ further shame upon us all.”
He paused, his voice softening as he looked at Isabelle. “Ye, Isabelle, the maids will take ye to get ready for the weddin’. Perhaps yer mix-up with the dress was a blessin’ in disguise; at least now it’ll fit the bride as it should.”
Rosaline gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A blessin’?” she spat, glaring at her uncle. “Ye call this a blessin’ when I was the one promised to him? ” She bit her tongue, her eyes flashing toward Isabelle with thinly veiled contempt.
Declan reached for a platter of roasted venison and popped a morsel into his mouth.
He swallowed then spoke in his deep, steady voice. “We’ll move the ceremony to tomorrow,” he said, glancing toward Isabelle. “That’ll give me new bride time to come to terms with the change.” His lips twitched into a faint smirk, the tone of his words leaving no room for discussion.
Laird Ross, eager to please, nodded hastily. “Aye, of course, me Laird . That’s a wise decision. It’ll give us time to make proper arrangements, aye.”
He gestured to one of the nearby servants hovering near the doorway. “See to it that the weddin’ plans are adjusted. Lady Isabelle will be the bride now, nae Lady Rosaline, and the weddin’ will be held tomorrow.”
The servant bowed quickly and began to step back, but Declan wasn’t done. He took another piece of meat from the table, his eyes cool as he turned toward Ross.
“I’ll be extendin’ me stay by a day, then,” he said. “I trust I’ll be shown proper hospitality while I’m here.” He spoke as if daring anyone to deny him, his tone carrying both command and challenge.
“Of course, me Laird ,” Ross replied, his voice bordering on desperate. “Ye’ll have the finest chamber the keep can offer. And yer men—they’ll be well housed and well fed.”
He turned to the servant again, flustered. “See to it that Laird McCallum’s guard and his horses are tended to, and that he’s given all he requires.” The Laird’s forehead glistened faintly with sweat as he spoke, clearly anxious to appease the powerful Highland lord before him.
Rosaline let out a strangled sob, her anger turning to disbelief. “This cannae be happenin’,” she whispered. “Ye’re replacin’ me as if I were naught but a trinket to be tossed aside!”
She turned toward Declan, her voice trembling. “Laird McCallum, I beg ye, this is all some dreadful mistake. Ye cannae mean to marry her instead!”
Declan set his plate down with deliberate slowness, his dark eyes meeting hers with cold disinterest. “A mistake?” he repeated. “The only mistake made this day was lockin’ me in that storeroom to begin with . But aye, lass, I ken exactly what I meanto do, and I daenae change me mind once it’s set.” His voice was low, final, and it sent a shiver through the room.
The servant stepped forward again and bowed deeply to Declan. “If ye’ll follow me, Laird McCallum,” he said, his voice steady though his eyes flickered nervously toward the tense scene around him, “I’ll see ye to yer chamber.”
Declan gave a small nod, brushing crumbs from his fingers as he turned toward the door. His gaze caught Isabelle’s for a fleeting moment. Her lips were parted slightly, her chest rising and falling with restrained emotion, shock, confusion, perhaps even anger. Declan’s smirk returned, slow and deliberate.
He inclined his head slightly in her direction, a silent acknowledgment, then turned and strode from the room with the servant.
The echo of his boots on the stone floor followed him down the corridor, leaving behind a stunned silence in his wake.
Inside, Declan felt the familiar burn of confidence settling in his chest. Aye, it was all chaos now, but come tomorrow, the matter would be sealed, and Isabelle Ross would be his wife.
Declan followed the servant down the dim corridor. The torches along the walls flickered, casting long shadows that swayed like restless spirits. As they passed the small storage room, he slowed, his eyes lingering on the door. Such a small, insignificant space, and yet it had caused no end of trouble and changed the course of his life entirely.
He gave a quiet scoff under his breath and continued onward. The servant led him up the staircase to the second floor where the air smelled faintly of oak polish and smoke from the great hearth below. They stopped before a wide oaken door banded with iron. The servant pushed it open with both hands and stepped aside to allow Declan entry.
The room was richly furnished, far more than he expected of Laird Ross’s keep. A great bed stood in the corner, draped with thick tartan blankets and furs that promised warmth against the Highland chill. Heavy curtains hung at the window, trimmed with gold thread, and a polished chest stood beside a fine carved table. The fire crackled in the hearth, painting the walls in amber light.
“Will there be anythin’ else, Laird McCallum?” the servant asked, bowing slightly, his voice careful and respectful.
Declan turned to him with a curt nod. “Aye. Send for me man Liam. He’s me first guard. Tell him to bring me trunk with me weddin’ clothes.”
“Aye, Laird. Right away.” He turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. Declan was alone once more, the crackle of the fire filling the silence.
He leaned against the table, crossing his arms over his chest, his mind turning back to the scene in the hall. Isabelle Ross, her name rolled through his thoughts like a forbidden tune.
He could still see the tremble in her lips, the way her form looked under the fabric that barely covered her, the flush on her cheeks as her father made the hasty agreement. The sight of her half-clothed in the closet flashed before him. A wave of desire moved through him, warming him.
What would it be like to kiss her, to claim that tremblin’ mouth for meown?
