Page 19 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
Slowly, he nodded, his shoulders sagging, finally conceding defeat. Declan watched with satisfaction as the older man stepped back, muttering apologies under his breath. “Of course, Laird McCallum. I apologize for the thought.”
As Ross retreated outside the room, Declan’s attention flicked to Rosaline who followed Laird Ross.
Her voice rang through the castle, echoing off the stone walls, “This is me weddin’ day! Ye cannae take that from me! I will have Laird McCallum!”
Declan’s lips curled into a small, amused smirk. He shook his head ever so slightly, bewildered that anyone could ever consider a woman like her suitable to be a lady.
The arrogance in her tone, the unchecked temper, and the sheer selfishness were all glaringly obvious. Declan thought of Isabelle, her long brown curls, her quiet dignity, and the steadiness in her brown eyes. It was a stark contrast, and he found himself inwardly grateful for the chaos that had led to this moment.
A true lady, he reflected, was not built on appearances or whispered compliments but on courage, resolve, and the ability to face a man like him without flinching.
An hour later, Declan followed Laird Ross through the winding corridors of Castle Ross.
The older laird’s hand rested lightly on Declan’s shoulder as he spoke in a tone meant to reassure.
“All is well, Laird McCallum. At last, Clan Ross and Clan McCallum are united in purpose and soon in bond.”
Declan gave a curt nod, his eyes scanning the walls lined with tapestries depicting the proud history of the Ross clan.
The chapel doors opened, and Declan stepped inside, immediately taking in the sight of the sacred space adorned for Yule.
Pine garlands lined the balcony rails, interwoven with crimson ribbons and sprigs of holly, their bright berries catching the light of flickering candles. Evergreen boughs were arranged along the pews, and delicate glass ornaments hung from the ceiling beams, sparkling like captured starlight.
Declan positioned himself at the front of the chapel, standing tall before the priest, his hands resting lightly at his sides. The murmurs of the gathered clansmen faded into the stone walls, leaving only the crackle of candles and the occasional shuffle of feet.
He allowed himself a moment of reflection, regretting the choice to hold the wedding here rather than at his own castle, among his own clan. Though Clan Ross was honorable, there was an uneasy weight to being in another’s halls, surrounded by those who did not know his temper or his expectations.
His thoughts were interrupted as the heavy chapel doors creaked open, and his bride-to-be appeared.
Declan’s breath caught, his gaze darkening as desire and possessiveness surged unbidden through him. Isabelle moved with a quiet grace, the modest yet finely made Scottish weddingdress hugging her slender frame and flowing down in heavy folds of cream and gold brocade.
Her long hair was braided into a crown, leaving a few rebellious tendrils to frame her soft, expressive face, and her brown eyes shone with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
Declan felt a primal urge to claim her, to reach out and make her his in that instant, the thought of any man touching her igniting a jealous fire in his chest.
Every detail captivated him—the soft curve of her jaw, the subtle flush of her cheeks, the way she hesitated at each step as though she might falter. His chest tightened, a low hum of possessiveness rising, and he had to clamp down on it before it betrayed itself.
This is a ceremony, not a moment for indulgence, and it needs honor and demands restraint.
Turning his focus back to the priest, Declan squared his shoulders, letting the tension in his arms ease only slightly.
CHAPTER NINE
“Do ye, Declan Cain, Laird McCallum, take Maid Isabelle of Clan Ross, here present to be your wedded wife, to love, cherish, and protect from this day forth?”
Declan’s voice, deep and unwavering, echoed back, “Aye, I do.”
The priest’s voice rolled through the chapel, solemn and melodic.
Isabelle stood rigid, her hands trembling slightly as they rested in Declan’s.
She couldn’t help the whirl of thoughts spinning through her mind. Why had Laird McCallum chosen her, a simple Ross daughter, over her fair cousin?
Everything felt surreal, as if the stone walls of the chapel had shifted into a dreamscape where she was both guest and prize. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
“And do ye, Isabelle Connelly of clan Ross, take Declan Cain, Laird McCallum, to be yer wedded husband, to love, honor, and obey, to the end of yer days?”
Isabelle’s voice trembled, but she found strength in the simple act of speaking, “Aye, I do.”
