Page 70 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
“What’s gnawin’ at ye? Ye’ve been broodin’ all day.”
“If I told ye, Killian, ye’d think me mad.”
Killian snorted. “Och, I’ve thought ye mad for years. Tell me somethin’ new.”
Declan turned the mug in his hands, watching the firelight ripple through the amber liquid.
“It’s Isabelle,” he admitted finally, his voice slurring slightly from the drink. “Every time I look at her, I… I lose meself. I try to hold back, to be gentle, but it’s like fire runnin’ through me veins. I cannae trust it. I cannae trustme.”
Killian’s grin faded as he studied his friend. “Ye’re worried ye’ll hurt her.”
Declan nodded slowly.
“Aye. That, and more. If we… if the marriage brings a bairn, I dinnae ken if I can be the kind of faither one deserves. I’ve seen what happens when a man loses control, Killian. I lived it.” His voice grew rougher, quieter. “I’ll nae damn another soul to that.”
For a long moment, Killian said nothing. The fire cracked, and laughter drifted from the far end of the gathered men, but the silence between them felt heavy.
Finally, Killian exhaled through his nose and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Ye’re nae yer faither, me Laird . Saints above, I wish ye’d stop thinkin’ ye are.”
Declan gave a bitter laugh. “Aye? How can ye be sure?”
“Because I knew the man,” Killian said sharply, eyes narrowing. “He was cruel to the bone, aye, but ye’ve got somethin’ he never did. Restraint. Ye protect, nae destroy. Yer own brother, Tristan, was proof of that bloodline’s redemption, and so are ye.”
Declan stiffened at the mention of his brother’s name. “Leave Tristan out of this.”
Killian shook his head stubbornly. “Nay, I willnae. Tristan was a good man, and so are ye. Ye just refuse to see it. Ye treat Tristan’s wee bairns as yer own and with more tenderness than most men treat their own wee ones . That’s nae a monster, Declan; that’s a man who loves.”
Declan’s jaw clenched, and he slammed his mug onto the table with a dull thud.
“Enough.” His tone was sharp though there was no malice in it, only exhaustion. “Stick to bein’ me man-at-arms, Killian. I dinnae need counsel on how to tend to me family.”
Killian arched a brow, his voice low and edged with frustration. “Is that what ye think this is? Counsel?”
He stood, the firelight glinting off his hair. “Nay, Laird. This is me speakin’ as a man and as a friend. A friend who’s watched ye grow from a wild lad to a leader worth followin’. I’ve seen ye bleed, fight, and damn near break yerself for this clan. If I speak out of turn, it’s because I’m proud to serve ye, and I dinnae want to see ye ruin somethin’ good because of ghosts that should’ve been buried long ago.”
Declan’s eyes flickered upward, regret warring with pride, but his stubbornness held fast.
“Go on, then,” he muttered. “Leave me to me sulkin’ as ye call it.”
Killian huffed out a short laugh though it carried no humour this time. “Aye, I will. Ye’re a hard-headed laird, but I’ll nae stand here wastin’ words on deaf ears. When ye’re ready to stop punishin’ yerself for crimes that were never yers, ye ken where to find me.”
With that, Killian turned and walked away, his heavy boots crunching over the dirt.
Declan watched him go, the weight of his friend’s words lingering like smoke. The fire popped and hissed beside him, the last of its flames shrinking into glowing embers.
Around him, the laughter of his men began to fade as the night deepened and the ale wore thin.
He hadn’t meant to drive Killian off, but the truth was too raw, too close to the bone. He’d spent years building a fortress around his heart, and Isabelle had walked right through the gates. That kind of power frightened him more than any blade or enemy ever had.
If he drew closer, he’d lose control of his restraint, of his fears, of everything that kept him from becoming the man he loathed.
But the thought of pulling away made his chest ache. He could still remember the way she’d whispered his name in the dark, trembling not with fear but with longing. He had never known anything so pure, so disarming. To deny her affection now felt like cutting away a piece of himself, yet he saw no other way to keep her safe.
“Better she hates me than suffer for lovin’ me,” he murmured under his breath. The words burned as they left him, but he believed them.
Tomorrow, he would begin the distance. He would speak less, touch less, feel less, whatever it took to keep his demons from touching her light. Yet even as he made the vow, his heart rebelled, aching for her warmth.
