Page 8 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
His hands twitched nervously at his sides, a rare sign of unease that Isabelle did not miss.
Declan’s brow furrowed, his voice rumbling low. “Unfortunate?” he echoed. “Ye call being locked in a storeroom with a half-dressed lass unfortunate? That, Laird Ross, is an offense. Me clan doesnae take kindly to mockery, and I’ll nae have me honor questioned before I’ve even had a chance to speak me vows.” His tone was calm but filled with dangerous authority, the kind that demanded respect.
Laird Ross’ eyes darted briefly toward Isabelle before returning to Declan.
“There’s nay insult meant to ye, McCallum,” he said quickly. “Ye have me word. This foolishness was nae an act of Clan Ross; it was naught but a misunderstandin’. Me niece will be punished accordingly, I assure ye.”
He forced a strained smile, his voice almost pleading now.
Isabelle’s chest tightened as she watched her father’s composure crumble beneath Declan’s steady gaze. Never before had she seen him flinch beneath another man’s words, yet Declan stood unmoved, every inch the Laird he claimed to be.
“See that ye keep yer word,” Declan said at last, his tone final and sharp. “For if this be how Clan Ross greets an ally, I’ll be left wonderin’ what they do to their family and question why I take a bride from this clan at all.”
The words lingered like smoke in the air, and Isabelle could feel the tremor of power in them. Her father’s jaw clenched, his pride clearly wounded, but he only nodded stiffly in reply.
Isabelle stood silent, her heart caught between awe and confusion because though Declan McCallum had just shamed her father, she could not help but think how noble he looked.
CHAPTER FIVE
Declan stood tall. He didn’t like being part of a joke, and he had a notion to walk out of there and ride home. No bride was worth this trouble.
Laird Ross cleared his throat, his voice faltering slightly as he spoke.
“Perhaps, Laird McCallum, we might… ah… continue this discussion in the drawin’ room,” he suggested, his usual commanding tone replaced by a strained attempt at civility. “This place is hardly fit for a conversation between clans.”
His eyes darted around the cramped storeroom as though the very sight of the bolts of fabric and dust offended him.
Declan could almost smell the man’s unease.
Declan gave a short nod though his gaze lingered on Isabelle for a moment.
She stood near the far wall, clutching a length of fabric to her chest, her curls tumbling over her shoulders in disarray.
“Aye, that might be best,” Declan said evenly, his tone measured but cold. Turning slightly toward her, he added, “Miss Ross?”
Isabelle flushed crimson beneath his steady gaze.
“Nay, me Laird ,” she replied quietly, her voice soft but steady. “I’ll make meself decent and join ye all soon.”
There was a trace of defiance in her tone, a quiet strength that caught Declan’s attention even now, amidst the chaos.
Declan inclined his head in acknowledgment then turned to follow Laird Ross and Rosaline out of the room.
Rosaline’s skirts rustled sharply with each step as she swept past him, her chin lifted high though her face was still pale with shock.
“This way, Laird McCallum,” Ross said hurriedly, his voice shaking as he gestured down the corridor. “We’ll speak where there’s privacy, aye?”
As they walked, his thoughts churned beneath his composed exterior.
God’s teeth, what a damn mess.I came here for a bride, nae for scandal. The lass’ cousin, nay less. Could the day turn fouler?
He glanced sideways at Rosaline, who avoided his eyes entirely. Her posture was stiff, her beauty now shadowed by discomfort. He had not yet decided what to make of her—spoiled, perhaps, or simply vain, but she lacked the calm that had glimmered, however faintly, in Isabelle’s trembling composure. For the first time, Declan felt the creeping suspicion that he might have agreed to a match doomed from the start.
They entered the drawing room, and warmth met them like a sigh. The grand chamber was awash with the glow of a crackling hearth and the scent of evergreen and cinnamon.
“Bring our finest whiskey and cakes for the Laird,” Ross shouted to a servant.
The servant bowed and scurried out of the room.
