Page 80 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
Mabel cleared her throat softly. “Best get these bairns inside before they turn to icicles,” she said with a grin.
“Aye,” Isabelle murmured, her voice trembling just slightly. “Come now, me loves. Let’s make those decorations we promised.”
The triplets groaned good-naturedly but obeyed, gathering their holly and vines.
Declan stepped aside to let them pass, his hand brushing briefly against Isabelle’s arm as she moved past him. The touch was fleeting, but it set her pulse racing.
Inside the castle, warmth greeted them like an embrace. The fire in the family solar burned bright, casting golden light across the polished floors and stone walls. Isabelle removed her gloves and cloak, setting them aside as Bren helped the girls settle around a long table.
“Bren, hot tea to warm up the girls,” Isabelle said.
Bren curtsied and left the room.
“Now then,” Mabel said cheerfully, rolling up her sleeves, “who’s ready to make the grandest wreaths this castle’s ever seen?”
“Me!” shouted all three girls at once, their excitement renewed.
Isabelle couldn’t help but smile, her earlier melancholy softening as she took a seat beside them.
“We’ll start with the vines first,” she instructed and showed them how to maneuver the vines, “then weave the holly through like this. Careful now, the leaves bite back if ye’re nae gentle.”
Beth stuck her tongue out in concentration as she twisted a vine into a loop. “Like this, Lady Isabelle?”
“Aye, perfect,” Isabelle said warmly. “Ye’ve a good hand for craftin’, lass.”
Mabel chuckled. “Best keep her busy; she’ll be decoratin’ every doorway in the keep by supper.”
The sound of laughter filled the solar, bright and comforting. Isabelle found herself relaxed, her heart easing as she worked alongside the children.
Penelope reached up and placed a small sprig of holly behind Isabelle’s ear.
“Now ye look like a Yule angel,” she said proudly.
Isabelle laughed softly, touched beyond words. “Och, ye sweet bairn. Ye’ve a poet’s tongue.”
As the afternoon passed, garlands and wreaths began to take shape, filling the table with color. Mabel hummed a soft carol under her breath, while Bren tidied up the trimmings with a fond smile.
Isabelle sat back for a moment, watching the girls chatter and giggle. Her heart felt full, and yet, as her gaze drifted toward the window where snow continued to fall, she couldn’t help but think of Declan.
He had not joined them. Even now, she could picture him standing alone somewhere in the courtyard, his shoulderssquared against the cold. Part of her wanted to run to him, to break the silence, to tell him she missed him, but she couldn’t.
Not yet.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath, the word scraping in his throat. “Ye’re a damned fool, Declan Cain.”
Declan sat alone in the Stone Hearth Room, the firelight flickering over the rough-hewn walls. The warmth from the flames did little to thaw the chill that had settled inside him.
His thoughts turned the way Isabelle had looked at him in the courtyard, her eyes full of hurt and confusion.
He clenched his jaw, ashamed of his silence, of the cold nod he’d given her when every instinct had urged him to reach out and hold her. He’d wanted to take her hand, to tell her he was sorry, but pride had won again, that cursed pride that had ruled him since his youth.
A sharp knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He straightened, clearing his throat and forcing his tone into authority.
“Enter,” he barked.
The door creaked open, and Killian stepped inside, snow clinging to his cloak and boots.
