Page 54 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
Before Isabelle could ask more, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. The young maid who tended the upper floor appeared in the doorway, breathless from her run.
“Beg pardon, me Lady ,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsey. “The Laird has summoned ye to the bedchamber straightaway.”
At once, Isabelle felt her chest tighten. The air seemed to still around her as her heart pounded.
“Did he… say what for?” she asked, her voice barely steady.
The maid shook her head quickly. “Nay, me Lady , only that ye come at once.”
Mabel’s brow furrowed slightly, but she only nodded. “Go, Isabelle. He wouldnae summon ye lightly.”
Isabelle managed a small nod in return, her throat dry. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gathered her skirts and made her way toward the stairwell.
The walk through the corridors felt longer than before. Every echo of her step seemed to carry her deeper into uncertainty. Her thoughts tangled between fear and longing, between what she hoped and what she dreaded. Declan McCallum was a man of power, one who took what he wanted without hesitation, and now, after the night they’d shared, she feared what that might mean.
Her palms were damp by the time she reached the familiar oak door. She paused before it, willing her breath to steady, her pulse to quiet. The memory of his touch lingered—his rough hands, his whispered words, and the heat that still lived beneath her skin.
She wanted him still though she scarcely understood why; the thought both thrilled and terrified her.
When she lifted her hand to open the door, her fingers trembled. The castle seemed to hold its breath with her, as though thevery walls waited to see what she would do. Her heart warred between courage and retreat, yet she forced herself to stand tall. Whatever awaited her beyond that door, desire or discipline, she knew she could no longer avoid it.
Isabelle stepped into the bedchamber.
“Declan. I'm glad ye...” she stopped.
The room was still and empty. The hearth had burned low, its embers faintly glowing against the stone.
She moved to the chair near the window and sat, her hands folded in her lap.
What reason has he to summon me then vanish like mist?
Time stretched thin. The hour passed, and still, there was no sound of his step nor word from a servant.
“Saints preserve me,” she muttered, “does the man summon me only to forget I exist?”
At last, her patience frayed. Rising, she strode to the door and flung it open.
A passing guard halted at once, startled by her sudden appearance.
Isabelle straightened, smoothing her gown, though her temper flared beneath her calm voice.
“Good lad, have ye seen the Laird this morn?”
The guard blinked then nodded with a polite bow.
“Aye, me Lady . Last I saw, the Laird was in the trainin’ yard, sparrin’ with his men.”
Isabelle lifted her chin. “Thank ye kindly,” she said. “I’ll see to him there.”
The guard stepped aside, and she swept down the corridor with renewed purpose.
She descended the grand stairway, her footsteps quick against the stone. She crossed the courtyard, her skirts brushing against the dusty ground. The clang of swords rang faintly in the distance, but when she reached the yard, she found only two soldiers finishing their drills.
“Where’s the Laird?” she asked, voice firm though breath quickened by her search.
One of the men lowered his blade and bowed. “He was here, me Lady , but not for long. Said he had to speak with the steward about the stores. Went toward the kitchens, he did.”
Isabelle gave a curt nod. “Thank ye.” Her tone was polite, but frustration was plain in her eyes.
