Page 56 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
Declan gave a curt nod. “Good. An’ keep yer heads low. I want answers, nae graves.”
“I’ve no plans of dyin’ yet. There’s still whisky left in the cellar,” Killian said.
Declan’s lips twitched though the humor never reached his eyes. “If ye do find yerself facin’ death, best get out of it. I’ll nae waste fine liquor on a funeral.”
Killian chuckled and gave a nod. “Aye, that’s fair enough. I’ll report when we return.”
Declan clasped his forearm in brotherly respect, his voice low. “Ride with care, Killian. There’s somethin’ foul brewin’; I can feel it in me bones.”
Killian’s smile faded, and he inclined his head. “I’ll nae fail ye.”
Declan left the barracks making his way to his study. He rolled out a map of the McCallum lands across the tabletop, its edges curled and stained from years of use.
He leaned over it, marking in careful lines where Liam had last reported the bandits’ trail, tracing the dense woods and rocky terrain west of the glen.
Then, with a steady hand, he drew another line where Killian and his men now headed, their path veering north along the river.
Every decision bore consequence, and every misstep could cost lives. While his body still ached from the wound earned in battle on his own chest, he had no time to dwell on pain when the safety of his clan hung in the balance.
He leaned back in the chair with a quiet sigh, letting his eyes trace the flicker of candlelight across the maps. He should have gone to Isabelle by now, to speak the words he’d meant to say since dawn. But each time he thought of her, her fiery eyes, her defiance, the softness that haunted him afterward, his resolve faltered. Aye, he was the Laird of Castle McCallum, yet around her, he felt anything but in command.
The door burst open without warning, slamming hard enough against the wall to rattle the shelves.
Declan straightened sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt before realizing who stood before him.
Isabelle stormed into the room, her cheeks flushed, her voice trembling not with fear but with fury.
“Where’ve ye been hidin’?” she snapped, slamming the door behind her.
Declan’s brows rose, his tone cool and steady.
“I wasnae aware I’d been hidin’, wife. Ye ken where me study lies.” He leaned back slightly, watching her approach, every line of her figure tense with indignation. “Ye look ready to take me head off with that glare. What’s put ye in such a state?”
She crossed her arms, her gaze sharp enough to cut through armor. “What’s put me in such a state is that I’ve been searchin’ this whole cursed castle for ye! Ye were the one who asked to speak with me, yet I waited an hour then another, wanderin’ from the kitchens to the courtyard and everywhere in between like a fool!”
Her words came out quick, filled with hurt and impatience, though her voice trembled slightly at the end.
Declan’s mouth twitched into a smirk, but his tone carried more command than warmth.
“Aye, I meant to speak with ye, but matters of the clan come first, lass. If the Laird is delayed, his wife waits. That’s the way of it.”
He turned his gaze back to the maps as though the matter were closed, the movement deliberate, meant to remind her who he was.
Her breath hitched in disbelief, and she stepped forward, the sound of her skirts brushing against the stone floor sharp in the silence.
“So that’s all ye’ve got to say? I’m just to sit quiet an’ wait like one of yer servants till ye decide I’m worth yer time?”
Declan’s eyes flicked up to her, steel meeting fire. “Dinnae twist me words, Isabelle. Ye’re no servant, but ye are the Lady of this keep, an’ with that comes understandin’ that duty sometimes keeps a man away.”
She scoffed, her tone cutting. “Aye, an’ yet duty didnae stop ye from callin’ for me in the first place. Seems to me ye’ve no problem makin’ demands when it suits ye, but when I hold ye to yer word, suddenly there’s maps an’ work to hide behind!”
Declan’s jaw tightened, and he rose slowly from his chair, his height dwarfing her. “Mind yer tongue,” he said softly though the warning in his tone was unmistakable. “Ye forget who ye speak to.”
Her chin lifted, defiant as ever. “Nay, I remember well enough. The mighty Laird McCallum, too busy for his wife after he dragged her to this island!”
The words struck him harder than he’d admit, but pride flared hotter than hurt.
“Dragged?” he repeated with a dangerous calm. “Ye’d rather I’d left ye to fend for yerself, then? Sent ye back to yer kin with tales that the Laird McCallum lacked the spine to bed the lass he took to wife ?”
