Page 62 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
He could feel a swelling pride, not in his own achievements or lands, but in this woman who had so effortlessly begun to fill a role he had feared none could manage. His fingers twitched as if to reach out, to touch, to tell her silently that he saw her, appreciated her. And yet, there remained a cold distance between them that his stubbornness had built, two days of silence from Isabelle, a wall he both despised and understood.
Mabel approached, her nun’s habit whispering against the stone corridor as she came to stand beside him.
“Ye look at her with a soft heart, Declan,” Mabel said, her voice warm and knowing. “’Tis a good sight to see her laughin’ with the bairns.”
“Aye,” Declan admitted, his jaw tight. “But she hasnae spoken a word to me in two days. Silence, all because I refused her talk of Yule.”
Mabel’s gaze softened as she followed his line of sight, taking in the scene before them. “Aye, I see. But maybe she deserves to ken why, braither . Aye, she has a right to hear it.”
Declan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his pride rising. “I shouldnae have to speak of such things. She is me wife; she will obey as a wife should.”
Mabel’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp beneath the calm. “Ah, Declan. Ye expected to marry and for life to continue as before? ’Tis a fool’s outlook. Marriage is nae chains, and a wife is nae a subject; she is a partner in all things, even if she challenges ye.”
He let out a low grunt, a mixture of irritation and admiration. “Ye speak wisdom, as always, Mabel. Ye are clever with words that cut through pride like a blade.”
“Then hear me well, braither ,” she said, stepping closer. “Do ye wish to be married to a woman who fears ye or one who loves ye for all that ye are, both the harsh and the tender? Ye cannae have both, and she willnae be moved by silence alone.”
Declan ran a hand through his hair, feeling a strange restlessness in his chest.
“Aye… she has her fire, that one. Bold as any McCallum before her. And I find meself not wishing to dampen it, but to see it bend to me wouldnae be natural either.”
Mabel gave a small smile, her gaze steady. “Then speak, Declan. Speak honestly. Let her know why ye cannot celebrate Yule as she wishes. Give her the truth, even if ’tis hard, and the silence will break.”
He glanced back toward the window where Isabelle was now crouched to tie a boot for one of the girls, her hair loose in the wind. His chest tightened again, and he allowed himself a quiet breath.
“Aye,” he said finally, his voice low, a grudging acknowledgment. “Ye are right. I will speak. ’Tis a matter of honor… and perhaps… ’tis time I show her the man I am, not only the Laird.”
Mabel’s smile widened, gentle and approving. “Good, braither . ’Tis a brave thing, to speak. And brave hearts are what she deserves. Now, go. Speak to her before the day slips by, lest the silence grow into a wall neither of ye can scale.”
Declan nodded once, sharply, as if sealing a silent promise. The pride in him warred with the need to be soft, to reach across the distance he had built with his own hands.
Yet even as he moved from the window, he felt the courage Mabel had inspired, and the thought of Isabelle waiting, her fire, her heart, her unspoken needs, spurred him forward with a determination he could not ignore.
Outside, the triplets’ laughter still rang across the loch, sweet and careless, tugging at the edges of his heart.
Declan allowed himself a fleeting smile, remembering how he had once feared children and how he had once feared women. But now, with Isabelle in his sights and the girls’ voices in his ears, he realized that life could indeed be both fierce and gentle, and he would face it, proud laird and husband alike.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
That evening, the air in the bedchamber was thick with silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.
Isabelle sat at the vanity, brushing her hair with swift, deliberate strokes, refusing to look at Declan as he leaned against the hearth.
She knew that his eyes followed her every movement, his jaw set, his patience thinning with each moment that passed, but she did not care.
He finally broke the silence with a low growl.
“Are ye intendin’ to stay silent all night, lass?” he asked, his tone laced with frustration. “I’ve asked ye twice now what vexes ye, and ye’ve nae given me a word.”
Isabelle continued brushing then slammed the hairbrush down upon the table, the sharp sound echoing through the chamber.
“If ye dinnae ken, then there’s little use in tellin’ ye,” she said coldly, refusing to meet his gaze.
Declan pushed away from the hearth, his steps heavy as he crossed the floor toward her.
“Yer silence frustrates me, Isabelle. I can face a blade at me throat easier than a woman who willnae speak.”
She stood abruptly, turning her back to him, her breath sharp. “Then perhaps ye should learn patience, me Laird ,” she said, voice trembling only slightly, “for I’ve naught left to say to a man who shuts me out as if I were nae but a servant.”
