Page 64 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
Declan’s gaze flicked toward her, his dark eyes studying her face with that piercing intensity that always made her heart stumble. “New memories?” he echoed, his voice rough.
“Aye,” Isabelle said, her tone softening. “They’ve lost enough already. Let them have a reason to laugh again on that day, even if it’s only a few ribbons, a candle, or a bit of song. It wouldnae take much, Declan. Ye could give them that.”
Declan was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the flames in the hearth. The orange light flickered over his sharp jaw and furrowed brow, the tension in him slowly easing. Finally, he spoke, voice lower now. “I never thought of that,” he admitted. “I only ever thought of sparin’ them the grief. But mayhap… ye’re right, lass. Perhaps it’s time to give them new memories to replace the grief of the old memory.”
A soft smile spread across Isabelle’s lips, her heart warming at the sound of his words.
“So, we’ll do it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Declan nodded slowly, his expression still thoughtful. “Aye,” he said, his tone resolute but gentle.
“Nae a feast for the clan. Just somethin’ for the bairns. That much should be fine.”
Joy bubbled up in Isabelle before she could stop it. She moved before she even thought, throwing her arms around his neck with a laugh of relief.
“Oh, Declan!” she said, her words tumbling out in delight. “Ye’ve made them the happiest lasses in all of Scotland, I ken it already.”
The movement seemed to surprise him at first. His hands hovered in the air for a heartbeat before they settled firmly around her waist, the warmth of his touch searing through the thin fabric of her nightshift.
Isabelle suddenly realized what she had done, how close she was to him, pressed against his solid chest, and her face went crimson.
She pulled back quickly, stammering. “Forgive me, I didnae mean…”
Declan’s hand caught her arm before she could retreat further.
“Dae nae,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with desire.
His eyes locked with hers, and the air between them thickened with unspoken tension. “Ye dae nae need to apologize, Isabelle.”
Her breath hitched. His tone was different, soft but commanding, tender but dangerous. She tried to glance away, but his hand tilted her chin back toward him.
“Declan…” she whispered, the sound of his name trembling in the air.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed her.
The world seemed to fall away at once. His mouth was warm, demanding, but there was a depth in it, something that spoke not just of desire but of unspoken longing, of grief and tenderness tangled together. Isabelle felt her knees weaken as his hand slid to the small of her back, drawing her closer, until she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her own.
Her hands found his shoulders almost without thought, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The taste of whisky lingered faintly on his lips, mingling with the scent of pine and smoke that clung to him.
She melted against him, her heartbeat quickening as he deepened the kiss, his thumb brushing along her jaw in a motion so gentle it made her shiver.
For a moment, she forgot the world entirely, forgot her anger, her confusion, her fears. There was only him: the strength of his arms, the heat of his skin, the soft growl in his throat that made her pulse race. When he finally drew back, the air between them was electric, their breaths ragged and uneven.
Declan’s eyes searched hers, his expression unreadable.
“Ye drive me mad, woman,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers. “One moment, ye’re challengin’ me like a warrior, and the next, ye’re meltin’ me like a candle.”
Isabelle felt her heart flutter, and her cheeks flushed as she tried to steady her breath.
“Then mayhap ye should stop fightin’ me,” she said softly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
He let out a low, rough chuckle. “Aye, but where would the fun in that be?”
Their laughter mingled quietly, breaking the heavy stillness that had lingered for days. Declan lifted a strand of her hair and tucked it gently behind her ear, his fingers lingering for just a heartbeat too long.
“Ye’re somethin’ else, Isabelle McCallum,” he said quietly, his voice softening in a way that made her chest tighten.
“And ye,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, “are far less fearsome than ye pretend to be.”
