Page 10 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
But as he glanced back at Isabelle, another thought began to take root. Perhaps this turn of fate could serve him better than the path he’d come expecting.
He stopped suddenly, turning to face Laird Ross. “I’ve a solution,” he said firmly.
Ross blinked, confused. “A solution?”
“Aye,” Declan replied, his tone calm but resolute. “Since the lass’ name has been tied to mine, and I bear some part of this misfortune, then let me be the one to mend it. Why nae let me marry Isabelle instead of Rosaline?”
Gasps filled the room—Rosaline’s sharp and indignant, Isabelle’s soft and shocked.
The fire popped, breaking the silence that followed. Declan stood unmoved, his expression unreadable.
Rosaline stepped forward, her voice trembling with outrage. “Ye cannae mean that! Ye came here to wedme!I am the one betrothed to ye!”
Declan turned his gaze on her, cold as steel. “Nay, I came to wed the lass who was worthy of me name, one of honor, nae mischief. Yet I find ye’ve played games that would shame a child.”
He turned slightly toward Isabelle. “And it seems yer cousin was the one caught in the crossfire of yer foolishness who will suffer. If I can remedy her sufferin’ caused by me presence and still tie our clans in marriage, I see nay problem with it.”
Laird Ross, who moments earlier had looked ready to collapse, now stood straighter, eyes widening with sudden hope.
“Marry Isabelle?” he repeated, almost as if he couldn't believe the suggestion. “Aye… aye, that would mend it. It would settle the whispers and keep the peace between our clans. Ye’d be joinin’ with the Ross name, and nay stain would linger after that for me daughter.”
Declan nodded once, keeping his expression controlled. “It seems the most practical course. I’ve nay attachment to the lass I was meant to wed; we met but this day. There’s nay insult in redirectin’ the match. It’s better than lettin’ scandal breed ill will.”
Rosaline turned pale, her lips trembling as she looked from her cousin to Declan. “Ye cannae just cast me aside like I mean naught!” she cried. “I was promised ye’d be mine!”
Declan met her outburst with a calm, cutting stare. “I belong to nay one. I seek peace between our clans, nae a life bound to deceit.”
He looked at Isabelle who stood motionless, her breath unsteady.
Laird Ross stepped closer to Declan, nearly smiling now. “Ye’re a wise man, Laird McCallum. This is a solution that honors both families.” His tone was overly eager, desperate to seize the lifeline before it slipped away. “Aye, I had nae thought of it, but it makes perfect sense.”
Declan inclined his head, though inwardly he scoffed at the man’s cowardice.
So quick to sacrifice his daughter to salvage his pride.
Still, he saw the advantage in this. Isabelle was no fool, and unlike her cousin, she had the look of a woman who understood restraint, loyalty, and courage.
His eyes lingered on Isabelle, who stood in stunned silence, her face pale and unreadable.
“Then it’s settled,” he said quietly. “I’ll take Lady Isabelle Ross as me bride if she’ll have me.”
Laird Ross exhaled in relief, bowing his head in thanks. “She will have ye of course. Ye’ll nae regret it, lad. The lass will make ye proud.”
But Declan’s gaze remained fixed on Isabelle.
She was proud, but perhaps she would bring a challenge he never knew he sought.
The door swung open, and a stream of servants entered, their arms laden with trays. The air filled with the aroma of roasted venison glazed in honey, oat bannocks still steaming from the hearth, and bowls of neeps and tatties seasoned with butter and herbs.
A great platter of smoked salmon gleamed beneath sprigs of dill, and a chunk of sliced ham, adorned with holly, commanded the center of the table. Silver pitchers of whisky and spiced wine clinked as the servants moved with hurried grace, setting everything in its place before bowing and retreating in silence.
The room quieted again, thick with tension that no feast could disguise. A servant approached Declan with a filled glass. He brought it to his lips, taking a slow drink as his eyes landed on Isabelle.
Her lips parted slightly, trembling as if she meant to speak, yet no words came. The firelight danced against her face, highlighting the flush of her cheeks and the defiant spark in her brown eyes.
Declan tilted his head, amused by the contradiction in her, anger and shock warring in the same lovely features. He found himself enjoying it far too much, the sight of her struggling between fury and composure stirring a dark satisfaction in him.
Setting down his glass, he reached for the decanter and poured another measure of whisky.
