Page 95 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
“Aye. Death follows Declan Cain, lass. Ye should’ve stayed far away cause ye are next.”
Isabelle shook her head, defiant even as fear glimmered in her eyes. “I’ll take me chances with me husband. I’ll take him over ye and yer poison any day.”
Declan’s heart pounded like thunder. He’d heard enough. His rage was cold now, sharp and sure as steel. Rosaline’s words echoed in his skull, but one truth drowned them out-—no one would ever harm Isabelle again.
Declan crouched low, every muscle in his body taut as he listened to the venom spilling from Rosaline’s mouth. His breath steamed in the cold air, his fury mounting with each cruel word she threw at Isabelle.
“Ye are nae but trash, Isabelle. Once ye are dead, I will give McCallum some time to heal then he will marry me as he should have that day at Castle Ross,” Rosaline spat.
That Rosaline, the woman who had once been promised to him, had sunk to this treachery burned in his chest like fire. He had known she was bitter but not mad enough to scheme with bandits.
Moving like a shadow, Declan crept through the underbrush until he was directly behind one of the so-called fishermen. The man reeked of ale and filth, his knife glinting faintly in the firelight.
Declan rose, swift and silent, and pressed the edge of his sword against the bandit’s neck.
“Daenae move,” he growled, his voice a low thunder.
Rosaline spun, her eyes wide as she caught sight of him emerging from the darkness.
“McCallum,” she gasped, her face paling.
Isabelle turned sharply at the sound of his voice, her bound hands trembling.
“Declan!” she breathed, relief and shock mingling in her tone.
He stepped forward, dragging the bandit with him, the sword biting just enough to draw a thin line of blood. His glare cut to Rosaline.
“Ye dare touch me wife then stand there speakin’ of worth? The only trash here, Rosaline, is ye.”
Rosaline’s face twisted with rage, and she stamped her foot like a spoiled child.
“Ye were supposed to marry me!” she said. “Ye made me a promise before that wretch turned yer head!”
Declan’s jaw clenched, but his voice was cold and steady. “Aye, I made promises once, but I broke them the moment I saw the kind of heart ye carried. Isabelle is me wife, me choice, and me heart. Nothin’ ye say will ever change that.”
Rosaline’s eyes glistened, fury flashing as she turned toward the two bandits.
“Get him,” she hissed.
Declan pressed harder on the blade, forcing his captive to grunt.
“Release her,” Declan ordered, his voice like steel scraping over stone. “Do it now, or I’ll send yer blood to stain this snow.”
The bandits exchanged uneasy glances, the one in Declan’s grasp trembling.
“We’ve our orders, and willnae be paid ’til we see them done,” one muttered, raising his dagger.
Declan’s eyes darkened, the firelight catching on his blade. “Aye,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “then ye’ve chosen death.”
The air crackled with tension, the only sounds the wind through the trees and the crackle of the fire.
Rosaline stepped back, a flicker of fear crossing her face as Declan shifted his stance.
He looked every bit the laird then—unyielding, fierce, and ready to kill for the woman he loved.
Declan moved with deadly precision, his sword flashing in the firelight. The man he held tried to twist free, but Declan was faster. He drove his blade clean through the man’s neck, sending him crumpling into the snow.
“Ye’ll pay for that, bastard laird!” the other lunged forward, roaring.
