Every step in the snow-laden courtyard felt like a departure from the girl she had been into a new world—wild, uncertain, and thrilling beyond her imagining.
Isabelle followed Declan through the wide archway into the great hall, her heart beating fast with both excitement and apprehension. The hall was ablaze with Yule evergreen garlands hung from the rafters, intertwined with glimmering silver ribbons and clusters of red berries, and the scent of pine mingled with roasting meats.
Long tables were heaped with steaming platters of roast venison, buttery potatoes, fresh bread, and bowls of rich stew, all accented with golden goblets of wine and whiskey.
Musicians played lively reels in the corner, and servants flitted about, pouring drinks and ensuring the tables were brimming with the finest Scottish fare.
Declan’s hand found hers before she could think to resist, and he led her to the center of the hall as the fiddlers struck up a lively tune.
“If ye crave tradition, I shall dance this one dance with ye, but daenae ask me for another, Isabelle, or ye’ll regret it,” he warned.
“I can promise ye, Laird McCallum, if I do, ye’ll nae forget it in a hurry,” she replied, planting her hand on his shoulder as he twirled her effortlessly.
Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, the warmth of his chest against hers igniting a heat she hadn’t expected. His gaze stern and steady.
As the song ended, Isabelle excused herself, her skirts swirling around her ankles, and slipped into the corridor.
The hall noises faded behind her, leaving only the echo of her own footsteps.
Effie appeared just ahead, curtsying, and Isabelle whispered, “Thank ye for all the help ye have given.”
“Aye, me Lady . I have yer items all packed in the trunks in yer room,” she said.
“I will look in upon them afore I am set to leave.” Isabelle gave her a hug then watched the maid depart.
She was about to return to the hall when a sharp voice sliced through the quiet.
“Ye think ye’ve taken him from me?” Rosaline stepped forward, her eyes flashing with venom. “I curse yer marriage, Isabelle Ross. It’ll never be successful, for Declan was meant to be mine!”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes, taking a slow, measured breath. “I am nay longer Isabelle Ross but Lady McCallum, wife of a laird, and ye will address me as such. Ye’ll find, cousin, that curses do nae follow the strong-hearted or the innocent,” she replied, her voice cold and cutting before she continued past the trembling Rosaline with her head held high.
Isabelle made her way to her room afterward, checking that her belongings were packed and trunks ready to be loaded into the McCallum carriage.
She ensured that every gown, cloak, and accessory was packed, a small sense of satisfaction swelling in her chest at the order she had imposed.
Even with the chaos of the past days, this small measure of control grounded her. Once everything was set, she took a deep breath and returned to the great hall, determined to join her husband at the head of the table.
Declan was waiting, seated. His eyes lingered on her, and she could feel the same thrilling tension from their earlier dance.
Declan leaned closer and whispered, “Ye will be ready to depart after this feast, lass. I daenae tend to linger.”
“I understand. Me belongings are packed and ready to be loaded onto yer carriage."
“Good, ye will do well if ye simply obey me commands,” he said sternly.
“Obey?”
“Aye, I expect obedience, loyalty and above all else, ye to ken that I am yer Laird,” he said.
Declan sat stiffly in the back of the McCallum carriage, his boots planted firmly on the floor as the horses trotted through the snow-covered highlands. The warmth of the blankets did little to soothe his irritation, for Isabelle beside him refused to settle, her hands fidgeting in her lap as if she were already plotting some act of defiance.
He had married her, bound her legally to him, and yet she looked at him with that sharp, unyielding gaze as though daring him to try to command her. The audacity of it fueled a fire within himhe wasn’t used to feeling; she was stubborn, yes, but bold in a way that made his teeth grind and his pulse quicken.
“Ye’ll sit properly,” he barked, his voice low and commanding though the carriage’s confined space made the words seem sharper than intended.
“I sit how I please, Laird McCallum,” Isabelle shot back, her tone dripping with challenge. “Do ye think a marriage means I become some docile doll for ye to order about?”
Declan’s jaw tightened as his hands gripped the edge of his seat. “Daenae push me patience, lass. I married ye, and that means obedience.”
