Isabelle lay upon the bed, already asleep, her long hair spread like silk across the pillow. Her breathing was slow and even, her face soft and peaceful in slumber, so unlike the defiant woman who had faced him earlier.
Declan set the tray down carefully upon the small table by the hearth in the sitting room then he strode across to the bedchamber. For a long moment, he stood there, looking at her. A tenderness he did not recognize stirred in his chest, unwelcome but insistent.
He stepped closer, unable to stop himself, and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek.
“Me wife,” he whispered.
Her skin was warm, delicate, soft as rose petals, and the simple contact sent a jolt through him.
The heat of desire burned low in his gut, fierce and unbidden. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to pull back before the longing overcame him.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath, stepping away as though distance could quench the ache she stirred.
“She’s yer wife, aye, but nae ready fer what that means.”
He turned sharply and crossed into the adjoining sitting room. The fire there was still burning, and he sank into the armchair before it, the tray of food untouched beside him.
After a moment, he took a spoonful of the stew, but he barely tasted it. His mind was miles away, tangled between guilt and desire and frustration.
The silence pressed heavy around him. He poured himself a cup of wine and leaned back, his thoughts dark and restless.
Was she lyin’ there dreamin’ of escape? Did she curse me name for bindin’ her to me?
He could almost hear her soft voice that would one day accuse him of forcing her into marriage.
Declan set the cup down and rubbed a hand over his face.
“Aye,” he murmured bitterly, “she hates me well enough. And why would she nae? She thinks me a brute. Maybe she’s right to.”
He sat in the flickering glow for a long time, staring into the fire as the flames shifted and danced.
Eventually, weariness won over. He rose, shrugged off his jacket, and moved back into the bedchamber to disrobe. He pulled on a fresh tunic and slid under the covers for his first night beside his wife.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The faint rustling of fabric stirred Isabelle from her sleep. Her lashes fluttered open, and for a moment she was disoriented, the velvet curtains and heavy wooden beams unfamiliar.
Then memory struck— she was in Castle McCallum, and the tall figure sitting on the edge of the bed was her husband.
Declan sat with his back to her, pulling on his boots, the muscles in his shoulders shifting with quiet power.
Her cheeks warmed as her gaze traced the expanse of his bare back, broad and corded with strength. Then he took his tunic off for a fresh one.
"My God," she whispered.
She saw them, the scars. Dozens of them. Faint white lines crossing like ghostly reminders of pain long endured. A pang ofsomething deep and tender filled her chest, stronger than she wished to feel for the man she barely knew.
Without thinking, she moved to him on the bed. When she reached out and her fingers brushed one of the scars, he stiffened instantly, every muscle locking as if struck by lightning.
Isabelle froze, her hand still against his skin.
“What are ye doin’, lass?” His voice came low and hard, the edge of warning unmistakable. He turned his head slightly though not enough to meet her eyes.
“I was just…” she faltered, her voice soft but trembling with concern. “Declan, what happened to ye? These scars, did someone…”
He cut her off sharply. “It’s none of yer concern.”
Isabelle blinked, stunned by the coldness in his tone. “None of me concern?” she repeated, her voice rising. “Ye’re me husband now, and I’ve every right to ken what’s been done to ye.”
