Killian raised a brow, undeterred. “Aye, aye, as ye say, me Laird . But still, I am curious how the lady fares. Seems quite the tale, ye ken? One bride spurned and another claimed in her stead. Ye dae nae make dull choices.”
Declan gave a short snort. “Ye’d do best to keep yer curiosity quiet. The lady’s temper matches the storm, but she’ll learn her place soon enough.”
He shot Killian a grim look. “Rosaline was a spoiled bairn, fit for naught but tantrums. Isabelle’s a woman of spirit, though the lass seems determined to test me patience.”
Killian laughed, shaking his head. “Ah, so it’s the spirit ye admire then, even while it vexes ye. Gods help ye, Declan, ye’ve wed a flame and then wonder why it burns.”
His tone softened slightly as they crested a hill and looked down upon the distant village. “Still, I wish ye well with her. The name McCallum could use a woman’s warmth again.”
Declan’s expression eased, though pride lingered in his eyes. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Mayhap ye’re right. But she’ll need time to ken her duty and to ken me.”
They reached the outskirts of Glen Oak village. Declan paused, his eyes surveying the land before them.
“The defenses in Glen Oak are weak. We’ll strengthen the fences, reinforce the watch posts, and make sure every man’s armed proper.”
Killian nodded. “Aye, I’ll see to that. I’ll speak with their reeve and take count of the men fit to serve guard duty.”
They descended into the valley where smoke from hearth fires drifted lazily upward, and villagers paused to bow as their laird rode past. Declan’s gaze swept across the settlement, fences mended, thatch replaced, guards stationed where he’d ordered weeks before. It was progress but not enough.
“See that the patrols double their rounds,” Declan commanded. “I’ll nae have one soul taken by thieves on me land.” He dismounted, boots hitting the frozen ground with purpose. “If the men grow weary, remind them who they serve and what’s at stake if they fail.”
Killian followed, smirking as he glanced toward the cottages. “Aye, Laird McCallum.”
Declan turned, eyes narrowing on the horizon where dark clouds gathered once more. “There’s a storm comin’, and I’ll be damned if I’m nae ready fer it.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I'm expected to be a maither? Me?
Isabelle paced the length of the bedchamber, her bare feet silent against the thick wool rug. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammer with disbelief.
She stopped by the tall window, the early light spilling through the drapes.
“I cannae even tend to meself without makin’ a mess of it, an’ now I’m to care for children I did nae bear.”
She’d wed Declan in haste, a man she’d barely known, all because pride and circumstance had tangled her fate with his. Now, she was Lady McCallum with a castle full of strangers and small lives depending on her.
A knock startled her from her thoughts, sharp against the heavy oak door. Isabelle turned, heart still racing.
“Aye?” she called, her voice unsteady. The door opened slowly, and the young maid, Sarah, stepped inside, curtsying low.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, me Lady ,” the girl said with a soft smile. “The Laird’s sent me to help ye dress. The household’s expectin’ ye.” She carried a folded bundle of deep-colored fabric in her arms, careful as if it were something sacred.
Isabelle blinked, caught off guard by the maid’s easy manner. “I’d no idea I’d be called upon so soon. I’m hardly… ” She broke off, looking down at the dress now being laid across the bed.
“It’s in the McCallum colors, me Lady ,” Sarah said, smoothing the folds. “Dark green with threads of gold and black."
She ran her hand along the bodice where fine stitching caught the morning light, intricate as ivy creeping through stone.
Isabelle stepped closer, fingers brushing the fabric. It was heavier than she’d expected, soft wool lined with silk, warm but commanding. “It’s beautiful,” she admitted reluctantly.
Sarah lifted the first shift and handed it over. “Now, arms up if ye please.”
Isabelle obeyed, though her movements were hesitant. She let out a quiet sigh as the cool linen slid over her skin. The next layer was wool, dyed the deep green of pine forests after rain. Sarah fastened the golden clasp at the shoulder, then arranged the plaid across Isabelle’s back so it draped in perfect folds.
“There,” she said approvingly. “Now ye look like Lady McCallum.”
Isabelle glanced toward the mirror, startled by the transformation. The woman staring back looked composed, dignified, even regal. Yet beneath it all, she felt the same turmoil, the same unsteady ground beneath her feet.
