When the door closed and the sound of footsteps faded, Isabelle sank into the chair beside the table. The breakfast smelled divine, the steam curling upward in gentle wisps, but her appetite warred with her tangled thoughts. She reached for a slice of bannock, spreading it with the berry preserves, and took a small bite. The sweetness filled her mouth, but her mind wandered back to Declan, to the way he’d kissed her, and to the strength of his arms as if he feared she’d vanish.
Her cheeks warmed again as she recalled the night’s events, and she pressed a hand to her face.
“Saints preserve me,” she whispered, mortified. “The whole castle will ken what happened.” She could already imagine the servants gossiping below stairs, the whispers carried from hall to hall. Her heart raced at the thought though part of her, deep down, felt a flicker of pride that the Laird had claimed her so openly.
Still, uncertainty gnawed at her. What if he saw last night as a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness? She bit her lip, staring down at the half-eaten bannock.
“I dinnae ken what he truly feels,” she thought miserably, tracing a finger along the rim of her teacup. “One moment he’s cold as stone, the next he’s burnin’ like fire.”
The tea had grown lukewarm by the time she lifted it to her lips, sipping absently as her mind spun. Outside, she could hear the faint hum of activity—the clatter of pails, the murmur of stable hands, the distant roll of waves against the rocky shore. The world went on as if nothing had changed, yet everything within her had shifted.
She rose at last, crossing to the mirror above the dresser where her reflection met her, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes still soft from restless dreams. “Ye look a fool in love,” she told herself, shaking her head with a rueful smile. “And he’s likely already forgotten it.” But even as she said it, her heart refused to believe the lie.
She turned back toward the bed, her hand brushing across the rumpled sheets.
“If I’m to be his wife, I’ll do it with dignity,” she whispered. “No matter what tongues wag.”
With that, she straightened her shoulders and looked toward the door, determination mingling with the blush still coloringher cheeks. She would face whatever the day brought, even the curious stares and knowing smiles, with her head held high.
But as she looked once more at the empty side of the bed, she could not shake the quiet ache within her chest, the longing for the man who had ignited both her heart and her fears in a single night, and she wished he had been beside her when she woke.
The soft knock at the door came just as Isabelle had finished her morning tea. Sarah entered, arms laden with freshly pressed garments, and gave a cheerful curtsey.
“Good meal, me Lady ? Everything to yer liking?” she asked, her smile warm.
“Aye, everything is perfect, Sarah; thank ye,” Isabelle said.
Sarah set to work preparing the layers of clothing for the day ahead.
The dressing took time as was customary in the Highlands. First came the linen shift, light and modest, then the corset to shape her waist. Sarah tightened the laces carefully, murmuring, “the cold calls for layers, but a fine day it seems. ”
Over that came the heavy woolen skirt, deep green with embroidered trim, and a bodice fastened with silver clasps that gleamed in the light.
When the plaid was pinned over her shoulder, Isabelle caught her reflection in the looking glass and paused. She looked every bit the Lady of McCallum Castle, though her heart still fluttered with doubt and unease.
Sarah adjusted her hair into neat braids and smiled proudly at her work. “There ye are, me Lady . Fit for a queen,” she said softly.
Isabelle smiled faintly though her mind lingered elsewhere. “Thank ye, Sarah. Ye’ve a fine hand with the braid.”
The maid blushed and curtsied before gathering the spare linens. When the door shut behind her, silence filled the chamber once more, save for the faint echo of her own thoughts, drawn again to Declan.
She walked through the winding halls of the castle, her soft slippers whispering over stone floors, in search of him.
Servants passed her with respectful nods, but none could tell her where the Laird had gone. Her steps led her past the great hall and the courtyard, yet Declan was nowhere to be seen.
At last, she turned toward the west wing where the chapel lay and where Mabel was often found at prayer.
The air in the small chapel was cool and still, the scent of beeswax and herbs faint in the air. Mabel knelt before the altar, her hands folded in quiet devotion.
Isabelle waited until she finished before stepping closer. “Good morn, Sister Mabel,” she said softly, dipping her head.
Mabel rose and smiled, her expression kind yet knowing. “Good morn, Lady Isabelle. Ye look troubled; has something weighed on yer mind?”
Isabelle hesitated, unsure how to speak her worries aloud. “I cannae seem to find the Laird,” she said at last. “I’d hoped to speak with him, but he’s vanished since afore I woke.”
“Aye, that sounds like me braither ,” Mabel replied with a faint laugh. “He never could stay still longer than a breath. Likely he’s about his duties.”
Isabelle smiled politely though her heart thudded with uncertainty. She wanted to ask Mabel how to reach his heart and mind and how to speak freely with a man who so easily set her soul aflame and her reason adrift.
