She took a shaky step back, her hands clutching the fabric that shielded her. Her breath trembled as she met his accusing glare, knowing there was no way to explain that she had been tricked.
From behind her father came the soft rustle of silken skirts and the unmistakable sound of smug amusement.
Rosaline appeared, golden hair gleaming like a halo in the lamplight though her smile was anything but angelic.
“Uncle,” she said sweetly, stepping closer, “I heard odd noises comin’ from this room, so I thought it best to fetch ye.”
Isabelle’s pulse stilled. The realization hit her like a blow; Rosaline had orchestrated this not as simple mischief, but to completely ruin her. She locked her in a room with a stranger, so the whispers would spread like wildfire, and there was no chance of her reputation recovering.
Rosaline pressed a hand delicately to her lips, feigning shock though her eyes glittered with delight. “Och, cousin,” she murmured, voice trembling with false concern. “Ye dinnae tell me ye fancied hidin’ away with men ye daenae ken. Poor Uncle, to find ye in such a state.” Her tone was soft, but every word was a dagger.
Isabelle stiffened, her humiliation giving way to anger. “Ye ken well this wasyerdoing, Rosaline!” she snapped, her voice shaking but fierce. “Ye locked the door yerself, and now, ye stand there like butter wouldnae melt in yer mouth.”
She turned to her father, desperation in her eyes. “Faither , ye must ken I’d never…”
Isabelle’s fingers tightened on the fabric around her shoulders, shame heating her face as she realized just how well her cousin’s trap had worked.
Laird McCallum stood tall beside her, his jaw set in a grim line, his dark eyes narrowing at the scene.
“Aye, this is the most I’ve ever been insulted,” he said, his deep voice echoing off the stone walls. “I came here as a guest of yerclan, Laird Ross, and ye repay me by lockin’ me in a room with a lass?” His tone was sharp, filled with disbelief and anger.
Laird Ross blanched, his fury shifting uneasily into something that looked like fear.
“Ye accuseme?” he said, his voice trembling slightly before he steadied it. “It’sme ownclan that should feel insulted! Ye think I’d let me daughter lure a guest into these rooms alone? Ye dishonor me household by suggestin’ such a thing.”
His hand clenched tightly at his side as he turned a glare on Isabelle.
“Yer daughter?” Declan repeated, his brows furrowing deeply as he looked at Isabelle then back at the older man. He couldn’t believe that this lass was truly Laird Ross’ daughter; they acted nothing alike.
“So this is yer kin? Then ye’ve a strange way of protectin’ her, Laird. If this is how ye treat yer own blood, I daenae want to ken what that means for Clan Ross.” He folded his arms over his broad chest, his tone laced with contempt.
"Faither, please…" Isabelle pleaded.
“Enough!” Laird Ross barked, cutting her off though his face betrayed uncertainty. “I’ll nae hear another word from ye, Isabelle. Ye’ve brought shame upon this house.” His gaze darted to Declan again, wary now. “Ye’ve been grievously wronged, thatmuch is certain, but I assure ye, there was nay intention to insult ye.”
Declan’s mouth twisted into a grim smirk. “Nay intention?” he said slowly. “Then ye expect me to believe a lass was simply wanderin’ about, happenin’ to lock a door behind me? I daenae take kindly to being made a fool of, Laird Ross.” His tone softened just slightly as he looked toward Isabelle.
Isabelle’s breath caught under that look. “I swear to ye,” she said quietly, her voice trembling but sincere, “I dinnae ken anythin’ of this. It was a jest, cruel and foolish, but I had nay part in it.” She dared to lift her chin, meeting his eyes despite her father’s warning glare.
“Then ye’ve a wicked cousin indeed,” he muttered, his brogue low and dangerous. He turned his attention sharply back to the woman that had feigned crying and a false attack to lead him into the storage room.
Laird Ross sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “This is a disgrace,” he muttered.
Isabelle’s pulse quickened as her father’s furious voice filled the narrow corridor. His face was crimson with outrage, his jaw set so tight she feared he might crack a tooth.
“Ye came here to wed Rosaline, yet ye chose to have secret relations with none other thanIsabelle! Me own daughter!” The words sliced through the air like a blade.
Rosaline gasped audibly, the color draining from her face as realization dawned. Until this very moment, she had not known the stranger she’d locked her cousin in with was none other than her own betrothed.
“Laird McCallum?” she cried, her voice high and trembling. “This is he? But…. but he’smebetrothed!”
Isabelle turned toward her cousin, satisfaction flickering in her chest like a secret flame. Rosaline’s expression was priceless, her proud lips parted, her cheeks pale as new snow. Though Isabelle’s own reputation now dangled by a thread, she could not deny a bitter sense of poetic justice. If she were to be ruined, then Rosaline too would bear the sting of scandal, forever known as the woman whose betrothed had been caught behind a locked door with another before the wedding vows were even spoken.
Isabelle could hear the mumbling of panicked servants in the corridor. She flushed red as she realized this incident would be on everyone’s tongues within the hour.
Declan stood firm, his dark eyes cold and steady though the muscle in his jaw twitched.
“I didnothin’to defile the lass,” he said, his voice low and measured but filled with restrained anger. “I ken well how this appears, Laird Ross, but ye’ll find nay dishonor in me conduct.” His broad shoulders squared as he faced the older man, unflinching even under his searing glare.
