Bren smiled from where she stood nearby, shaking her head. “They’ve taken to ye somethin’ fierce, me Lady ,” she said fondly. “They’ve nae stopped chatterin’ about ye since ye arrived.”
Isabelle’s smile softened as she looked at the children, still pretending to cook their muddy stew.
“They remind me what joy looks like,” she said quietly. “I didnae realize how much I’d missed it.”
She reached out and touched one of the girls’ curls, feeling an unfamiliar peace settle over her. These children wanted her company and asked for it freely without judgment or demand.
“Perhaps,” she thought, “this is what I needed—someone who wants me near.”
But even as laughter filled the air, a shadow lingered in her thoughts. Declan’s cold dismissal from earlier echoed in her mind, dulling the light just a little.
How could one man stir such warmth in her one night and such pain the next? She looked toward the castle walls.
The triplets continued their games beside her, chattering like birds, their joy anchoring her to the moment.
Isabelle drew in a long, steadying breath, deciding to let Declan’s temper wait.
For now, she had laughter and sunlight, muddy hands and tiny voices, and perhaps, for the first time since arriving, she felt a glimmer of belonging.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ye’ll learn obedience, boy,or ye’ll learn pain.
Declan’s father’s voice haunted the back of his mind, cruel and cold as the stone walls of his childhood chamber.
Two days had passed since his last proper sleep because Isabelle had decided not to speak to him. The silence of the castle pressed heavy upon him. He stared at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on his desk, his mind wandering to places he wished he could forget.
Declan’s jaw tightened as he poured another glass, his hand steady despite the heaviness in his chest. He had sworn long ago that he’d never be that kind of man, but lately, with Isabelle, he felt the edge of that same darkness clawing at him.
He threw back the drink and stared into the fire, watching the flames flicker and twist like ghosts of memory. The walls of the study felt too small.
He remembered the iron bars that had covered his chamber window when he was ten years old, the same ones his father had called “protection” but were truly a cage.
“Damn it all,” Declan let out a low curse, gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened.
A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts.
“Enter,” he growled, his voice roughened from both drink and memory.
Liam stepped in, his hair damp from the mist that clung to the air outside, his expression cautious as always.
“Me Laird,” Liam said, bowing slightly. “The boats have been spotted crossin’ the loch. Killian and the men have returned.”
Declan exhaled, setting the glass down with a dull clink.
“Good,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Tell Killian I want him here in me study the moment he steps off that boat. No delay.”
“Aye, me Laird ,” Liam said, giving a curt nod before slipping back out the door.
Declan stared at the closed door for a long while after, the silence creeping in once more. He rubbed a hand over his face, forcinghis thoughts away from his past. Duty was a safer thing to focus on—the clan, the land, the ever-present threat of bandits.
It was easier than thinking of the look in Isabelle’s eyes when she defied him or how her softness chipped away at the armor he’d built around his heart.
By the time Killian arrived with a knock, Declan had poured himself another drink but had not touched it.
The door opened without ceremony, and his man at arms stepped in, mud clinging to his boots and cloak.
“Ye sent for me, me Laird ,” Killian said, bowing his head before approaching the desk.
