“God help me,” he whispered to the night. “I cannae stay away from her forever.” But he knew come morning, he’d try.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The morning broke gray and cold over the castle grounds, the kind of Highland dawn that clung to the bones of winter.
Declan strode through the corridor, his boots striking sharp against the flagstones, jaw tight and shoulders set. Servants darted out of his path like startled birds, sensing the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“Sarah.” He reached the landing, spotting Sarah, the young maid with the flaxen hair, and called out her name.
She nearly dropped the linens she carried as she turned. “Aye, me Laird ?”
“Get the Stone Hearth chamber ready,” he ordered, his tone brisk, leaving no room for question. “I’ll be takin’ it as me own from this day forth. Fresh sheets, a fire stoked high. Make it ready before the hour is up.”
Sarah blinked, the surprise flashing in her eyes quickly masked by obedience.
“Aye, me Laird ,” she said, curtsying low before scurrying off down the hall.
Declan watched her go, his throat tight with the decision he’d just made. The Stone Hearth room, named for its great curved fireplace, was on the far side of the keep, away from the chambers he shared with Isabelle.
It would be quiet there. Cold. Empty. Just as he needed it. He couldn’t keep sleeping beside her, couldn’t bear the heat of her body inches from his, the softness of her voice in the dark. Every night spent in that bed was a battle against himself, and sooner or later, he’d lose.
Better distance than danger. Better silence than regret.
That was what he told himself as he pushed down the ache forming in his chest. He would keep her safe, even if it meant breaking her heart.
By midmorning, Declan was already in a foul mood. He stalked across the bailey, his cloak snapping in the brisk wind, his men scattering before him.
“Where’s the tower guard?” he barked. “If I find one more man asleep on watch, I’ll have his hide nailed to the gates.”
The young sentry stammered an apology, but Declan waved him off with a glare sharp enough to cut through steel.
He moved on to the pens where the sheep herder, old Fergus, was counting the morning flock.
“What’s this?” Declan growled, pointing toward the fence. “That gate’s loose again. I told ye last week to make sure it is mended proper.”
Fergus bobbed his head nervously. “Aye, me Laird , I’ll see to it right away.”
“See that ye do,” Declan snapped. “I’ll nay have another beast lost to the loch because ye cannae hammer a nail straight.”
He turned on his heel and strode off before the man could answer, his frustration echoing in the tense silence he left behind.
The castle itself seemed to shrink beneath his temper. Hall boys ducked into side corridors. Stable hands pretended to busy themselves with nonexistent tasks. Every clatter of his boots sent ripples of unease through the air, and somewhere in his mind, Declan hated himself for it.
He’d become his father that morning—cold, sharp-tongued, quick to anger—but the thought only hardened him further.
When he reached the kitchens, the scent of baking bread and roasted meat did little to soften his mood.
Vera, the castle cook, was bustling about with her apron dusted in flour, stirring a pot over the hearth. She froze when she saw him fill the doorway, his presence dark and towering.
“Vera,” Declan said curtly, his voice echoing against the stone walls. “When supper’s ready, ye’ll take mine to the Stone Hearth room. I’ll be dining there from now on.”
Vera hesitated, her plump hands twisting in her apron. “Of course, me Laird ,” she stammered. “Will, will Lady McCallum be joinin’ ye?”
He stiffened. “Nay. She’ll take her supper with me sister Mabel in the solar. Make sure of it.”
The woman’s eyes widened, but she bowed her head quickly. “Aye, me Laird . I’ll see to it.”
“Good,” he muttered, his tone clipped. “And make sure the fire’s strong in that room. I’ll nae have the cold creep in.”
