Declan’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Isabelle felt tears sting her eyes, and before he could see them, she spun on her heel and stormed toward the door.
The heavy oak slammed behind her, echoing down the corridor.
“Stubborn fool… thinks he’s protectin’ me when all he’s doin’ is breakin’ me heart.”
Her boots clicked against the stone floor as her frustration bubbled over, and she nearly didn’t see the figure rounding the corner until it was too late.
She collided hard into Mabel, nearly sending both of them sprawling.
“Och!” Mabel exclaimed, steadying herself with a hand to Isabelle’s arm. “Isabelle, dear, what on earth? Ye look ready to throttle someone!”
Isabelle drew a deep breath, forcing composure though her cheeks were flushed.
“Forgive me, Mabel,” she said quickly. “It’s yer stubborn braither . He’s enough to make a saint lose her patience.”
Mabel’s eyes softened, and she tilted her head knowingly. “Ah, Declan again, is it?” she said, half in sigh, half in sympathy.
Isabelle huffed, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Aye. I cannae get through to him, Mabel. He’s colder than the stones in that cursed hearth room he sleeps in.”
Mabel gave her a gentle look, but before she could reply, Isabelle lifted her chin.
“I need air before I do or say somethin’ I’ll regret.” With that, she offered a brief, apologetic smile and swept past her.
As Isabelle’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Mabel called softly after her, “Go easy on him, lass. He carries more weight than he lets on.”
Isabelle didn’t respond. She couldn’t, not when her emotions were tied in knots. Her throat was tight, her heart bruised. She hurried up the stairs toward her chamber, each step echoing like the pounding of her pulse.
When she entered, the room felt too quiet, too empty. The fire had burned low, the chill of the stones creeping into the air. Isabelle crossed to the chair near the hearth, gripping its carved back as she tried to steady herself.
“Foolish man,” she whispered under her breath. “I offer him love, and he offers me distance.”
She turned toward the wardrobe, pulling out her cloak with trembling hands. The wool was soft against her fingers, the familiar weight grounding her.
“A walk,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll take a walk and clear me head before I lose what’s left of me sense.” She fastened the clasp and drew the hood up over her hair, casting a last glance around the room.
As she approached the window, she paused. Her gaze drifted to the far bank, and there it was again. That fishing boat. The same one she’d seen days before.
It sat low on the water, unmoving, the faint shape of a figure inside it. Isabelle frowned, pressing a hand to the glass.
“Strange,” she murmured.
She squinted, trying to make out more through the haze, but the mist thickened, swallowing the shape whole.
“Perhaps ’tis just a fisherman,” she told herself softly, though her voice wavered.
With a quiet sigh, she turned away from the window. But as she stepped into the corridor once more, the image of that shadowed boat lingered in her mind, dark and still, waiting on the far side of the loch like a secret yet to be told.
She swept into the kitchens with her cloak still half-drawn, her boots clapping against the flagstones. The warmth of the hearth and the scent of roasted meats hit her all at once, but it did little to soften her mood.
Vera, the stout cook with rosy cheeks and flour dusted on her apron, looked up from kneading dough and immediately knew something was amiss.
“Och, lass,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “ye’ve got the look of a storm brewin’. What’s wrong this time?”
Isabelle let out a sharp sigh, tugging off her gloves and tossing them onto the counter.
“It’s yer Laird again,” she muttered, bitterness curling her tone. “The man could freeze the blood in me veins with a single glare.”
