“I’ve put the water to boil for yer bath,” Effie said.
“Add lavender to the bath; it is for her weddin’ after all,” Paula suggested.
“Aye, rose petals and lavender should do the trick,” Hannah added.
Isabelle allowed herself to be guided, though her thoughts screamed in protest. She could scarcely believe that within a day’s time, she would belong to a man she’d barely spoken to.
On the other hand, it is a blessin’—at least I will finally leave this cursed place and me faither’s cruel rule behind.
The Ross keep had been nothing but a prison since her mother’s death the day she was born.
Her father never forgave her for surviving when his wife did not. Every cold look, every harsh word through the years reminded her of that unspoken blame. Perhaps, in leaving, she could finally escape it.
But even as she tried to find solace in that thought, a wave of terror washed through her.
Laird McCallum, Declan Cain, was rumored to be a man of dark temper, a laird who ruled his lands with an iron hand.
Some said he’d driven his own brother from the Lairdship, others whispered he’d killed a man in cold blood. Was this the kind of man she was to wed?
“May I brush out yer braids, Miss?” Hannah asked.
“Aye, that would be fine,” Isabelle agreed.
She bit her lip hard, forcing herself not to tremble as Hannah brushed her hair out and Paula laid a gown across the bed.
Isabelle stared at her reflection in the mirror, at the pale face and wide eyes staring back. She looked like a ghost of herself.
Frustration burned hot in her chest, pushing against the fear.
How dare they all make decisions about me life as if I am nothin’ more than a pawn on a board?
She wanted to scream, to flee into the woods and never look back, but her pride would not allow it. She would face what was to come with her head high.
Isabelle took a deep, steadying breath. Whatever fate awaited her, she would not show weakness, not to her father, not to Rosaline, and certainly not to Laird McCallum. If the man truly was as ruthless as they said, then he would learn soon enough that Isabelle Ross would not be easily tamed.
“Yer bath is ready,” Effie said.
“Alright.” Isabelle moved to the steaming tub. She sank deep into the bath, the warm water scented with rose petals and lavender soothing her tense muscles.
Hannah moved quietly beside her, pouring more water over her shoulders. Isabelle let her eyes close, feeling the steam curl around her face, and for a brief moment, she imagined a life free of her father’s control. Yet the thought was fleeting, replaced swiftly by the reality that she was to be married tomorrow to a man she had never met.
“Fold the dresses as so in this trunk,” Effie instructed Paula.
“Aye,” Paula replied.
The other maids, Effie and Paula, moved about the chamber, packing her few belongings with efficiency.
Isabelle watched them, her mind spinning as she traced the folds of her nightdress and the line of her hands above the bath. She felt a strange mixture of fear and excitement, knowing she was leaving the Ross keep behind.
It’s really happenin’. I’m being married, and there’s no turning back.
Effie paused by the door, glancing at Isabelle with concern. “I’ll be back with yer supper, Miss,” she said softly.
Isabelle opened her eyes and smiled faintly. “Bring wine, Effie. I’m going to need it to sleep tonight,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.
Moments later, Isabelle rose from the bath, water dripping over her shoulders as Hannah helped her out and wrapped her in a soft, warm towel.
Every motion felt surreal, as if she were moving through a dream she could not wake from. Hannah guided her to a dressing table where she carefully brushed Isabelle’s long, brown curls, untangling the knots with gentle patience. When the hair wassmooth, she helped Isabelle into her nightshift, the fine linen cool against her damp skin.
