Declan nodded, lifting one arm as the man guided the tunic over his broad shoulders. Fingers adjusted the seams, tightening straps where needed, ensuring the garment hugged his muscular frame without restricting movement.
Next came the kilt, pleated and draped with exact care, its tartan colors bright beneath the morning light. Declan allowed the man to fasten the belt securely around his waist, the ceremonial dagger sliding snugly into its sheath at his hip.
Leather boots were pulled over his calves, polished and snug, the soles stiff as he flexed his feet. Finally, the small ribbon was tied into his hair, the finishing touch that completed the appearance of a proud laird ready to wed.
Declan stepped back to survey himself, hands on his hips, feeling the weight of the garments and the significance they carried. The colors of McCallum pride wrapped around him like armor, a signal to all who would see him that he was not only a warrior but a man of authority, a man who commanded respect.
“Good. Ye’ve done well,” he said.
He allowed himself a small grin, thinking of Isabelle and how this day had unfolded, the chaos of yesterday now giving way to this ceremonious morning. The servant gave a quiet nod, satisfied with his work, and stepped back to await any further instructions.
“I am at yer disposal for this day, Laird,” the servant said.
Declan ran a hand down the front of his tunic, the smooth wool scratching slightly beneath his fingers, and straightened the tartan folds of his kilt. He took a deep breath, chest expanding beneath the sturdy fabric, and glanced toward the door, knowing soon he would be expected to make his entrance.
With every detail in place, every piece of clothing properly arranged, he felt ready. Ready not just for the wedding but for the challenges, and surprises, that awaited him beyond the walls of his chamber.
“Where shall I wait?” Declan asked.
“Laird Ross bid ye to the drawin’ room if ye wish it,” the servant said.
“Aye,” he agreed.
The servant led the way out of the room and to the drawing room. Laird Ross stood up in greeting.
“Welcome, Laird McCallum,” he greeted.
“Good mornin’, Laird Ross,” he said.
Declan sat down and leaned against the high-backed chair in the drawing room, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Laird Ross fidget nervously before him.
Rosaline entered the room quietly and sat down.
The older man’s face was flushed, eyes darting between him and Rosaline, who stood with her hands clasped demurely but with a smug tilt to her chin. “Me Laird McCallum,” Ross began, voice trembling, “this was nae meant to embarrass ye, not at all. If… if ye have changed yer mind, ye can still take Rosaline as yer bride instead of Isabelle; it’s entirely up to ye. I wanted to make that known to ye.”
Declan’s gaze flicked to Rosaline, noting the serene composure of her face and the faint curl of her lips that betrayed a smug expectation. He could feel her arrogance, the confidence that he would somehow choose her despite the mess she made the day before.
His hand itched at his side, remembering the trick she had played, locking him in that tiny storeroom. He thought briefly that she was lucky to still have her head attached; any other man might have dealt with her far differently.
He allowed Laird Ross to ramble on, his words a blur as the man attempted to smooth over yesterday’s disaster. Ross spoke of propriety, of Clan Ross’ honor and how such an incident should never have befallen a guest of McCallum stature.
He went on about family alliances and the importance of appearances in front of their clansmen, trying to sound calm but failing entirely. Declan let it continue, amused at the elder’s growing unease and Rosaline’s mounting frustration.
Finally, Declan straightened, his deep brown eyes flashing with impatience, and his voice cut through the room like a blade.
“Do ye think me a fool?”
Silence fell instantly; the words seemed to echo against the stone walls.
Laird Ross stammered, “Of course nae, Laird, I… ” but Declan raised a hand, silencing him before he could finish.
“I have already made me choice,” Declan said, voice low but firm, eyes locked on Ross. “I will marry Isabelle. And let me add, I am thankful this incident occurred. I would nae have tolerated the other woman who was chosen for me. I daenae ken if any other laird would be able to, either,” he added, glancing briefly at Rosaline, whose cheeks flamed crimson.
Ross’ face tightened, and he tried to intervene again, offering, “Rosaline is a perfect lady, trained well, raised for a laird such as yerself. She…”
Declan raised a single eyebrow, the motion sharp and cutting. “I daenae ken why ye still daenae understand me,” he said evenly. “I am either marryin’ yer daughter, or we go to war for the insults ye have placed upon me. Yer choice.”
Ross’ jaw fell slightly, the panic in his eyes betraying his polite facade. He opened his mouth to argue then thought better of it, realizing the stubborn, immovable determination in Declan’s gaze.
