She walked quickly through the hall, her heart pounding as if the weight of Rosaline’s ruined gown followed her.
I wish I was with me sister instead.
At the turn of the corridor, she nearly collided with Effie, a young maid carrying a tray of greenery for the great hall.
The girl stopped short, curtsying hastily. “Beg yer pardon, Miss!” she gasped, setting the tray aside. “Is all well, Miss Isabelle?”
Isabelle pressed her lips together, then exhaled softly. “Nay, Effie, all is nae well,” she said, her brown eyes troubled. “The weddin’ dress for Rosaline is too small. I have to find a way to mend the mess.” Her voice trembled though she fought to keep it steady.
Effie’s eyes widened, her freckles standing out against her pale face. “Too small?” she whispered, clutching the edge of her apron. “Och, but the weddin’ is in only a few hours! What’ll ye do?” Her voice rose with worry, glancing nervously down the hall.
“I daenae ken,” Isabelle admitted, shaking her head. Her curls tumbled forward as she spoke, brushing against her flushed cheeks. “I sent the right measurements to the seamstress. I swear it. But it matters little now; Father will have me hide if I daenae fix it fast.”
Effie bit her lip, frowning.
“Has the groom arrived?” Isabelle asked suddenly, the question spilling from her lips before she could think. “Do ye ken if the McCallum banners have been seen?” Her voice softened with an edge of dread.
Effie nodded, her eyes wide. “Aye, Miss. I heard from the guards that they were seen at the gates only moments ago.” She loweredher voice to a whisper. “They say the Laird himself is a stern man; he’ll expect all to be perfect.”
Isabelle’s breath caught, and she pressed a hand to her chest. “Perfect,” she repeated faintly. “Oh, Effie, I’m ruined if this isnae fixed.”
Her eyes darted toward the storage room. “Fetch the seamstress for me, tell her to meet me in the storerooms this instant. I’ve nay time to waste.”
Effie curtsied quickly, her face full of sympathy. “Aye, Miss, I’ll find her straightaway.” Gathering her skirts, the girl hurried down the corridor, her footsteps fading fast against the stone.
Isabelle stood for a moment, her heart hammering, before turning and making her way toward the storerooms. If she failed to find a solution, her father wasn’t the only one she would have to face. She would also have to deal with this unknown Laird.
The flicker of torchlight danced against the walls as she stepped inside the storeroom where bolts of fabric and various gowns were stacked in neat rows. Isabelle ran her fingers over the materials, her mind racing. She could feel her father’s anger even from afar, heavy as a curse upon her shoulders.
If she could find another gown, something white, something fine enough, perhaps she could make it pass for a wedding dress. She could stitch on lace, trim it with pearls or ribbon, make it right somehow. Her hands trembled as she pulled one bolt of fabric after another, desperate to find one that might do.
“Come now, Isabelle,” she whispered to herself. “Think, lass. Ye can fix this.”
She paused, gazing at the rolls of silk and satin stacked high above her. One of them gleamed faintly in the dim light, a soft ivory color that caught her breath.
“That one,” she murmured, reaching up to touch it. The fabric was smooth beneath her fingertips, cool and fine, fit for a bride.
A rush of hope fluttered in her chest. She could drape it over one of the older gowns, perhaps, and sew fresh seams to make it appear new. Anything that might save her from disgrace in her father’s eyes. Anything that might save Rosaline’s wedding from ruin.
She pulled the fabric down carefully, letting it spill across her arms in soft waves. Her slender fingers traced its edge, already planning the stitches she might make.
“I’ll nae fail this time,” she whispered, her brown eyes bright with determination.
“I’ll mend what’s broken, even if it kills me.”
And if I fail, thatmay just be what awaits me.
CHAPTER TWO
“Why did I agree to this?” Declan murmured as he swung down from his horse. Snow drifted softly across the courtyard of Castle Ross, settling upon Declan’s shoulders.
His breath came out in pale clouds, mingling with the flurries that clung to his cloak. He brushed the snow from his gloves, his sharp gaze sweeping over the great stone walls.
The cold bit through the air, but Declan barely felt it. His mind was far too occupied with the task before him.
Liam followed close behind, landing in the snow with a light thud. The young man was sturdy and broad-shouldered, his cheeks red from the chill.
“We’ve arrived, m e Laird, and earlier than expected too,” he said, giving a small grin as he adjusted the reins of Declan’s horse. “The folk at the gate seemed mighty joyful to see us, I reckon.”
