“Aye,” she said softly, “it is late. But promise me, Declan, ye’ll visit the girls soon. They’ll think the world’s ended if ye dinnae.”
“I’ll think on it.”
“Thinkin’ isnae doin’,” she replied though her tone held more affection than reproach.
“Still scoldin’ me like I’m a bairn, are ye? Some things never change.”
“And thank the Lord for that,” she said with a small smile.
Declan downed the last of his whiskey, the burn grounding him, reminding him he was still flesh and blood. He set the glass down and inclined his head.
“Goodnight, Mabel. Rest well. Ye’ll have prayers enough to say for us both, I reckon.”
She gave him a knowing smile though her eyes were sad. “Aye, and I’ll keep sayin’ them till they’re answered.”
Declan turned and walked toward the door. As he stepped into the corridor, the flicker of the torches cast fleeting shadows across his scarred face. He told himself it was exhaustion that made his chest ache, not guilt. But deep down, he knew better.
I wish I could be a good faither like me braither, Tristan, was to those girls.
His father’s voice still haunted his memory, cruel and cold.
Declan clenched his fists as he walked, vowing he’d never be that man but doubting he could ever truly escape him.
He made his way toward the kitchens. When he pushed open the heavy kitchen door, the warmth and scent of simmering stew greeted him. Inside, a handful of servants worked quietly, their heads snapping up the instant they saw their laird in the doorway.
Every one of them froze. A few of the younger ones paled, clutching ladles or cloths like shields.
The old cook, Vera, was the first to find her voice.
She curtsied low, her hands trembling slightly. “Me Laird,” she murmured, her tone cautious, the title heavy with both fear and respect. The others quickly did the same.
Declan gave a curt nod, his deep voice cutting through the air like a blade.
“I need a tray prepared. Somethin’ proper. To take up to me wife.” His words were calm, but the weight behind them made no one question the order.
“Aye, me Laird ,” she said quickly, motioning to the others. “Ye heard the Laird; get movin’, all of ye!”
The servants sprang into action, scurrying around the wide hearth. Declan stood in the corner, silent and brooding, watching them as they worked.
They ladled thick venison stew into deep bowls, its aroma rich with herbs and slow-cooked meat. Fresh oatcakes were added to the tray beside a wedge of crumbly cheese, smoked haddock, and a small pot of honey butter.
One of the maids fetched a flagon of wine and added it with two goblets to the tray, her hands trembling.
Declan’s sharp eyes flicked toward her. No one dared speak beyond what was necessary, and even Vera, the boldest among them, kept her voice measured as she oversaw the arrangement.
When they were done, Vera stepped back, wringing her hands in her apron.
“It’s ready, me Laird . A warm meal for ye and the Lady McCallum.”
Declan gave a short nod, his face unreadable.
“Good. I’ll take it meself.” He lifted the tray effortlessly though it was heavy with dishes and steam. The servants lowered their heads as he left, murmuring faint “me Laird ”s as the door swung shut behind him.
The castle felt different as he ascended the stairs. A strange hush clung to the walls, broken only by the distant moan of the wind through the battlements.
Declan’s thoughts drifted to Isabelle, wondering if she was still awake or pacing nervously as she had in the carriage earlier. He had no patience for her sharp tongue, but there was something about the lass that stirred more than irritation in him.
He reached the chamber door and nudged it open quietly with his shoulder. The fire had burned low, casting golden light across the room.
