Isabelle felt her pulse quicken, acutely aware of the space between them and the strength she imagined in him just steps away. Her breath caught again, involuntarily, at the thought of how commanding and alive he seemed, his presence filling the room as though it had been made for him alone.
She straightened her shoulders, drawing a steadying breath, but her mind kept returning to him. Every line of his body seemeddeliberately carved, every movement a reminder of his power and dominance.
Isabelle felt a tug at her heart, a mixture of longing and caution, knowing that the desire she felt was dangerous yet irresistible. She reminded herself to focus on the water and the task at hand, but the thought of him lingered like a living thing in the back of her mind. She poured a little more water into the basin to ensure it would be ready for him.
Steam rose, curling around her hands, and she felt the warmth spread through her fingers, calming some of the tension coiling in her chest. Even as she moved, she stole glimpses of Declan’s form, feeling a flutter that bordered on both fear and longing. She could not deny the pull he had over her nor the pulse of desire that made her knees feel light and her heart race.
For a moment, she considered stepping closer, offering to wash him herself, but she hesitated.
“Here is some fresh water to wash up,” she said. Then she turned her back to him.
The distance kept between them was a line she was unsure whether she dared cross just yet. Yet even standing where she was, she felt the weight of him, the heat of his presence, and the sharp edge of longing that made her breath hitch.
Her heart pounded in her chest, a reminder that while she came to care for him as a duty, the desire that surged was wholly her own.
The room felt charged, alive with desire and unspoken tension, and Isabelle realized she was caught in it completely, unable to step away or to calm the fierce stirrings in her heart.
Isabelle shifted uneasily on the edge of the chair, her eyes darting between Declan and the flickering firelight as he stood before the wash basin. The water ran over his hands, the blood and grime of the road and battle sliding away, yet he remained towering, commanding, every movement exuding the authority she could not ignore.
“Tell me, Isabelle,” he said, his voice low and firm, “why do ye not look at me? Ye are me wife, after all.” Her cheeks flamed, and she could barely summon a whisper, turning her gaze to the window instead.
“I… I have never seen a man… without clothing before,” she muttered, her voice almost lost in the room’s warmth.
Her hands twisted nervously in her lap as she tried to focus on the moonlight outside though her mind refused to cooperate.
Declan let out a deep, amused sigh, shaking his head but saying nothing further as he finished scrubbing the grime from his chest.
Even in the act of cleaning, the curve of his muscles and the sharp lines of his shoulders made her heart pound in a mixture of fear, awe, and desire.
Once satisfied, Declan lifted the fresh kilt from the chair, wrapping it around his waist with practiced ease, leaving his upper body bare. The absence of a tunic made him appear even more formidable, the firelight tracing every ridge and hollow of his chest and arms.
Isabelle felt herself drawn to the sight, yet she willed her gaze away, blinking rapidly as if to reset her thoughts. She could not help but notice the arrogance in his posture, the confidence that radiated from him, and it both terrified and intrigued her.
A sudden rap at the door made her jump.
“Enter,” he said.
Vera stepped in, carrying the tray with careful hands. “Me Lady,” Vera said, bowing slightly as she entered, “I brought ye this, fresh from the kitchens, as ye wished.”
Isabelle’s eyes widened at the sight: steaming bowls of stew, oatcakes stacked high, roasted small fish fresh from the loch, fresh buttered bread, and small bowls of berries, all arranged neatly. The aroma filled the room.
“Vera… thank ye,” Isabelle managed, her voice catching slightly as she looked back toward Declan, who had turned his attention back to the basin.
“Set it here, and he can eat once he is done, yes?”
Vera, sensing the tension, gave Isabelle a slight nod and stepped back toward the door.
“I’ll leave ye to it, me Lady ,” she said softly, curtsying.
Isabelle exhaled quietly, finally alone with Declan, her mind spinning with the heat of his presence and the mundane intimacy of feeding a man after battle.
She dared a glance at him, wondering if he would acknowledge her efforts in trying to serve him as his wife, or if he would scrutinize her, every glance a measure of her worth as his wife.
“Shall we dine together?” she asked, her voice coming out more a whisper than she intended.
He turned to her and moved toward the table.
“Aye,” he agreed.
