“One night, he touches me like I’m somethin’ precious, and the next, he’s colder than the Highland wind. What am I supposed to make of that?”
Her hand brushed against the stone wall, grounding her as confusion twisted inside her chest. “He’s a puzzle, that man. A maddening, confoundin’ puzzle I cannae make sense of.”
The clang of a distant hammer rang from the smithy, sharp and rhythmic, matching the thud of her pulse.
Isabelle stopped near the fountain, her reflection quivering in the water. “Ye make me feel alive one moment and unwanted the next,” she whispered, anger giving way to ache.
“I dinnae ken which man ye truly are, Declan Cain, the one who held me like I mattered or the one who shuts me out as though I’m trouble.”
She drew a shaky breath and lifted her chin, her pride warring with her pain. “Fine then,” she said quietly, her voice firming. “If the Laird wants silence, he’ll have it. But he’ll nae find it easy to break me.”
Isabelle stepped beyond the castle walls and followed the narrow path that wound down toward the loch. Mist hovered over the water like a veil, soft and silvery beneath the pale sunlight.
She had learned quickly that the loch’s edge was her place of peace, a rare corner of calm where the sound of lapping water helped her untangle her thoughts. Today, though, even the quiet beauty of the scene couldn’t wash away the sting of Declan’s coldness.
She stood near the reeds, arms wrapped around herself, trying to steady the turmoil in her chest. The loch reflected the high stone walls behind her, the castle’s towers mirrored in shifting ripples that seemed as restless as her heart.
“Ye’d think,” she muttered softly, “that after all I’ve been through, I’d have learned nae to expect kindness from a man.” Her sigh mingled with the soft whisper of the breeze across the water.
A high-pitched laugh broke through her brooding. Isabelle turned, startled, as three small figures came bounding down the slope toward her, skirts muddied and curls flying.
It was the triplets, Penelope, Hallie, and Beth, each with a fistful of something clutched tight and faces glowing with mischief. Behind them hurried Bren, their nursemaid, trying in vain to keep them from tumbling headlong into the mud.
“Me Lady! Me Lady!” cried Penelope, waving her hand. “Look what we found! Shiny stones by the stream!” Her voice wasbubbling with excitement as she thrust her tiny palm forward, revealing a small collection of wet pebbles that glinted faintly in the light.
Isabelle knelt down, smiling despite herself at the sight of their mud-smeared cheeks.
“Ah, they’re bonnie indeed,” Isabelle said warmly, taking one of the pebbles and turning it in her fingers. “Sparkle like starlight, they do.”
Beth beamed and tugged at Isabelle’s sleeve. “We’re goin’ to make crowns with them, me Lady ! Bren says we can!” Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Isabelle felt her laughter stir for the first time that morning.
“Crowns, ye say?” Isabelle replied, her eyes twinkling. “Well then, that sounds like a fine royal plan, I suppose, if ye’ll let me wear one of them too.”
The girls giggled in delight, clapping their hands together.
Hallie leaned close and whispered conspiratorially, “Ye’d make a kind queen, nae like Papa when he’s cross.”
Bren gasped softly at the child’s boldness, but Isabelle only chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from Hallie’s face.
“Ah, your papa has a heavy burden, wee one,” Isabelle said gently. “He must care for all of us, even when he seems cross. But ye’re right, it wouldnae hurt him to smile now and again.”
The triplets burst into laughter, and Isabelle joined them, her heart easing with every sound of their joy.
They reminded her of her nephews. For a moment, the ache of home tugged at her chest, but she pushed it aside and focused on the children before her.
“Come sit with us, me Lady !” cried Beth, pointing to a patch of grass by the water. “We’re makin’ soup! Loch soup!”
Isabelle arched a brow, pretending to look scandalized. “Loch soup? I daresay I’m nae brave enough for that!”
Penelope lifted a stick and stirred the murky puddle before her proudly. “It’s fine soup! Has mud, grass, and shiny rocks!” she declared.
Bren groaned, but Isabelle’s laughter bubbled out before she could stop it.
“Well then,” Isabelle said, lowering herself beside them, “it sounds like ye’ve made a feast fit for kings.” She plucked a reed from the shore and pretended to stir the pot. “There. Now, it’s got a touch of magic too.”
The girls squealed with delight and hugged her arms, their little hands clutching at her sleeves.
The warmth of their affection melted something inside Isabelle’s chest, a tender place she hadn’t realized was so cold until that moment. She looked down at them, three wild-haired, bright-eyed bundles of life, and her heart swelled with something fierce and protective.
