Declan’s lips curved into a rare smile, small but real. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, lingering just long enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the chamber as Isabelle and Declan prepared for bed. The room was quiet, save for the sound of fabric rustling and the distant howl of wind against the stone walls.
Isabelle washed her face and hands, attempting to keep her eyes on her nightly ritual, but she could not. Her eyes wandered to Declan, who stood near the wardrobe, his back to her as he pulled off his tunic.
The soft scrape of linen sliding over skin made her breath catch. His shoulders were broad and powerful, muscles shifting beneath tanned skin marked by faint scars, remnants of a life hard lived.
Her gaze traced the strong lines of his back, the curve of his waist, and the faint taper of muscle leading down to where his kilt hung low on his hips. Heat rose in her cheeks, and sheturned slightly away though her eyes lingered still, drawn as if by instinct.
When he turned toward her, she caught sight of his chest, the bandage still there. His body was built of strength and labor—solid, sculpted, yet softened by something human and weary.
Isabelle’s pulse quickened, her eyes roving across the expanse of muscle and skin, each scar a story untold.
Declan noticed her gaze and arched a brow, half amused, half wary. “What are ye starin’ at, lass?” he asked, his tone teasing though his eyes betrayed curiosity.
“Nothin’,” she said quickly though the warmth in her cheeks betrayed her. “Only makin’ sure ye dinnae tear that wound open again.”
He chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating through the quiet room. “Ye worry too much. It’s nothin’ but a scratch.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, standing and crossing to him. “Let me be the judge of that.”
Declan raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. “Aye, fine then,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Have at it, nurse.”
She ignored his smirk and reached for the bandage, her fingers brushing against his warm skin as she began to unwind it. The simple touch made her heart skip, and she forced herself to focuson her task. When the last fold of linen came free, she could see the wound—clean, closed, a faint pink mark where the skin had knitted.
She dipped a clean cloth in the wash basin, wringing it out before pressing it gently against his chest. “It’s healed nicely,” she said softly. “Ye’ve been lucky this time.”
Declan looked down at her, a faint smile curving his lips. “Aye, see? Told ye it was nothin’ but a scratch. Ye worry for nothin'.”
She gave him a playful glare though her touch lingered longer than it needed to. “If I dinnae look after ye, who will?”
His eyes softened, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the rough line of his jaw and the faint glint in his gaze.
“Aye,” he said quietly, his voice deepening. “I suppose ye’re right, Isabelle.”
Her name on his lips made her pulse jump. She withdrew her hand quickly, setting the cloth aside before she could betray the tremor in her fingers.
“There,” she said briskly. “That should do. Dinnae go strainin’ it, mind ye.”
He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment and began to settle into bed. She turned away, suddenly unsure where to put herself,before finally slipping beneath the blankets on her own side. The warmth of the fire had filled the room, but she felt a different kind of heat—restless, persistent, alive beneath her skin.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of firewood and the faint rustle of linen as Declan shifted beside her. Isabelle stared up at the low ceiling beams, her thoughts tumbling like stones in a river. Every breath she took seemed too loud, too aware of how close he was.
She could feel him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of soap and smoke that clung to his skin. Her heart drummed faster as her mind wandered to dangerous places. She imagined what it would feel like to reach across that small space between them, to lay her hand against his chest and feel the strength beneath.
The thought made her stomach flutter and twist all at once.
What am I thinkin’?He’s me husband, aye, but I barely ken how to speak to him without a quarrel. And yet…
Her thoughts betrayed her, filling with flashes of his eyes, the feel of his lips when he had kissed her earlier that evening, and the sound of his laugh when it was rare and genuine.
That kiss had changed something between them, and now, she could not look at him without remembering the heat of it and the way her heart had leapt like a startled bird.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to see him in the dim glow of the hearth. Declan lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his eyes closed but his breathing too slow, too careful. He wasn’t asleep; she knew it instinctively. The line of his jaw was tense, his body still.
Her lips parted as if to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
