Laird Ross barked a sharp, bitter laugh. “Aye? Then what am I to think, McCallum?” he demanded, his words thick with scorn. “Why are ye in a storage room with me daughter, half dressed, nay less? Do ye expect me to believe ye were simply takin’ inventory of cloth together?” His tone dripped with disbelief, his eyes darting from Isabelle’s flushed face to Declan’s stoic one.
Isabelle saw Declan’s gaze darken, a flicker of tempered rage flashing there.
“I entered that room because I was told someone lurked within,” he said sharply. “This lass stood outside and claimed she’d been attacked then she pointed me to this storeroom. I went to see the matter handled proper, and nay sooner had I stepped inside than the door was slammed shut and locked behind me.” His brogue deepened with every word, each syllable edged with iron.
Laird Ross crossed his arms, his expression hard and skeptical.
“Och, that’s a fine tale, McCallum,” he said with a bitter sneer. “Why would Rosaline cause a scandal for her own betrothed? And how convenient that the door just happened to shut itself.” He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Ye expect me to take yer word for it when I find ye standin’ beside me daughter in her shift?”
Isabelle flinched at the venom in his tone, shame and fury warring within her.
“Faither, he speaks the truth,” she said quickly, her voice trembling but firm. “I was in here workin’ on the dress, and Rosaline planned such a cruel jest.”
She turned her gaze briefly toward her cousin, whose composure was beginning to crack.
Rosaline’s lips trembled, but she forced a thin smile. “Uncle, she’s twistin’ the truth to save herself,” she said softly, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “I never meant to cause harm. It was…” Laird Ross turned to look at her, his eyes flashing with what was obviously surprise. Isabelle felt bitter satisfaction as her father realized what Rosaline had just said. For once, he couldn’t blame this on her.
“Silence,” Laird Ross snapped, turning his fury upon her now. “Ye’ve done enough.” He exhaled heavily, dragging a hand over his beard before glaring once more at Declan.
“And as for ye, McCallum, this reeks of folly. Ye claim to have been locked in by mistake, yet ye dinnae think to break the door or call for help before being found?”
Declan’s glare sharpened, his patience thinning.
“Ididcall for help,” he bit out. “I demanded to be released, but nay one came. Likely because the same lass who locked me in had run off to find her fun. Ye think I wanted to be caught in such a state? I’ve more pride than that, Laird Ross, and I’ve nay interest in tarnishin’ the honor of any woman, least of all one I daenae ken.”
His tone rang with conviction, and Isabelle found herself strangely comforted by it.
Rosaline paled further, realizing how the truth cornered her. “I… I only meant to jest,” she stammered. “I dinnae ken who he was. I thought…”
“Enough,” Declan snapped, his patience breaking. “Ye thought to ruin yer cousin, aye? To make her look a fool before yer kin and mine. Well, ye’ve done a fine job of that, lass. But ye’ve also made a mockery of yer own name and mine as well.”
His voice thundered through the chamber, and even Laird Ross seemed taken aback by the authority in it.
“Yer daughter is innocent, Laird. I’ll stake me word on it.”
For a long moment, silence hung heavy between them. Isabelle’s heart pounded as her father’s gaze shifted between her and Declan, suspicion slowly giving way to reluctant belief.
Rosaline, trembling and ashen, seemed to shrink where she stood, her once-perfect poise crumbling.
“Mark me words, McCallum, if I find ye’ve lied, ye’ll find nay safe ground in Ross lands.” His words carried the weight of a threat though they lacked the confidence they once held.
Isabelle’s pulse still thudded in her ears as she watched the two men glare at one another.
She had never seen anyone stand up to her father before, not the servants, not the villagers, and certainly not any visiting lairds. Yet here stood Laird McCallum, broad-shouldered and unyielding, facing her father’s wrath as if it were a mere gust of wind.
She had heard the tales of him, how he was a cruel brute who ruled through fear, but this man before her showed only steel and honor, not cruelty.
Are the tales of him true?
Declan’s dark eyes burned with restrained fury as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Tell me, Laird Ross,” he said in a low, dangerous tone. “Is this yer clan’s way of showin’ me that Ross and McCallum will never be allies? For if this is yer form of hospitality, then I see well enough where I stand.”
His voice cut through the room like the crack of thunder, and Isabelle felt the air grow thick with tension.
Laird Ross’ expression faltered, the color draining slightly from his cheeks.
“Now see here, McCallum,” he began, his tone no longer so confident. “Ye’ll nae twist this matter to make it seem as if me clan meant tensions between us. ’Twas an unfortunate circumstance, aye, but nay slight against ye or yer name.”
