Vera raised her brows, lips twitching in sympathy. “Aye, well, the menfolk are thick-headed creatures by nature. How can I help ye then, Lady McCallum?”
“I need somethin’ to warm me bones,” Isabelle said. “I’m takin’ a walk by the loch to clear me head.”
Vera’s eyes flicked to the window where snow still drifted lightly through the courtyard. “A walk, is it? In this chill?” she asked, half amused.
Isabelle nodded firmly. “Aye. The cold’s kinder company than a man who willnae speak a word of sense.”
Vera chuckled softly, turning toward the large kettle by the hearth.
“Then a cup of tea should do the trick,” she said, reaching for a mug.
Isabelle shook her head, her tone flat but weary. “I think I need somethin’ stronger.”
The cook paused, then gave a knowing look before opening a small cupboard above the shelves.
“Ah,” Vera said, retrieving a squat brown flask and pulling the cork free.
“This here will do the trick. Good Highland whiskey, smooth as honey and twice as strong. I’ll fill ye a bit, just enough to chase the frost away.”
Isabelle watched as the amber liquid poured into the flask, steam from the nearby hearth curling in the air between them.
When Vera handed it over, Isabelle accepted it with both hands, a small, grateful smile softening her expression.
“Ye’ve saved me, Vera,” she said quietly. “I’ll bring the flask back once I’ve finished cursing yer Laird’s name into the wind.”
The cook laughed, shaking her head. “Ye do that, lass. And if the wind answers back, tell it I’ve no patience for men who drive their wives to the drink.”
Isabelle’s laughter was short but genuine, and it eased some of the tightness in her chest.
Tucking the flask into her cloak pocket, she turned toward the door. “Thank ye, Vera. Truly.”
“Aye, go on then,” Vera said, waving her off. “Take care near the loch, Lady McCallum. There’s a bite in that wind that’ll steal the warmth right from ye.”
Isabelle nodded once before pushing open the heavy kitchen door and stepping into the courtyard.
The cold struck her instantly, the crisp air filling her lungs. Snow crunched under her boots as she crossed the courtyard, the castle’s stone walls looming gray against the white sky. The world felt hushed, as though holding its breath. The only sounds were the wild wind and the distant creak of the gates as she passed through them.
Once outside the walls, Isabelle drew her cloak tighter around herself and began the descent toward the loch. Her breath fogged before her face, and the flask knocked gently against herhip with each step. The water stretched before her like a sheet of silver, frozen at its edges but rippling faintly near the center. And there, just as before, sat the fishing boat.
Her heart skipped. It was still there. The same dark shape, resting low on the water, its outline half-swallowed by mist. Isabelle narrowed her eyes, trying to make out if someone was inside. Her fingers brushed against the flask at her side, and she took a long breath to steady herself before stepping closer to the shore.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Stubborn wee lass,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and rough. “Can she nae ken when to leave well enough alone?”
Declan paced the length of his study in measured, angry beats.
He turned sharply at the sound of knuckles rapping against the door.
“Enter,” he barked, his tone clipped. The door creaked open, and Mabel stepped in, her expression calm but her eyes sharp with concern.
“Declan,” she said softly, closing the door behind her, “ye’re pacin’ a hole in the floor again. What’s set ye off this time?”
Declan dragged a hand through his hair, frustration rippling through him.
“It’s Isabelle,” he said, his voice tight. “She willnae listen. She thinks I’m keepin’ distance for naught but stubborn pride when I’m sparin’ her the truth of what I am.”
Mabel raised an eyebrow, folding her hands neatly before her. “And what exactly are ye, braither ? I’d like to hear ye say it.”
