Declan met him head-on, parrying his strike with a clang that echoed through the trees.
“Ye fight like a drunk pig swingin’ at flies,” Declan snarled, shoving the man back with a boot to the chest.
The bandit stumbled, caught his balance, and came again, his blade slicing through the air. Declan caught it with his own sword, turned his wrist, and sent the weapon flying into the dark.
“Come then,” Declan barked. “I’ll send ye to meet yer coward kin.”
The bandit charged barehanded, snarling curses, but Declan sidestepped and slammed his elbow into the man’s jaw. The crack of bone split the night. As the bandit fell to his knees, Declan drove his sword through his chest, the steel meeting no resistance.
Rosaline screamed, stumbling backward in horror, her skirts tangling in the snow.
Declan didn’t even glance her way. His breath steamed, his eyes wild as he turned toward Isabelle, still bound and pale as the frost. He crossed the space between them and cut her ropes with one swift stroke.
“Ye’re safe now,” he said roughly, his voice shaking despite his strength.
Isabelle trembled as her freed hands clutched his tunic.
“Declan,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she collapsed into his arms.
He caught her, holding her tight against his chest, feeling the tremor in every breath she took.
“I was sure I was goin’ to die,” she said between sobs. “Or they’d sell me off like some worthless thing.”
He pressed his lips to her hair, his heart twisting.
“Never, lass,” he murmured hoarsely. “I’d burn the whole of Scotland before I let harm come to ye.”
She clung to him tighter, her tears warm against the cold of his neck. The world around them, the dead men, the blood, even Rosaline’s trembling figure, faded until there was only the two of them, alive and holding on in the snow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Ye’ve ruined everythin’, Isabelle! Everythin’!” Rosaline cried, her hands trembling as she pointed accusingly. “Ye, ye were nothin’ but a lowly pity marriage! Ye think ye deserve him? Ye think ye deserve a Laird?”
Isabelle straightened, still shaking from the ordeal, but she met Rosaline’s wild eyes without flinching.
“I never sought to take anythin’ from ye, Rosaline,” she said evenly, though her voice quavered with emotion. “Ye are the reason I was locked away with Declan in the first place, lest ye forgot. If ye wish to be wed to a laird, then go find one and leave me be.”
Rosaline laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that sent chills down Isabelle’s spine.
“Find one?” Rosaline spat, her eyes flashing like fire. “Do ye nae ken, ye daft woman? There are nae suitors left! Word spread that Laird McCallum cast me aside for me cousin—ye!”
She jabbed a finger toward Isabelle, her expression twisting with hatred.
“Every man in Scotland thinks me cursed, unwanted, a fool!”
Isabelle’s breath caught. For a fleeting moment, she almost pitied her. “Then perhaps ye should look within yerself, Rosaline,” she said softly, though her voice held an edge. “It wasnae Declan’s choice alone that led to this; ye brought it upon yerself with yer cruel tricks.”
Rosaline’s face turned crimson, her fury consuming her reason.
“Ye dare speak to me that way!” she shrieked. “I was born of noble blood, more beautiful, more refined! Ye are nothin’, nothin’ sent here to fill a bed and bear bairns to lock in a bond between Clan Ross and McCallum!”
Isabelle’s eyes hardened, and she stepped closer, no longer trembling.
“Ye’re right, I was sent here,” Isabelle said, her tone quiet but strong. “But I stayed because Declan and I are meant for each other. That’s somethin’ ye’ll never understand.”
Rosaline’s lip curled, her breath heaving as if each word were a knife to her pride.
“Meant for each other?” she hissed. “Ye forget he was meant for me! Ye’ve bewitched him; that’s what ye’ve done! Ye turned him against me, against all reason!”
