“I was distant ’cause I was afraid,” he confessed, his voice trembling. “Afraid I’d hurt ye… or any bairn ye might bear.”
Isabelle’s eyes softened, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “Ye’d never hurt me,” she said firmly. “And if we’re blessed with bairns, they’ll ken their faither’s love. Ye’re nae monster, Declan. Ye’ve more kindness in ye than any man I’ve met.”
Declan let out a shuddering breath and pressed his forehead against hers. “I dinnae ken what I’d do if I lost ye,” he whispered, his words breaking.
“Ye won’t,” she promised, her hands cupping his face. “But when they dragged me off, I thought I’d never have the chance to tell ye how sorry I was. I regretted every harsh word we spoke. Icouldnae bear the thought that anger would be the last thing between us.”
Declan kissed her then, soft, desperate, and full of all the words they’d left unsaid.
When they broke apart, he rested his hand over her heart.
“Nae more distance between us, Isabelle,” he said quietly. “From this day, ye have all of me: heart, soul, and name.”
She smiled through her tears and leaned into his touch. “And ye have mine, my love,” she whispered. “Always.”
Declan’s face was hard as granite as he bound Rosaline’s wrists to the thick trunk of a pine—she was still out cold.
When the last knot was tight, he turned and strode back to Isabelle, who leaned weakly against a tree, her skirts torn and her hair tangled. He gave her his flask of whiskey ,and she drank from it.
She then searched her own cloak. “Declan, Oh no. I've lost the flask Vera gave me to drink whiskey from on me walk.”
“Dinnae worry, we shall replace it with a very fine flask for Vera,” he smiled.
Without a word, he swept her into his arms, his grip steady and protective, carrying her through the underbrush toward the distant glimmer of the shore.
The waves lapped gently as he lowered her onto the cold snow. Isabelle watched him move, her breath still uneven from the ordeal.
He disappeared into the tree line for a moment, returning with several dry branches in his arms.
“Declan,” she asked softly, her voice thin, “what are ye doin’, love?”
“Sendin’ a signal,” he said, his tone clipped with purpose.
He dragged the fishermen’s small rowboat farther up onto the shore, his muscles flexing as he heaved it into place. Then he laid the tree limbs inside it, arranging them in a careful pile.
Isabelle frowned faintly, confusion mingling with awe as she watched him tear strips from his own cloak, wrapping them tightly around the wood and dousing them in whiskey from his flask before he handed the rest to her.
He crouched low, pulling a small piece of flint from his satchel.
“The tower guards should see the fire through the mist on the loch,” he muttered.
A sharp spark hissed, and a moment later, flames began to lick up the fabric, curling and snapping in the breeze.
Isabelle shivered as the firelight flickered over his face, casting gold and shadow across the strong line of his jaw. He looked every inch the warrior he was—focused, capable, and unshakable even after all they had endured.
She clasped her hands together, watching him in silence for a moment. Inside her, warmth bloomed, pride, love, and gratitude tangled into one.
How could I have doubted he would rescue me?
This was her husband, the man who faced danger without flinching, who fought for her without thought for his own safety.
Declan straightened, brushing ash from his fingers.
“That should do it,” he said, his voice calm now. He turned his gaze toward her, and something in it softened, all the fierceness giving way to tenderness.
“It’s time to go home, Isabelle.”
Her eyes stung, but this time it wasn’t from fear.
