CHAPTER ONE
Inveraray Castle, Clan Campbell, 1689
“I dinnae care what ye dae tae keep her in here. Break her legs if ye must, but make sure she goes naewhere.”
Isabeau had been on her way to the drawing room, one of the few sanctuaries she had in the castle, when she heard her father’s voice boom through the corridor. She paused, one foot on the stone landing, her heart already beating erratically, bile rising to the back of her throat.
He was talking about her; he had to be.
Her hand hovered near the edge of the banister to steady herself. The door to her father’s study was slightly ajar, just enough for the low murmur of voices to filter through the heavy wood and into the dim corridor.
“Until the ink’s dry an’ the marriage is secured, I’ll nae risk another foolishness from her,” he said, his voice like the crunch of gravel under a boot, rough and merciless. “An’ once she’s with the Grants, we’ll have killed two birds with one stone. She’ll be their problem then.”
Isabeau’s stomach turned. Her knees trembled, but she forced herself to still, to stay as quiet as she could. Her hand reached for her shoulder instinctively, where an old scar still ached with weather and memory, a sharp sting coursing through her. Another voice—a guard’s, deeper and quieter—responded, but she barely heard him. Her mind was roaring, her vision tunneling in on the single, terrible truth under her father’s words.
This is me last chance.
Once the marriage was sealed, there would be no escape, no freedom; only a different kind of cage with different hands to bruise her. At least here, in her home, she had a few people who cared for her, in their own way and as much as they could, servants and maids who took pity on her and gave her a kind word, a warm smile, some company.
She turned, silently slipping down the next step. Her body moved on instinct, every motion honed by years of survival in her father’s house—soft-footed, breath shallow, ears sharp for the wrong creak or muffled shout. She didn’t allow herself to think further than the next step, and then the next after that. If she gave the situation any more thought in that moment, she feared she would falter or fold.
Once in her chambers, she pressed her back against the closed door, letting her eyes slip shut and her breath quicken.
It is now or never.
For years, she had thought of escaping. For years, she dreamed of the moment she would be free from her father’s tyranny, but she had never managed to do what she had to. Staying there was not an option, though, not anymore. She had endured too much already; this was the final straw.
Isabeau composed herself with a deep, steeling breath. She stood straight and looked around her room. Everything beloved to her was there—some old books, a small bouquet of dried flowers, given to her fresh by a bold stable boy and preserved by her own hands, and an old family heirloom that she never dared to wear around her neck in front of her father.
And now, she had to say goodbye.
The stash she had hidden for months trying to find the courage to escape, a battered satchel filled with dried herbs, a flask of water, some crusted bread wrapped in cloth, and a few pilfered coins, was waiting, already packed and wedged behind a loose panel under her bed. She took it quickly, strapping it across her shoulder and yanking the coarse cloak of dark wool over her dress. Her fingers trembled as she reached under the pillow for the final item: a dirk, thin and sharp, stolen from a guard who once made the mistake of passing out near the kitchens after a wild night.
Footsteps stopped her dead in her tracks, bent as she was over the bed, satchel in hand, her other shoving a shawl inside. Her eyes stared at the door as she waited to see if someone would come in.
It was guards, she noted—the steady rhythm of their boots familiar to her. Had they all received word from her father to keep a close eye on her? Had they come to ensure she was in her rooms?
But then, as suddenly as the footsteps had come, they disappeared down the hallway as the guards passed her room. It was just their rotation, she told herself, nothing more than the usual patrol around the castle.
And yet, she didn’t waste any more time before she slipped out of her room.
By the time Isabeau reached the back gate, the sun had slunk low enough to bathe the hills in rust-red hues. Shadows stretched long, the darkness of the night lurking just around the corner, but Isabeau welcomed it. There was only one way to slip out unnoticed, and that was in the dark.
Isabeau crouched in the lee of the stone wall, pressing herself against the cold as she waited. The wind howled around her, stirring her dark hair and the hem of her cloak. The chill was biting on her cheeks, stinging and reddening her pale skin. No protection seemed to be enough against it, and no matter how much Isabeau curled into herself, huddling to fight the cold, it still seeped into her bones, making her shiver.
But it wouldn’t be long before the change of guard. There was a window, small and unlikely, in which she could slip out of the castle unnoticed—as long as no one searched for her before the change of guard, at least. But as unlikely, as dangerous, as miraculous as an escape sounded, Isabeau kept her faith. She had no other choice, and so she would make it.
The patrol passed—two men on foot, speaking idly of wagers and women. She counted the seconds after they vanished, praying quietly under her breath. The satchel pressed to her chest, held like the precious thing it was, Isabeau glanced around her when she reached fifty, the former guards too far down the path to hear her and the next ones not yet there.
And she ran.
Each step was agony and freedom. Her boots sank in the mud that had formed after the previous night’s rain, the soles sticking to the soil and making her trek even more laborious. Still, she ran like a woman with a knife at her throat and the promise of air just beyond reach. Her satchel bumped against her ribs, the strap digging into her shoulder. Her ankles threatened to roll with every step, and her lungs burned with the effort it took to run through the tall grass, the marshy ground that gave under her weight.
She didn’t look back, too fearful of what she might see. Even when she thought she heard footsteps and shouts, even when the wind played tricks in her ears, she kept pressing forward, heart hammering in her chest.
She didn’t stop, not until the castle torches were a far-off glimmer and the trees of the lower woods swallowed her whole.
It was dark there, darker than it had been on the hill. The sunlight of that day was rapidly fading, giving its way to the inky night. The first star had just appeared in the sky, and the dirt path that stretched before her seemed more uninviting than ever before.
