Damn it.
Michael stepped forward, smoothly. The girl was in no position to say a single thing, and the more her father looked at her, the more she shriveled, becoming little more than a shadow.
“She was attacked,” Michael said calmly. “By thieves on the road. I heard the commotion nae far from Auchnabreac, just as I was passing. She’d already been wounded.”
Laird Campbell turned his gaze on him, eyes narrowing. “Ye fought them?”
“Aye. Three men, armed,” Michael said. “She happened tae be in their way an’, well… ye ken how brigands are. They saw an opportunity fer quick gold. They’re dead now.”
Laird Campbell grunted, dissatisfied but not suspicious. “Still reckless o’ her tae leave without guard.”
“She’s fortunate,” Michael added carefully, “that I was near.”
Laird Campbell gave a thin smile. “Indeed.” He gestured to one of his men, who scrambled to move forward. “Take her tae her chambers. I’ll speak with her later.”
Isabeau didn’t argue, as if she was used to this, as if she expected it. She walked out of the hall without a word or a backward glance, followed by that guard who wouldn’t let her out of hissight, and Michael followed her too, but with his gaze, until she disappeared behind the corner.
“Come,” Laird Campbell said, motioning to a side corridor. “Let us speak somewhere more private.”
Michael followed, every step through the twisting stone passages setting his instincts on edge. These were not MacDonald walls. Every face they passed wore suspicion, every alcove held secrets, and he had to be careful in the way he looked around, showing just the right amount of interest—but not more.
Soon, they came to a small study overlooking the courtyard. Laird Campbell poured two drams of whisky, offering one to Michael, who took it, but didn’t drink.
The study was lowly lit, but well-furnished, with large, heavy shelves lining the walls and a mahogany desk that took up the majority of the space. The stone floor was laid with thick rugs, and maps were strewn over the desk, left open as if the laird had only just concluded a council meeting.
“Yer presence,” Laird Campbell said, “is timely. “Herman has been draggin’ his heels on the matter, but I’m glad he finally decided tae send ye. Our negotiations should speed up now, thanks tae yer presence here.”
Michael gave a practiced nod. “It’s an honor tae serve me laird.”
“The ceremony will take place within the month,” said Laird Campbell. “A union between our houses will strengthen our cause more than anythin’. It is time we make this official an’ combine our forces. No filth will stand in our way then.”
Michael kept his face impassive, though ice slid down his spine. With a formal alliance between Clan Campbell and Clan Grant, the Pact of Argyll would be stronger than ever, and the Jacobite cause would suffer—even be threatened with true destruction from the first time since its inception.
And Clan MacDonald would suffer most of all. What Laird Campbell hid behind the cause of Highland unity was, in fact, nothing but a ploy to gather more power, more men, more gold, and spread his influence over the Highlands. And his first target was none other than the MacDonalds—his oldest and fiercest rivals.
But Michael would not allow the man to hurt his family or the Highlands like that.
An’ Isabeau… what will happen tae the lass when she’s wedded off tae Cody Grant?
This should have been a simple, if not exactly easy, rescue mission—infiltrate Castle Inveraray, find Alyson, and get her far away from there. But now, Isabeau had stumbled in his path, and when Michael saw the way she looked at her father, with as much hatred as fear, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to her if he left her there.
How would her father treat her? And Cody Grant? What fate awaited her if she married the man?
And what could he do to help? His purpose there was to save his sister, not to be tangled up in Laird Campbell’s dealings with Clan Grant.
Laird Campbell finished his drink and set the cup aside. “Ye’ll remain until the contracts are signed, I trust?”
“O’ course.”
“Good.” He stood, and the conversation soon shifted back to small talk—Clan Grant, weather on the coast, the clans allied with the Pact of Argyll. Michael parried questions as needed, feeding lies with a diplomat’s tongue when Laird Campbell steered the conversation towards Clan MacDonald.
But Michael's mind was already elsewhere.
As they walked the inner corridors again, heading toward the guest quarters, Michael catalogued everything; two guards at the main hall doors, four posted at the outer gates, rotating pairs along the walls with sloppy, inconsistent timing. He noted the blind corners, the stretches of shadow near the armory and east stairwell—places where one could move unseen. Every weakness he could fathom, every point he could exploit—it was all noted in his mind, kept for future reference.
Then they passed the narrow stone stairwell leading down into the undercroft. Three guards stood posted there, which seemed highly unusual. The corridor wasn’t heavily traveled, but the men were clearly alert.
“High security,” Michael remarked, keeping his tone casual. “Expectin’ trouble?”
