He stared at her a long moment, dark eyes glinting. “Ye expect me tae believe that? That someone managed tae bypass all the security measures I’ve put in place?”
“Nay,” she said, and turned away. “But I dinnae care.”
“Dae ye enjoy mockin’ me like this?” her father demanded. His voice was low; he never shouted, not when he could instill fear inothers with much less. “Dae ye think ye can make a fool o’ me? In me own home?”
The silence stretched between them. Isabeau refused to respond, simply because she knew that whatever she could say to him would be the wrong thing to say. So instead, she waited, looking at him in silence, still and unblinking.
When he spoke again, it was colder.
“Ye think playing the victim will save ye?”
Isabeau swallowed with an audible click in her throat. The stitching of her wound pulled her skin taut, the wound pulsing with every heartbeat. She was still dizzy from all the blood loss, and from the fact that she had not eaten since the previous night. All she wanted was to go to sleep, to rest, but her father would not let her—not until he was satisfied.
“I think naethin’ o’ the kind.”
“Good,” her father spat. “Because the marriage will be finalized within the week. An’ I willnae have ye ruinin’ this alliance with yer dramatics. Ye’ll play yer part. Smile, nod, and breed. That’s all that’s required o’ ye.”
It was all she could give him and Isabeau knew he hated her for it. The only daughter, the only child of Laird Campbell, who had many marriages, but no heirs. A reminder of his failure that he had to face every single day, the living embodiment of it.He would die without an heir, and though the child who would inherit Castle Inveraray would come from her belly, he would not be a Campbell. He would be a Grant, and his line would be forever broken.
It was almost enough to give her some satisfaction.
“Then let them come,” she said, her voice like the stillness before a storm. “Let the vows be spoken, the contracts signed. I will stand beside me husband in silence. But if ye expect tae see me weep, ye will be disappointed.”
The fury that bloomed in her father’s eyes was immediate.
And lethal.
“Ungrateful wee wench,” he hissed, stepping forward.
Isabeau didn’t flinch, even as her heart thundered, even as her father raised his hand.
She would not give him the satisfaction.
Later, when the chamber door shut again behind him and his fury had left its familiar ache blooming in her ribs, Isabeau sat in the corner of her chamber, the only place the moonlight didn’t touch.
The taste of blood still lingered on her tongue, and yet her eyes stayed dry.
The walls pressed in around her—the same walls that had caged her for years, thick and high and laced with secrets. Her hope was crumbling at the edges, but rage still burned like coals in her stomach.
She had to get out of there. She needed air.
With difficulty, she rose and crossed to the door. The guard posted outside glanced at her warily.
“Five minutes,” she said, trying for calm. “That’s all. I willnae stray. Ye can follow me. I just… need some air.”
The man frowned, surprised by the request, but after a beat, he nodded. “Stay within view.”
Isabeau grabbed her woolen shawl from the bed and walked slowly into the night, the chill seeping into her bones. The stars were dim, scattered across the black velvet of the sky like distant watchers. Her breath fogged before her, visible proof that she was still alive, still there.
She wandered toward the stables—her old refuge. A place her father rarely bothered to step into.
And there he was.
The envoy.
He stood in one of the stalls, brushing down his black stallion whose sleek coat gleamed in the lantern light. His shirt was unlaced at the collar, sleeves rolled, the fabric clinging to his body with sweat. When he reached up to wipe his brow, the linen lifted, revealing a glimpse of his torso—scarred and hardened, a map of war carved into flesh.
Isabeau froze in the doorway, where she stood to be visible to her guard, so he wouldn’t be looking for her or breathing down her neck. She made no sound; she didn’t think she could even if she wanted to.
