Isabeau’s heart beat like a drum against her ribs. She didn’t answer. There were no words she could come up with, not when Michael was looking at her like that, his lips only a breath apart from her own.
Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked away before her hands could betray the trembling in her fingers. Her guard followed at a distance, unaware of the heat still prickling in her skin.
She didn’t look back, but she felt his eyes on her all the way to the keep, the hairs at the back of her nape standing at attention.
And part of her—traitorous and wild—wished she hadn’t walked away at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The flickering candle in Isabeau’s hand did little to push back the shadows of the old cellar passage under the kitchens. The air was damp and heavy with earth and stone and old things forgotten. Her steps were silent, practiced, and steady, even as her heart thundered against her ribs.
After coming back inside with her guard, Isabeau had tracked down her maid, Maisie—the only person she trusted enough in that castle, especially with something as delicate as that. It wasn’t the first time Maisie had helped her sneak into the dungeons—far from it, in fact. And now, just as every other time, she distracted the guard long enough for Isabeau to slip undetected down the stairs, risking her own life to do it.
Isabeau paused at the corner where the low passage bent sharply to the right and held her breath, listening. Above, muffled through feet of stone and timber, came the clang of pots, the hiss of steam from the kitchens. Below and ahead, further into the dark—Alyson.
There was no time to hesitate.
She pressed onward, the bottom hem of her gown brushing the dusty flagstones. She knew this way by memory now—seven steps past the second support beam, a shallow alcove, and then the tucked doorway almost invisible behind a broken shelving unit. Isabeau pressed her shoulder against it until it groaned open, revealing the narrow space behind the dungeon wall. A sliver of torchlight glowed through the crack in the stone near the floor.
She crouched there, placing the wrapped bundle of food and flask of water down, and gave the faintest knock—three soft taps.
It was the system the two of them had created ever since that first time curiosity had brought Isabeau down there. She had heard a commotion that day, not that long before, and though she knew someone had been brought to the castle, everyone was too secretive to tell her who it was. When she made it to the dungeons that first day, she had expected to see a warrior, perhaps a councilman, but what she saw instead was a frightened girl close to her age, her clothes muddied and bloody, her face mottled with bruises.
It had taken a while for Alyson to open up to her, naturally. Isabeau was meant to be her enemy, and it was her father who was keeping her captive—for all Alyson knew, her approach was nothing but a ploy to get information out of her. But slowly, as Isabeau brought her what little food and water she could smuggle into the dungeons, offering them to her along with her company, Alyson began to trust her more and more.
And when Isabeau tried—and failed—to help her escape, they had both faced the full extent of her father’s wrath.
Now, she waited. Then a voice, hoarse but still warm, drifted through the crack. “Ye’re late.”
“I had tae wait until Maisie got the guard talkin’,” Isabeau whispered, her breath catching in the cold. “She thinks he has a fondness fer her smile.”
Maisie had been her personal maid for a long time and also her only rock during the hardest of times. When her father beat her too much for her to stand, Maisie was there, helping her wash and eat and drink. When she was overtaken by rage in the middle of the night, threatening to kill her father or herself, Maisie was there once more, calming her, telling her that a life, any life, was worth living and that better days were to come.
Isabeau didn’t believe her most of the time. But there were some nights—some damned, weak nights—when she thought Maisie might have a point.
And now, her dutiful maid had made it possible for her to slip into the dungeons undetected, just because she was such a kind soul.
Alyson laughed—a dry, tired sound. “He’ll need stronger motivation than that if ye want more than a few minutes.”
Isabeau reached her hand through the narrow gap, sliding the flask through carefully. “It’s watered-down cider tonight. The cook’s been hoardin’ the apples again, but it’s better than the slop they serve ye.”
She passed the bread next, some sliced cheese, a small apple, bruised, but still sweet. For a moment, there was only silence as Alyson began eating. Then, Alyson said, “Ye tried tae leave, didnae ye?”
“Ye heard?”
“Och aye,” said Alyson. “I think the entire castle heard. Yer faither’s furious.”
“Serves him right,” said Isabeau as she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall. “I got farther than afore.”
“But nae far enough.”
She shook her head, even though Alyson couldn’t see it. “I was injured. Some thieves found me in the woods an’… well, I’m fine now, but they hurt me.”
When Alyson’s voice came from the other side of the door, it was laced with concern. “What happened?”
Isabeau hesitated. She didn’t want to worry her even more, but she supposed that being cryptic about her injury would have the opposite effect from the one she intended.
“I was stabbed. Caught in the middle o’ a fight when a man tried tae save me.”
