Patience. She will be home again soon.
Michael’s boots made no sound against the flagstones.
The keep was quiet now, truly quiet; the kind that settled over stone like a veil. Even the wind had stilled outside the arrow slits, and that unnatural hush always made his skin crawl. Itreminded him of the moments just before battle, when men clutched weapons too tight and dared not speak.
He knew better than to let his guard down.
A few more steps and he’d turn the corner toward the guest wing, his chamber waiting like a hollow shell. Sleep would not come easily. It never did, not since Alyson had been taken. And certainly not in a place like that.
That’s when he felt it. It was not a sound, not even movement—just the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He spun without hesitation, fast and precise, his hand lashing out to seize the figure trailing behind. He caught a small frame in his grip, turned it with brutal efficiency, and slammed them back against the cold stone wall. His arm locked across their chest, the dirk in his free hand flashing upward, its blade pressing just below the collarbone.
A strangled gasp followed, loud in the quiet of the hallway. Then, a hushed voice, as quiet as it was panicked.
“Wait—wait! It’s me!”
The voice was hoarse, breathless—hers. Michael froze. His heart punched once, hard, against his ribs, and then seemed to stop entirely.
“Isabeau?”
Now that he had a voice and a name to match to the figure, it all made sense. Isabeau was soft against him, her curves pressing into his body as he pushed her against the wall, her warmth seeping into his skin even through their multiple layers of clothing. She was small in his arms—enveloped entirely by him, and still so seemingly fragile that the feel of her gave him pause.
It was strange, how Isabeau seemed to fit so perfectly against him; how her curves molded into his body, how he could feel every part of her when they were close together like that. One look was enough to take Michael’s breath away, his eyes meeting her own, gray ones, and for a moment, he was mesmerized even as she sputtered.
She coughed, nodding frantically in his hold. Michael immediately loosened his grip, stepping back just enough to let her breathe. The blade vanished into its sheath with a flick of his wrist, but he was already watching her closely, eyes narrowing.
Isabeau pressed herself against the wall, one hand to her throat, the other rubbing at her wrists, her fingers brushing tenderly over the skin.
His gaze sharpened, falling to those wrists. They were covered by her sleeves, but the look in her eyes was one of pain.
He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had seen them. There was no one in that corridor with them, but that didn’t give him much relief. Just because he couldn’t see anything, it didn’t necessarily mean there weren’t eyes watching—eyes far more careful than Isabeau’s.
Isabeau pulled her sleeves down a little further, eyes guarded now, but something raw lingered there.
Is she hurt?
If so, who could have hurt her? The men in the forest hadn’t grabbed her by the wrists.
And then he knew. His fingers curled into a fist; there wasn’t much that he could do, not yet, but one day, he swore he would have the man’s head for this and for everything he had done to Alyson.
Isabeau straightened, pulling her cloak tight around her like armor and moving away from him, slipping out of his grasp. “What dae ye think ye’re daein’? Are ye always this quick tae kill whatever moves?”
“Only when I’m followed in the dark.”
“I wasnae following,” she lied, quite obviously, barely trying to hide it.
Michael arched a brow, unconvinced. Out of all the people who had ever tried to follow him, she was perhaps the least stealthy.
Isabeau shifted. “Nae exactly. I… I saw ye headin’ toward the servants’ wing. Ye were goin’ the wrong way fer yer chambers.”
“An’ ye thought what?” he asked, stepping slightly closer, voice low. “That I was sneakin’ off fer a secret tryst with a kitchen maid?”
Isabeau sputtered, her cheeks turning a bright red in the dim light of the hallway. She glared at him, a look akin to jealousy, if he hadn’t known better, flickering over her expression before it hardened into one of distaste, but it was precisely the kind of reaction Michael wanted from her.
Now, she would be thinking that was exactly what he had been trying to do, instead of what he was actually doing. And a secret tryst was nothing out of the ordinary. Saving one’s sister from a dungeon, on the other hand, was something that was bound to draw attention.
“I thought ye were daein’ something worth followin’,” said Isabeau once she recovered from her embarrassment.
