Isabeau was sitting by the window in a threadbare chair, turned halfway toward the gray light that poured in through a tiny slit in the curtains. Her long dark hair spilled over her shoulder like ink, her gown wrinkled, her posture stiff and guarded. But it was her eyes, those eyes that snapped to him with a fury that stopped him in his tracks.
“Did I tell ye tae enter?” she asked, her voice sharp with irritation.
“Nay,” said Michael, closing the door softly behind him. Even in the dim light of the room, he could tell she was in a bad shape, her eyes shadowed by dark circles and her skin pallid; and yet, she didn’t look ill. She had none of the flush of fever or the sweat that accompanied it when it broke. Her eyes were wide, bright, alert; Michael had seen illness and this was not the face of it. “But I was worried somethin’ had happened tae ye. Everyone says ye’re ill.”
Isabeau hesitated, her eyes turning empty as she stared at him in silence. But then, she recovered again quickly, scoffing as she turned away from him.
“I have a stomach ache. That’s all.”
A stomachache, is it? I suppose someone didnae get her details right.
Michael’s gaze swept over her, noting the paleness of her skin, the way one arm remained hidden in her lap, the tremble she tried to hide in her fingers. He stepped closer, slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded doe in the woods.
“Nay,” he said. “Ye have a fever. Yer maid said so. Or did she lie too?”
Isabeau’s gaze snapped back to him, her jaw clenched tightly as she pushed herself off the chair. For a moment, Michael thought she would either leave or force him to leave, but instead, she hovered near the window, pulling her hands behind her back.
“It’s very bold o’ ye tae come intae me chambers an’ accuse me o’ lyin’. Perhaps the maid heard wrong.”
“Yermaid?” asked Michael, unafraid to push. “I’m sure she would ken what’s wrong with ye. She sees ye every day.”
Isabeau blinked in surprise, his words giving her pause. “Maisie?”
“Aye, that’s her name, isnae it?” said Michael. “Would ye ken it, she was certain ye had a fever.”
For a brief moment, Isabeau met his gaze, and Michael saw the mask slipping, revealing a raw, fragile thing underneath. But then the veil was drawn across her features as fast as it had fallen off, and her thoughts were closed off to him once more.
“She speaks too much.”
“Only out o’ concern.”
Michael moved then, without permission, across the chamber. Isabeau watched him warily, even taking a step back from him when he approached, until her back met the wall. Still, Michael didn’t stop, even as she flinched when he reached for her. He reached behind her back, his fingers closing gently around her wrist—so small in his grip, so tense—and she froze.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Michael held her like that, this simple, small touch making his heart race, the heat of her skin radiating up his fingers. Suddenly, he was too aware of their proximity, of her breath on his skin, her pulse under his thumb, where it rested over her vein.
“Stop,” she said, voice cracking, but he was already peeling the fabric of her sleeve back to reveal the skin of her forearm.
And there they were.
He had suspected this ever since they had gotten to the castle, but seeing the bruises on her arm, the dark purple smudges blooming across the pale flesh of her forearm, older ones in yellow hues layered under fresh ones, was a sight for which he had not been prepared.
Some were long, in the shape of fingers. Others were round, old blood seeping in irregular patterns under her skin. But therewere too many to count, each bleeding into the other, as though she had endured days of this—weeks, even.
Years. She must have endured this her entire life.
Michael’s jaw tightened as he stared at the bruises, his stomach turning with the thought of all the pain she must have gone through in her life. He couldn’t take his gaze off those bruises. He couldn’t look away, no matter how much he wished he could.
“Yer faither?” he said, and though he phrased it as a question, there was no doubt in his mind he was the one to blame for this. “He did this?”
Jerking her hand back and out of Michael’s grip with surprising force, Isabeau turned away from him and pulled her sleeves back down, concealing the bruises once more.
“It daesnae matter.”
“It daes.”
His voice was gentle, but firm as he said it. He couldn’t imagine how used to this abuse Isabeau had to be to claim it didn’t matter, nor could he help the surge of rage that coursed through him upon seeing those bruises. The fact that Laird Campbell was not a good man was well-known; with his creation of the Pact of Argyll, his dedication to it, Michael could have never considered him anything else, someone whose existence did more harmthan good. And yet, he could have never imagined the extent of the damage done to those closest to him.
What kind o’ man hurts his own daughter like this? What kind o’ monster is he?
