“Enough.”
Isabeau’s voice cut through the air like a blade. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as though she couldn’t catch her breath, and Michael was certain then that she would kick him out of the room and forbid him from returning.
But Isabeau walked over to the chair once more, and for the first time, Michael noticed a slight limp—one that could have been because of her stomach injury, although he didn’t remember her limping like that before. No, it had to be something else. It had to be her father’s doing, just as the bruises on her arm.
How savagely did he beat her?
“I dinnae want ye tae look at me like that,” she said. “I dinnae want yer pity.”
“I dinnae pity ye,” Michael said, though it wasn’t quite true. A part of him couldn’t help but pity her, just as he would have pitied anyone else in her situation. But that was not what she needed to hear, and besides, pity was not the only thing he felt for her. Despite it all, she endured. Despite it all, she persevered, even when her father beat her, even when she feared him.
An’ I brought her right back tae him… right back tae the den o’ the snake.
“Ye lie,” Isabeau said, but there was no accusation in her voice; only truth, plain and simple. “Everyone daes when they say they dinnae pity me. I’m used tae it by now.”
Michael watched her carefully as she gazed out of the window, her own gaze always averted from him, though not out of fear or embarrassment. He took in the rigid line of her shoulders, the hard expression in her face, and understood that, more than anything, she was angry.
He wanted to tell her that he couldn’t have known. He wanted to tell her that had he known, he wouldn’t have taken her back here, to her father; he wouldn’t have allowed the soldiers to take her back. Smuggling her out of Campbell lands would have been the most he could have done for her before continuing on his mission, but he would have done it nevertheless.
But this was not something Isabeau needed to hear now, either. It would only serve to stoke the fires of her fury, and so Michael remained silent on the matter.
Instead, he asked, “Have ye eaten?”
Isabeau turned to him, a frown forming between her brows. “I beg yer pardon?”
“Have ye eaten?” Michael repeated impatiently. “I’ll fetch ye somethin’ tae eat.”
“I’m fine,” said Isabeau, nodding towards a dark corner of the room. “Maisie already brought me food.”
Michael walked over to the corner of the room that housed a small, round table, upon which rested a silver tray piled high with food—parritch, a bannock, an apple, some slices of cheese. All of it was untouched, but when Michael placed his hand against the bowl, he found it still warm.
Maisie must have brought it right before I came here.
“Ye havenae touched any o’ it,” he pointed out.
“I’m nae hungry,” said Isabeau, and when Michael glanced at her, he found her still cradling her arm protectively against her body. He couldn’t help but worry that the damage was more than those bruises—something internal, a fracture in the bone that he couldn’t see.
With a sigh, he picked up the tray and brought it over to the window, resting it on the sill. Then, he pushed the curtains back to let the morning light flow in, and Isabeau winced, shrinking away from the sudden brightness.
“It’ll dae ye good,” he said, as he located another chair at the other end of the room and brought it closer, right by the window across from Isabeau. He sat down and stared at her expectantly,clapping his hands softly when she made no move to eat. “Come now, it’ll get cold.”
As he spoke, he picked up the spoon lying on the tray, plopping it into the parritch. Isabeau regarded both him and the bowl with the same wary look, as though she was suspicious of them.
“I’m nae hungry,” she insisted, the corners of her mouth twisting downwards in a small pout.
Michael stared at her, unimpressed, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I said it’ll dae ye good. Eat.”
Isabeau stared right back at him, shaking her head. “Ye cannae force me tae eat.”
“Och aye, I can,” said Michael. “An’ I will if I must. I will literally hand feed ye until ye’ve finished it all.”
“I am a grown woman!” Isabeau protested, throwing her hands up in exasperation, some of her fierceness returning to her. “Ye cannae force me tae dae anythin’.”
“Try me,” said Michael, his mouth curving into a small smirk. “Or ye can simply admit that ye want me tae hand feed ye.”
Turning away from him, Isabeau let out a scoff. “Right,” she said. “As if I would ever want such a thing.”
“I think ye dae,” Michael said, teasing her. “Well, if that’s what ye want?—”
