But that only made Michael grin wider—an expression that made him terribly handsome in the low light of the candles, his sharp features softening and giving him a more youthful appearance that Isabeau craved to depict on paper.
“Careful, me lady. Yer tongue’s sharp enough tae draw blood.”
“I’ve had practice,” she said. It took her a few moments to realize it sounded far too serious, far too raw and honest, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say or do. No matter what she said, the moment was ruined anyway the moment she reminded both herself and Michael everything she was trying so hard to forget.
For a moment, she had the sense he would reach out—touch her shoulder, perhaps, or take her hand. But in the end, he did nothing but pull back from her, putting some space between them.
“I should go,” he said at last, and though he was still smiling, there was something strained now in the expression.
“Aye,” she agreed, though she wished he would stay a little longer. She watched him as he walked away without another word, but then, he reached the doorway and paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Isabeau.”
She looked up, her gaze snapping to him, her lips parted slightly in anticipation.
“Next time ye draw me,” he said, his voice dipping into that teasing rumble again, “try tae catch me better side.”
Her mouth fell open, indignation flaring, a retort caught in her throat. But he was already gone, the sound of his soft laughter echoing down the corridor. Isabeau sat back in her chair, staring after him, at the vacant space he had only just occupied moments prior, the parchment still warm where his fingers had touched it.
When she finally looked down at her sketch again, she found herself smiling—small and secret, and far too dangerous.
The first light of dawn crept through the narrow slit of Michael’s chamber, a pale blade of gold cutting across the stone floor. He had not slept deeply, haunted by too many thoughts, too many questions. Every hour he spent there, he risked discovery. Everyhour spent there was an hour Alyson spent away from their family, alone and cold in the dungeons.
He had managed to fall asleep sometime before dawn, but the sleep was fitful and lacking rest. Then, just after dawn, came the sound—low at first, then swelling into a clamor that yanked him upright.
Shouts, accompanied by the tramp of boots and the rattle of chains.
Michael was on his feet before his mind caught up, snatching his belt and sword, already moving. He burst out of the door of his chambers, the wood slamming hard against the stone wall, and didn’t even bother closing it again before he was taking the stairs two at a time, rushing to get to the courtyard.
Lord… please tell me it isnae them.
But he already knew it was. He already knew the Campbells had captured his men and there was nothing he could do to save them now.
By the time he reached the courtyard, the air was thick with the stink of mud and iron. The sky, still streaked with blue dawn, bathed the keep in a cold light. A small crowd had gathered—guards, servants, elders, and among them, Angus Campbell, his hulking figure unmistakable even in the haze. Fergus, the man’s hawk-eyed second-in-command, stood just behind him, his expression grim.
And beside them was Isabeau. Her cloak was hastily thrown on, her dark hair haphazardly braided, her face pale in the cold morning air. She stood apart from the others, her arms crossed tightly as though to hold herself together.
And near the gates, three men were being dragged across the yard, bound and bloodied, their tunics ripped and muddied. Michael recognized them instantly—Fraser, with the scar across his temple, and behind him Ewan, limping but defiant, his eyes blazing even as a guard cuffed him hard across the jaw. The third, Colin, was barely conscious, his shoulder slick with blood.
They had been caught. All three.
Michael forced himself into stillness, every instinct screaming at him to move, to do something. But the eyes of Castle Inveraray were everywhere, and one wrong glance would undo everything.
He couldn’t show he cared. He couldn’t show his shock at how quickly and how easily the men had been caught. He had managed to slip through the guards, yes, but he was on his own, and he knew the castle better than they did. For three men trying to infiltrate a place they didn’t know well, perhaps Castle Inveraray truly was impenetrable.
Nay… but there’s nay place that cannae be infiltrated. There’s nay place that has nay weaknesses.
Even back home, he and his brothers were aware of the deficiencies in their security, and though they tried to make upfor it, they were well-aware of the fact that something—someone—could still slip through their defenses.
I just have tae find where this point is fer them. I just have tae find the one thing I can exploit.
He had to find what his three men couldn’t.
Laird Campbell stepped forward, his voice like the crack of thunder when he bellowed, “Spies! Caught skulkin’ about the outer walls in the dark like rats. Ye’ll hang afore sunset unless ye tell me who sent ye.”
None of the men spoke, just as Michael had expected. Their men were trained well, and they were loyal. Just the threat of death was enough for many men to crumble, even if they knew they would die regardless, even if they told the truth. But not his men—his men were loyal to the end, and they would gladly lay down their own lives to save the clan. There was no doubt in Michael’s mind that Laird Campbell would have them hanged whether they gave him the information he wanted or not, and there was also no doubt in his mind that the three men knew it. And perhaps knowing this gave them strength or perhaps it scared them; but either way, they would remain silent through any torture, any hardship, any threat.
Fergus spat on the ground. “Let us nae waste rope, me laird. The dungeons ought tae loosen their tongues.”
