Laird Campbell considered it for a moment, before he nodded once. “Aye. Drag them below. I’ll wring the truth from them meself.”
The guards obeyed, hauling the prisoners toward the stairs leading to the depths. Chains scraped stone, a sound that seemed to grind against Michael’s very bones. He kept his face blank, his arms loosely folded, gaze fixed just above the men’s heads as they passed, but that didn’t stop the bile from rising to the back of his throat, bitter and full of regret.
He had condemned these men to their deaths. It was something men like him knew well—the possibility of death, untimely and unnatural, from a blade or a length of rope or a myriad other causes that would end their lives too soon. Warriors like him, like these men before him, were acquainted with this risk, and many had made peace with it. But when the moment came, there were no words, no actions comforting enough for them or those they left behind.
They’ll drag them tae the dungeons an’ keep them there. Is there any chance I can free them? If I free Alyson, if I manage tae slip through the guards an’ get tae her soon enough, then maybe I can save them too.
The thought of Alyson chained in that same darkness below made his stomach twist. So far, Laird Campbell had kept her alive, but none of them knew the reason why she was being held captive there. The man had communicated nothing to them; he had requested nothing, he had claimed nothing. There had only been silence, and the knowledge he would not let Alyson go.
Michael was so deep in thought that he almost didn’t see it until it was too late.
One of the prisoners, Ewan, was being dragged past him, beaten and bloodied, but as alert as ever. For a heartbeat, the man’s head lifted, his gaze cutting through the crowd and locking on Michael’s.
It was the reassurance they wouldn’t talk. There was steel in the man’s gaze. Ewan was steadfast, stronger than most people Michael had met in his life, and he had no doubt that he would be the pillar the others might need in their darkest moments. He was the kind of man he would want to have next to him if he was imprisoned. He was the kind of man who could keep others going when everything seemed hopeless and bleak.
And Michael had that one brief, fleeting moment to show him that he, too, would not give up on them. Having them under Laird Campbell’s roof was dangerous, but it also meant that he still had a chance to help them, to get them out of those dungeons where they were headed. All he had to do was get to them before Laird Campbell decided to have their heads, and he was determined to do just that.
Quickly, Michael turned his head slightly, pretending to glance toward Laird Campbell, feigning mild curiosity at the proceedings. The man didn’t seem to have noticed a thing, and neither had anyone else. They were all too busy staring at the prisoners, watching and wondering as they were taken down to the stairs that led to the dungeons from the outside.
But when he looked back again, Isabeau was watching him.
Her brows were drawn together, her lips parting as though she meant to speak. Then she stepped closer—too close for Michael’s liking in front of the entire castle—and whispered just loud enough for him to hear.
“That man looked at ye as though he kent ye.”
Michael froze, his blood running cold in his veins. He wanted to shush her, to tell her these were not things that should be discussed in front of everyone, but that would only make him seem even more suspicious than he already did.
Damn it.
Drawing in a deep breath, Michael composed himself quickly, reluctant to give anything more away than he already had. Then, he turned to her slowly, forcing a small, puzzled smile.
“Did he? Perhaps ye mistake it, me lady. He may have been lookin’ past me, at yer faither most like.”
Isabeau’s eyes narrowed slightly, searching his face. “Perhaps,” she said, though her tone made it clear she wasn’t entirely convinced. Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then she turned away as her father barked another order, forcing the crowd of noblemen and servants to scatter.
Michael’s smile slipped as soon as her back was turned.
This was not what he had expected of the day, and now he had one more thing to fret over—Isabeau, who was clearly suspicious of him now. But what would she do? She couldn’t go to her father and claim he was an enemy, considering their strained—to say the least—relationship. She could come directly to him and try to interrogate him, but Michael would give her nothing, no matter how much she pressed.
As long as he kept denying that anything was out of the ordinary, he could survive this.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The solar at Castle Inveraray had never felt so small. The thick scent of burning wood filled the room, mingling with the faint tang of damp parchment and age. The laird stood by the large, oval table that was in the middle of the carpeted floor, the firelight cutting deep shadows across his broad face.
Fergus, ever the loyal hound, stood at his shoulder, arms crossed, eyes cold and watchful.
Michael entered at Laird Campbell’s summons, his mind already racing to keep track of all the lies he had told—and those that he had yet to tell, those that were meant to keep him safe now that there was a chance he had been found out.
“Laird Campbell,” Michael greeted, bowing slightly. “Ye sent fer me?”
Laird Campbell gestured toward the only empty chair in the room—the only one not occupied already by a member of his Council. “Sit, Mr. Gordon.”
Michael obeyed, though his muscles protested every motion and he would rather have been anywhere but in that room, surrounded by those men.
Laird Campbell didn’t sit immediately. Instead, he paced to the hearth, staring into the flames as if he sought counsel there. “Tell me,” he said at last, “what news dae ye hear from the north?”
Michael blinked, cautious. “Little, me laird. The roads are quiet.”
