A fortnight, Laird Campbell had said. Two weeks to a wedding she didn’t want. Two weeks before the MacDonalds were found out.
Two weeks he would have to spend turning his heart to stone, smothering any empathy, any pity—anything that could distract him from his goal.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
By the third day, Castle Inveraray had transformed from its usual stone gloom into a frenzied hive, and Michael was caught up in the middle of all of it, wide-eyed and astonished by all the things a wedding required. Servants scurried like startled hens, polishing silver, hanging banners, arguing over flowers and the precise angle of tablecloth folds. The great hall smelled perpetually of roasted meat and nerves, the tensions high for something that—in Michael’s opinion, at least—was so simple.
Michael, who had survived raids, sieges, and more than one angry drunkard, had never seen such chaos.
And in the midst of it all was Isabeau Campbell.
Michael watched her from across the yard that morning, though he tried not to. Ever since the preparations had begun, she had not said a single word on the matter of her upcoming wedding. She had not complained; she had not cried or screamed. She had only paced the grounds with the kind of restlessness that wasfit for a caged animal, as though her body could not contain the grief, the pain.
And Michael was in no better shape. The wedding preparations gnawed at him, not just because they tightened the walls of his deception, but because every mention of Cody Grant scraped like a whetstone against his chest. He had no outlet for it—for the rage, for the hatred, for everything that he wanted to unleash upon the Campbells—and so all he could do was swallow down all of it along with his pride and do as Laird Campbell asked—which now seemed to be a tasting menu.
“Mr. Gordon!” a plump, rosy-cheeked woman barked the moment he stepped into the kitchens that afternoon in search of a simple snack. “Ach, here ye are! We sent wee Morag tae find ye, we thought ye were goin’ tae be late.”
“Late?” asked Michael with a frown. “Fer what?”
“Well, tae help the Lady Isabeau choose the dishes, o’ course!” said the cook. “Her betrothed’s folk must approve o’ the flavors.”
Michael nearly choked on air. “I… beg yer pardon?”
Isabeau, standing by the counter with her hands clasped demurely, gave him a look that was equal parts apology and mischief. “Ye heard her,” she said. “Ye are, after all, the esteemed envoy of’ Clan Grant. Best tae represent their discernin’ taste.”
Michael cursed softly under his breath. He had been doing so well—avoiding Isabeau at every opportunity, dealing with the wedding matters quickly, before she could join him, giving his opinion when she wasn’t there and then busying himself with something else. But now, he had walked right into the mouth of the beast himself.
“Aye,” he said dryly, sitting beside her at the table, “fer naethin’ speaks o’ diplomacy like judgin’ pies.”
The cook slammed the first dish in front of them—something steaming, golden, and aggressively fragrant. “Rabbit stew,” she declared. “Fresh thyme an’ a bit o’ wine. Taste.”
There was no room for argument in the cook’s voice, especially not when she hovered over the both of them, her hands on her hips, staring down at them with a smile that was as expectant as it was murderous. Michael glanced at Isabeau from the corner of his eye and found her reaching for a fork, picking it up gingerly between slender fingers.
Lord, what will happen tae me if I dinnae like it?
With a sigh, he took one cautious bite and the rich, buttery flavor burst in his mouth with a force that almost made him groan in pleasure. He just about managed to stop himself, swallowing down the sound along with the bite, and then with a thoughtful frown, looked up at the cook.
“Nay.”
The woman’s hands dropped from her hips, her smile faded, and her mouth hung open in shock. “Nay?”
“Nay,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Too much… rabbit.”
Isabeau snorted, then coughed to disguise the unladylike sound. “Too much rabbit in the rabbit stew?”
“It dominates the flavor,” said Michael, deadly serious.
The cook rolled her eyes heavenward and stomped away, muttering something unintelligible about barbarians. Michael watched her for a moment, before he turned his gaze to Isabeau, who was still looking at him with some amusement.
“What?” he barked.
“Naethin’,” said Isabeau, her lips trembling ever so slightly as she tried to conceal a smile. “I’m quite fond o’ rabbit.”
“Well, ye asked fer me opinion,” Michael pointed out.
“That is true,” Isabeau agreed. “Though I cannae say I was the one who asked fer it.”
It was Michael’s turn to conceal a smile, as her words were teasing, holding no bite. Just as he parted his lips to deliver a retort, though, the next dish arrived—a roasted duck, glazed and gleaming.
