—an’ the lady surely likes him?—
—poor thing?—
For one foolish moment, Michael let the nearness linger—the scent of Isabeau’s hair, the way her eyes flicked to his lips before darting away. The world outside the kitchen—the lies, the dangers, the ticking clock—all faded.
Then he heard the faint giggle from the maids again and the spell broke.
I cannae be actin’ like this with her. I cannae get too close.
He leaned back abruptly, forcing a smile. “Perhaps I should take me leave. I’ll let ye decide on the feast dishes, me lady. I’m sure ye ken better than I dae when it comes tae such matters. I live on bannocks an’ dried boar.”
Isabeau blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden distance. “As ye wish, Mr. Gordon,” she said coolly, though her tone carried a hint of hurt under the surface—something that almost made him stay.
But still, he rose, bowing slightly. “Enjoy yer rabbity stew.”
“An’ ye enjoy yer impossible standards,” she shot back, clearly unable to resist.
Michael hesitated at the doorway, meeting her gaze one last time. Then he turned and left, the kitchen noise fading behind him.
Once outside, he drew a slow breath, willing the scent of her—lavender and spice—out of his lungs.
He had no business wanting her; not now, not ever. And yet every time she smiled, the fortress he’d built around himself cracked a little more.
By afternoon, the keep was loud with preparations again—hammering, shouting, the constant bustle of servants scurrying about. Michael couldn’t stand another moment of it. The walls seemed to close in with every passing hour, the weight of what he stood to lose pressing harder on his chest.
So he did what he always did when his mind grew too loud, he went to the training yard.
The training grounds were empty, sun-warmed and quiet save for the clatter of his boots and the low hum of wind through the battlements. Without thinking, with instinct taking over, he grabbed a practice sword from the rack—its grip worn smooth—and began to move.
With a step forward, he brought the sword down in an arc, imagining none other than Laird Campbell standing before him. It was difficult to think of anyone else or keep his mind blank, attacking the air. The image of the laird was conjured up repeatedly in his mind, and his hatred flared with every swing of the sword.
Bastard, I should have his head. We’ll see what happens tae his clan an’ tae the pact once he’s dead.
The blade hissed through the air again.
After a few minutes, his shirt clung to his back, soaked through, the linen rough against his skin. With a growl of impatience, he yanked it off, tossing it aside. The cool breeze hit his bare shoulders, a welcome sting against the heat of his back.
For a few moments, he simply moved, his body nothing but muscle, breath, and instinct. The sword became an extension of himself, the only honest thing left in him.
But even then, there in the training grounds, all alone, the thought of Isabeau still haunted him; her laugh in the kitchen, the faint scent of lavender that lingered whenever she passed.
He stopped, panting, the sword tip dipping toward the dirt. The sunlight glinted off the scars that were scattered over his chest, the skin there raised and silvery—reminders of every battle he’d fought and survived, every time he had held a real sword in his hand.
Fool. She’s a Campbell. She’s promised tae another.
He raked a hand through his damp hair, forcing himself to breathe. Isabeau was a distraction he could not afford, and for plenty of reasons. Not only was she betrothed to another, but she didn’t matter—shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t matter, not whenAlyson was still chained in those dungeons, waiting for him to free her.
His sister was counting on him. His sister needed him to live to escape the torture that she endured every single day in the hands of Clan Campbell.
A sound drifted from somewhere near the corridor—a faint scuff of stone, too soft for a guard’s footstep. He turned sharply, sword half-raised, as if he could use it to defend himself.
But there was nothing; only the breeze and the echo of footsteps retreating.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The courtyard shimmered under the afternoon sun, the air humming with warmth and the faint scent of heather carried down from the hills. From her place under the shade of the gatehouse, Isabeau had been watching Michael for far longer than was reasonable.
She hadn’t meant to, of course. She had slipped out only to escape the chaos inside—the endless chatter about flower garlands, the scraping of benches, the cook shouting at anyone foolish enough to cross her path. The whole keep pulsed with noise and movement, as though her father were determined to drown out her thoughts with clamor. Every action, every single movement around her was a reminder of what was to come—a marriage she didn’t want, a husband who would more than likely be just as cruel as her father. Though she hadn’t said a single thing about the wedding or her upcoming marriage, though she had kept silent through it all, she didn’t know how much more of it she could take.
