What will happen when they finally come here? Will it be better or worse?
Would the relief of it all being over be greater than the fear of a new life? Would living in her husband’s home be more tolerable?
Perhaps… perhaps if Michael is there.
But that was a foolish thought. Not only was he her betrothed’s envoy, come to Castle Campbell to arrange her marriage to him, but he had also shared that curious look with that soldier. Isabeau would be a fool if she trusted him blindly, if she didn’t consider the possibility that something about Michael was off.
She watched him with great interest as he trained on his own. Michael moved like a creature forged for battle. Her gaze tracked him as he swung the practice sword again and again, his movements precise and powerful, a rhythm of control and release that drew her eyes no matter how she might try to look away. His shirt lay tossed aside, forgotten, and the sun made his skin gleam with a sheen of sweat.
It was almost indecent, how beautiful he looked in motion—strong, unwavering, unaware that she stood mere yards away with her breath caught in her throat.
She tried to leave; she took a few steps back towards the keep, but then she stopped and moved slowly back, mesmerized by the sight of him. He was all tanned skin and muscle, his arms bulging with every movement, the line of his shoulders smooth as water when he rolled them. And when at last he stopped,chest heaving, she stepped forward before she could think better of it.
He turned sharply, sword half-lifted. For an instant, his eyes were all sharp instinct and danger—and then they softened when he saw her.
“Isabeau.” His voice came low, rough-edged. “Ye shouldnae be out here.”
“I might say the same,” she said, trying—and failing—to sound unruffled. “But the castle’s so noisy I thought I’d go mad if I stayed inside another minute.”
He huffed out a soft laugh, a flicker of amusement chasing away the tension in his shoulders. “An’ so ye came tae watch a fool swing at the wind?”
“I came fer air,” she said quickly, not wanting him to get the wrong idea, as she lifted the small flask she’d brought. “An’ I brought water. I thought ye might need some.”
Something softened in his expression then; something dangerously tender. “Thank ye.”
He reached for the flask and sat heavily on the low stone wall beside her, drinking a big gulp. Isabeau sank down next to him, trying not to notice the way their shoulders brushed or how the warmth of his skin radiated even through the thin fabric of her sleeve.
But notice she did, and even the slightest movement Michael made was one she felt, as though a ripple passed through her entire body.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, as comfortable as it was fragile.
Her eyes drifted to the pale lines that marked his chest and abdomen—scars, some long-healed and faint, others still red around the edges. “Ye’ve many wounds,” she said, before she could stop herself.
Michael glanced down, then smiled wryly. “Aye. Too many, some might say.”
“How did ye come by them?”
He tilted his head toward her. “Battle, mostly. Raids, skirmishes, duels. Each one’s a story.”
His tone held no bitterness; only pride, steady and quiet. He traced a thin line across his ribs. “This one, a sword from a Fraser. He didnae live long enough tae boast o’ it. This,” he said, touching a jagged scar along his shoulder, “was a Mackintosh pike. An’ the one ye keep starin’ at,” he said, as he gestured lower, near his abdomen, “an arrow from a MacKenzie.”
At first, Isabeau was far too flustered by Michael pointing out she had been staring at his lower abdomen, where those chiseled muscles flexed every time he moved. Her cheeks heated atthe insinuation, and for a moment, it was all she could think, mortified that he had noticed.
But then her mind caught up with his words, and she turned to him with a small frown. “The Frasers? Are they Clan Grant’s enemy? I didnae ken that.”
Michael’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes widening ever so slightly. For a moment, he seemed to freeze, as though his mind completely shut down. But then, he only gave her a soft laugh, waving his hand dismissively.
“What’s a stab wound or two between friends?” he asked, much to Isabeau’s confusion. “Sometimes people get drunk … sometimes men fight fer nay good reason.”
Isabeau didn’t know how to respond to that. She looked at him, her head tilted to the side, blinking a few times as if she was trying to focus on a blurry image. Michael continued to be a mystery to her, and the more she learned about him, the more her confusion grew. She didn’t know what to make of him—the Grant envoy who was too kind for someone who worked for a man like Laird Grant, who spoke to her softly, who had saved her life before bringing her back to her father’s claws.
“The point is,” Michael continued, “that I’ve survived all o’ them. I have these scars because I lived.”
Isabeau’s lips parted, half in horror, half in awe. “Ye speak o’ them as though they were trophies.”
Michael shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe they are. Others werenae so lucky as tae survive so many battles.”
Isabeau looked at him—at the roughness, the strength, the quiet certainty that radiated from him. He wore his scars like a man unashamed of them, of his pain. And she wondered, with a sudden ache, whether someone like him could ever look at hers—the bruises still faint along her arms, the hidden ones carved by years of her father’s cruelty—and see them as something to be proud of, too.
