She had spent her entire life hidden behind long, heavy garments; layers upon layers of them, just in case something happened and she risked revealing her skin. She had spent her entire life hiding the scars from everyone—even from herself. She didn’t remember the last time she had had the strength to look at herself in the looking-glass, the last time she had let her gaze wander down her body when she bathed. If she could avoid looking, then she did. And if she could hide from others for the rest of her years, then she would.
A sudden thought struck her then—one that was as jarring as it was unpleasant.
What if Laird Grant is horrified by them? What if he cannae bear tae look at me?
Her father had arranged it all for her. He had made the deal, and now she was meant to see it through, but he had neglected the one thing that would surely matter to a man like Laird Grant themost—her body, the scars on it that she doubted anyone could love.
But nae Michael... he’s nae disgusted by them.
Her hand moved before her mind caught up. Almost without thought, her fingertips brushed the scar low on his abdomen. His breath caught—a sharp sound in the stillness. Realizing what she’d done, Isabeau jerked her hand back, mortified.
“I… forgive me, I didnae?—”
But Michael didn’t move away. Instead, he caught her hand gently, his touch firm but not restraining, and guided it back. “It’s alright.”
Isabeau swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming in her throat. His skin was warm under her palm, the muscle shifting faintly as he breathed. He kept her hand there a moment longer, tracing the rough map of his scars with the pads of her fingers.
Isabeau’s breath caught in her throat at how unexpectedly soft his skin was. She had expected roughness, the kind of rugged coarseness that his hands had, but his torso was different—made coarse only by the smattering of dark hairs that disappeared under the waistband of his trews.
“This one,” he said softly, “reminds me that strength isnae always about winnin’. Sometimes it’s just survivin’.”
Her gaze lifted to his, and the air between them changed—thicker, charged, as if the world had narrowed to the space of a heartbeat.
Then footsteps echoed faintly from beyond the gate, and they broke apart instantly, the spell shattering like glass. Michael stood and turned away, raking a hand through his hair, his breath uneven. Isabeau pressed her palms together, willing her heart to stop pounding.
After a long moment, she said quietly, “Sometimes I wish me own wounds came from battle.”
Michael looked back at her, eyes softening. “Ye are fightin’, lass,” he said firmly, as though it truly mattered to him, whether or not she believed it. “Just a different kind o’ war. An’ I reckon it’s harder than mine.”
The words struck deep, warming something long frozen inside her. She had never considered her scars and everything she had gone through as anything but ugly. She had never considered that she could be anything else but broken.
Not until now.
His gaze held hers, unreadable. For a moment, he hesitated, but then, he said, “I wish I had never brought ye back tae this place. If I had kent … I’m sorry. Ye deserve better than this.”
Isabeau swallowed in a dry throat, her breath refusing to come. She never thought Michael would apologize for this. She never even thought it would matter so much to him, and yet here he was, asking for her forgiveness and looking truly regretful that he had brought her back to her father.
But he’s right, he couldnae have kent. He didnae ken who I was.
But if he did, would he have let me go? He’s Grant’s envoy, after all.
Back then, they hadn’t known each other. They hardly knew each other now, but at least something, no matter how small, how fragile, had been built between them. Back then, perhaps he would have brought her back by force if he had found out. But now…
She drew a breath. “If I asked ye tae help me escape again, would ye?”
Michael exhaled slowly through his teeth, looking away. For a long time, he said nothing. He only paced around a few steps, his boots scuffing the soft earth. “Me heart says aye. But me duty… I cannae dae that. I’m sorry. Nae at this moment.”
O’ course… o’ course he willnae dae this fer me. What did I think he’d say? That he’d try? That he’d get me out o’ here?
She would only be a fool if she truly thought that Michael could help her. Why would he? Why would he betray his laird forher? Why would he put his own life on the line? Saving her life from those brigands was one thing. Now, it was not her life that was in danger, but her spirit, her dignity—things that everyone expected she could stand to lose.
Her shoulders sagged, that spark of defiance in her dimming. What was the point of trying anymore? Soon enough, Laird Grant would be there, and she would be bound to him for the rest of her life, used as a bargaining chip and a brooding mare. Her only purpose would be to unite the two clans and produce heirs.
Perhaps sensing the shift within her, Michael cursed under his breath and stopped pacing, approaching her instead.
“But,” he said, stepping closer, “what I can dae is teach ye tae fight.”
Isabeau’s head snapped up, her eyes wide as she stared at him. “Tae fight?”
