“Aye,” said Michael with a soft, amused chuckle. “That’s what I said.”
“Ye’d teach me?”
“If ye’re willin’.”
It was the last thing Isabeau could have ever expected. She didn’t know how useful anything that Michael could teach her would beto her. She doubted she could fight her father, not only because he was so much larger than her, towering over her whenever he was close, but also because she was too used to doing as he pleased, enduring the abuse.
But maybe, just maybe, she could defend herself if Laird Grant turned out to be the same as him. Maybe it would help her keep herself safe in a castle where she would have no allies, no familiar faces save for Michael.
For the first time in days, she smiled, real and unguarded. She stood with such force that she almost knocked right into Michael, and he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. “I’ve never had anyone teach me anythin’ useful.”
Michael chuckled, the sound soft and warm. “Then that settles it. The first lesson comes another day.”
“Why nae now?” she asked, already impatient to learn at least something. “I can dae it.”
“Because,” Michael said with a grin, backing away, “I cannae teach ye when ye’re this excited. Ye’ll get yerself hurt.”
Color rushed to her cheeks, the sudden rush of blood warming her face. Surely, he couldn’t think her so weak, she thought.
“I can dae it!” she insisted. “Why dinnae ye try me? I think ye’re scared that I’ll be better than ye.”
“Och aye,” said Michael with a grin. “Ye caught me. That’s exactly what I fear.”
“I kent it,” Isabeau teased, a small smile dancing over her lips. “Truly, ye are very transparent.”
Something curious passed over Michael’s expression then, but Isabeau paid it little mind, especially when his grin widened. He was so handsome like that—looking almost carefree, as though he didn’t carry the whole weight of the world on his shoulders anymore.
“I fear ye’re right,” he said. “But that daesnae change the fact that I will teach ye another day. I shall have tae prepare first.”
“Go, then,” Isabeau said, “an’ make sure ye train well.”
Michael bowed shallowly, eyes glinting. “As ye command, me lady.”
As he left, Isabeau watched him go, her heart unsteady. And every step he took away from her was another separation, another chance untaken for her to speak.
Evening came heavy and golden over Castle Inveraray, washing the keep in soft light. Torches flickered in the yard, throwing ribbons of orange across stone and steel. The air smelled ofroasted meat and spilled ale, and laughter echoed under the high walls.
To anyone watching, Michael looked the picture of ease—another man enjoying the night now that the musicians for the wedding feast were rehearsing in the courtyard, his cup in hand, head bent in conversation. But under the practiced smile, his thoughts were a storm.
The dungeons had changed.
He had noticed it that morning—more guards posted at every turn, their movements tighter, their eyes sharper. Even the lower corridors, once loosely patrolled, now bristled with men. Fergus’s doing, no doubt, Michael thought.
The bastard was always too keen on suspicion.
And it meant Michael couldn’t get near Alyson, not without drawing attention that would damn them both.
He swirled the ale in his cup, pretending to listen as two Campbell men bellowed a half-drunken song about glory and goats. Many in the keep had gathered there that night to listen to the music and enjoy the night, and he had followed the crowd, knowing he had to make an appearance as the Grant envoy. His gaze, though, kept drifting toward the keep—toward the stones that hid his sister under the earth.
He had been in the dungeons exactly once—the night when Isabeau had almost caught him. And yet, he remembered everything about the place, since he had made a point of taking in every single detail, every single shadow and flame.
When he was there, talking to Alyson, he had heard the men above. The stone was thick all over the castle, but necessity had forced the Campbells to have some windows along the very top of the dungeons, as well as other openings for airflow. And now the memory of hearing those men above his head gnawed at him, insistent and refusing to fade from his mind.
If he could hear them, perhaps his sister could hear him now.
He leaned forward suddenly, cutting through the drunken chatter of the men around him. “Play a tune fer me,” he said to the fiddler closest to him.
The man blinked in surprise after being addressed, then grinned. “Aye, sir. Any song in mind?”
