Michael hesitated only a heartbeat before answering. “Aye. This one.”
He hummed a few notes, low but steady, the melody simple and familiar to him. The fiddler’s brow furrowed, then he nodded in realization, his bow dragging across strings. Soon, a lute joined in, tentative at first, then sure.
The sound rose gently above the conversation and the laughter—a sweet, slow tune, one that he remembered from his childhood.
It was his mother’s song.
He hadn’t heard it in years, not since she’d sung it by the hearth with his sisters curled in her lap. And yet, he remembered it note for note, and now that he was listening to it again, his mother’s voice came back to him, bright as a church bell.
Now, Michael sat among his enemies, that same tune threading through the night, and all he could do was pray.
Hear it, Alyson. Ken I’m still here, tryin’ fer ye.
He didn’t allow himself to glance toward the keep, though every muscle in his body itched to do so. Instead, he sipped his ale and forced a lazy grin when one of the soldiers nudged him.
“Never heard that one,” the man said, nodding toward the musicians. “Fine tune. What d’ye call it?”
Before Michael could answer, Laird Campbell’s voice rumbled from nearby. “Aye, I’d ask the same. What song is that?”
Michael turned his head, meeting the laird’s keen stare. For a moment, he feared the question hid something sharper, but he only smiled, careful and smooth.
“Somethin’ I picked up in me travels with me laird,” he said easily. “The Grants have a fondness fer old melodies.”
Laird Campbell grunted, unimpressed, then turned away to refill his cup, easily believing the lie. The tension in Michael’s chest loosened, but only slightly; he couldn’t be too careful when he was in the nest of his enemies.
The music drifted on, winding through the yard like the smoke from the bonfire. Some of the men clapped along, off-beat and boisterous, drowning the tune’s sweetness. But Michael kept his focus on the rhythm, willing every note to carry downward—through the floors, through the stone, through the dark.
By the time the song ended, his throat ached and his eyes burned, but if anyone asked, he could easily blame it on the alcohol.
“Excuse me,” he said, not long after the song had finished, as he stood and placed his cup down. “With yer leave, me laird, I’ll be headin’ tae me chambers. I’ve had a long day an’ wish tae rest.”
Laird Campbell raised his cup as if in a toast, tilting his head. “Go, then. An’ wake early on the morrow. There is much tae be done.”
Michael bowed his head in greeting and then left the courtyard, heading back inside the keep. The corridors were quieter now, torches burning low, shadows thickening at the edges. In his chamber, he didn’t light the candles or the fire. He stood by thewindow instead, staring out at the moonlit courtyard, listening as faint strains of laughter and music drifted up from below.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “Let her have heard.”
For the first time in weeks, he felt the sting of helplessness, sharp, bitter, and unrelenting. He was a warrior trained for action, not waiting. Every part of him rebelled against stillness. Yet all he could do was trust that somewhere under his feet, Alyson’s heart had stirred at the familiar tune.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, rubbing at his temples.
Hold fast, sister. Just a little longer.
Outside, the fiddler began another song, this one bright and raucous. Laughter rose again, careless and full. But Michael stayed where he was, silent in the half-dark, listening for an answer that would not come.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The mist had barely lifted from the hills that morning when Michael entered the great hall, and already Angus Campbell was seated at the head of the table, barking orders between mouthfuls of oatcakes.
Michael took his place among the gathered men, his expression one of calm attentiveness. Inside, however, his mind was still tangled from the night before. He had barely slept; every creak in the stone below had kept him awake, wondering if Alyson had heard the tune, if she had known it was him.
But now, with the smell of roasted oats and damp wool filling the air, he had to shove that hope aside and play his part once more.
“It’s time the lass looks like what she’s meant tae be,” Laird Campbell declared, slamming his cup down for emphasis. “A bride o’ worth, eh? Can ye imagine that?”
Across the table, Isabeau sat stiffly, her gaze fixed on the empty plate before her. Michael noted the faint tension in her jaw, the way her fingers pressed against the edge of the table. She’d grown quieter these past days—still sharp in wit when they spoke alone but subdued under her father’s eye.
“Aye,” Fergus said, his tone eager, as though he took particular pleasure in managing the laird’s daughter. “There’s a merchant’s caravan that’s just come through the village from Inverness. Bolts o’ silk, lace, embroidery from the Lowlands. If the lady would choose her fabrics herself, we can see the gown begun at once.”
