Laird Campbell nodded. “A fine thought. She’ll go today.”
Isabeau’s eyes flickered up, startled. “Taeday, Faither? The Grants havenae even arrived.”
“That’s why,” Laird Campbell snapped. “We’ll nae have them arrive tae see me daughter unprepared. Ye’ll go, an’ ye’ll be fitted proper.”
Fergus leaned back in his chair, smirking faintly. “I’ll escort the lady, me laird. Take a few men, see she’s safe from any brigands or unwanted eyes.”
Michael immediately caught the way Isabeau seemed to pale, her shoulders falling forward along with her gaze. Before he could say anything, though, Laird Campbell’s voice reached him from the head of the table.
“Mr. Gordon will come with ye,” he said, and immediately, Michael had the urge to argue but fought to keep himself silent. “Best the Grants’ eyes see what their coin’s payin’ fer.”
Michael inclined his head, though his chest felt like a vice. Leaving was far from wise. He wanted—he needed—to stay behind. The prisoners in the dungeons haunted him; he could almost hear their voices and see the looks on their faces.
But he couldn’t refuse now without drawing suspicion. Laird Campbell had already suggested it, and he didn’t have a good enough reason to refuse.
“As ye command, me laird,” he said instead through gritted teeth.
The meal dragged on, talk shifting to the Grants’ imminent arrival, to the banners to be hung, the feast preparations, the endless chatter of a household dressing itself in finery. Michael said little, content to let Laird Campbell and Fergus fill the air instead, listening keenly to their conversation in case he could gather information he and his brothers didn’t yet know.
As the others talked, he risked one glance toward Isabeau. She wasn’t eating; she was merely toying with her spoon, her face unreadable. But when her gaze lifted, just for an instant, it caught him and there was something in her eyes—a flicker of relief, perhaps, that he would be there.
Or perhaps she only feared what might happen if he weren’t. Either way, it stirred something fierce in him.
After breakfast, the yard burst into motion. Servants loaded the carriage, guards strapped on armor, and the clang of harnesses filled the air. Fergus strutted about, barking orders to men who didn’t need them.
Michael checked his own horse, running a hand down its neck to steady himself more than the beast. The sun was climbing fast, glinting off the stone walls and steel helms of their escort.
Isabeau emerged from the keep soon after, wrapped in a simple cloak despite the warmth. She tended to cover herself like that, Michael had noticed, wearing layers upon layers of clothes no matter the weather. She carried herself with quiet grace, but Michael saw the tension in her steps, the faint tremor she tried to hide when Fergus offered his arm to help her into the carriage.
She ignored it. “I can manage,” she said coolly, lifting her skirts to step inside.
Fergus’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “O’ course, me lady.”
Michael mounted his horse and positioned himself near the carriage door, where he could see her through the open window. His role, officially, was as representative of the Grants—an observer, an assistant, an envoy.
But unofficially, he was watching her back.
As they set off, the caravan wound down the road that snaked along the lake, the sound of hooves and harnesses mingling withthe cries of birds overhead. The wind tugged at Michael’s hair, carrying the faint scent of peat and brine. And when he glanced inside the carriage through the window with its curtain pushed aside, he found Isabeau already watching him.
The village market was alive with sound and color, the air thick with the smell of fresh bread and damp earth. Stalls crowded close together along the main street, draped in bright fabrics that fluttered like banners in the breeze. Voices mingled in a constant hum—merchants calling out prices, women laughing over ribbons, the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones.
Isabeau walked among it all like a ghost.
Fergus strutted ahead, puffed up and loud, his voice carrying as he haggled with a linen merchant about the price of imported lace. Two of the guards trailed behind, their spears glinting in the sun. Michael kept pace beside her, silent, his presence steady as the hills.
The merchants recognized wealth when they saw it, and this time, it was no different. They descended on Isabeau eagerly, holding up bolts of shimmering silk and velvet, calling to her from their stalls to catch their attention.
“Fer the lady’s weddin’ gown!” one cried, unrolling a length of ivory fabric that caught the light like water. Another pressed a deep blue cloth into her hands, its thread fine enough to pass through a ring.
“Soft as the skin o’ an angel,” he boasted. “Fit fer a laird’s bride.”
O’ course they’ve heard o’ the weddin’ news.
All it had taken was being recognized by the villagers for word to reach the merchants within minutes that Laird Campbell’s daughter was there and surely in search of a gown. Isabeau smiled faintly, the polite, practiced smile her father had taught her long ago. She ran her fingers over the silk, smooth and cold. It was beautiful, yes—but it meant nothing. None of it did.
Her gaze drifted past the fabric to the hills beyond the village, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like to be born there, in one of the families that tended to the crofts, the simple people who didn’t need to concern themselves with marriages of convenience and politics. Here, in this village, everyone surely thought her fortunate, but it was them who were fortunate, she thought. They didn’t have to answer to her father every day. They didn’t have to endure the abuse, the humiliation.
“Ye’ve nae eye fer finery, me lady?” one of the merchants teased.
