Isabeau gave a small shake of her head. “Perhaps nae today.”
Fergus turned, impatient. “The laird said ye’re tae choose, Lady Isabeau.”
She stiffened at his tone, but Michael’s voice came in quietly, smooth as the silk. “Give the lady a moment, Fergus.”
Fergus scowled, but then muttered something about checking the next stall and stalked off. The guards followed at a distance, leaving Isabeau and Michael standing alone for the first time that morning, and the silence that settled between them was oddly gentle amid the market’s din.
Michael studied her face for a long moment. “Ye’ve nay wish tae wed him, dae ye?”
Isabeau looked up sharply, startled by his bluntness. “I… what makes ye say that?”
Michael shrugged a shoulder, his gesture too casual for the words that followed it. “Ye’ve looked at every bolt o’ fabric as though it were a shroud. And I found ye escaping’ in the forest, which was a clue,” he smiled.
Isabeau almost smiled at his words as well but felt the chill of his words on her skin, in her chest, the truth of them hanging heavy over her shoulders. He was right, of course; Isabeau had come to know that Michael was an observant man, and he observed her more than he observed most.
For a moment, she considered lying. For a moment, she considered telling him what she would have told anyone else who might have asked. But in the end, she decided to tell him the truth. Besides, is she lied, she had the sense that Michael would know the truth.
“I dae want marriage,” she said finally, her voice low, only for him to hear. “But nae like this.”
Michael said nothing, he only watched her. There was something in his gaze, something unguarded that made it easier to speak.
“I want—” She paused, trying to shape the longing that had lived unnamed inside her for so long. “I want a home that isnae cold. I want tae be with someone who sees me, all of me. And that daesnae turn away. I want laughter in the halls, children runnin’, a man who daesnae raise his voice or his hand when he’s displeased.” Her throat tightened as she thought of her father as a husband, all the terrible things he had done, and she looked down at her hands, avoiding Michael’s gaze. “A man who would see me scars an’ nae find them shameful or disgustin’.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft but raw. She braced herself for discomfort—or worse, pity. But Michael’s voice came quiet, roughened by feeling.
“Anyone would be a fool if he found ye anythin’ but bonnie.”
Her gaze lifted, meeting his. The air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with the unspoken thing that simmered between them. Michael looked at her as if her words mattered, as if she mattered, and it made her chest ache with sorrow and gratitude both.
“Ye speak o’ scars,” he said. “But I’ve seen nay woman carry hers with more grace.”
Isabeau drew a slow breath, courage trembling on the edge of her voice as she shook her head. “Ye’ve nae seen them all.”
“I dinnae need tae,” said Michael. “Nay scar can change what I see.”
Though they were surrounded by people, by noise, there was nothing that existed in Isabeau’s world in that moment other than the two of them. Their conversation was quiet, their footsteps slow as they made their way through the market, ignoring the stalls around them.
For the first time, she noticed how close they were standing to each other, how their arms brushed whenever they took a step. It was as though the entire world had gone quiet, and in the intimacy of the moment, she couldn’t help but reveal more than she had ever told anyone before.
“Me maither—” She stopped suddenly, the word catching on her tongue. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, her voice trembling ever so slightly. “Me maither was kind, too kind. She tried tae protect me when she could, but she failed me faither. She bore him nay son.”
Michael didn’t speak, but his gaze was pinned to Isabeau, his attention focused on her. Still, it was difficult to say what she needed to say; she had never spoken those words out loud, and she didn’t know whether she was prepared for it.
And yet, she forced them out regardless, through gritted teeth.
“He killed her.”
The words hung between them, stark and merciless. Around them, the market continued; children laughing, a fiddler playing somewhere down the lane. But in that moment, the noise seemed far away, unreal.
Michael’s hand clenched at his side. “Christ, Isabeau…”
Isabeau lifted her chin, forcing the tremor from her voice. These were words that needed to be said. Someone other than her, someone who might even care, had to learn about her mother.
“He said she shamed him. He said a wife who couldnae give him a son had nay worth. He buried her in the family chapel, an’ by the next week, he’d already spoken o’ takin’ another. When I was old enough, I understood what he’d done an’ I swore I’d never belong tae a man who could dae what he did. An’ yet here I am, bein’ sold fer alliances and power, like her.”
Michael’s silence was thunderous. It stretched for a long time, and in that span, Isabeau thought that perhaps he would never say anything in response. She could hardly blame him; what was there for him to say other than he was sorry about her mother’s fate? A lovely sentiment, of course, but nowhere near enough.
When he finally spoke, it was low, careful—as though he feared his own voice might break her even further.
