“I’m sorry, Isabeau,” he said. “Ye dinnae deserve this. Nay one daes.”
Isabeau shook her head and gave him a small, sad smile. “An’ yet they all think I dae.”
And the truth of the matter was, no matter how lovely Michael’s words were, no matter the fact that she had forgiven him for bringing her back, the truth remained—he was the one who was about to seal her fate in wax.
—
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The road that wound through the market opened into a wide green at the edge of the village—a lively stretch of earth where banners flapped and laughter carried through the air. Children darted between stalls, their feet kicking up dust, while the men were already setting up the wooden poles and barrels for the games. The faint hum of a bagpipe wove through it all, light and playful.
It was the kind of noise Isabeau had not heard in years; the sound of joy, widespread and unbridled.
They had barely passed the baker’s shop when someone cried out, “Lady Isabeau!”
Heads turned. A moment later, the crowd surged toward her—faces bright, hands waving, smiles wide. When before only a few had noticed her presence, now every single person in the village knew she was there. Farmers in their work clothes, women with flowers in their hair, old men leaning on canes, all of them eager to greet the laird’s daughter.
Michael stiffened at her side, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword instinctively, but Isabeau’s heart leapt. These were her people—the ones who lived under her father’s rule, who suffered his taxes and his temper, yet still had warmth enough left to welcome his blood.
“Me lady, ye honor us!” said a gray-haired woman, curtsying low before thrusting a loaf of warm bread into Isabeau’s hands. “Baked this morn! Ye must try it!”
Before she could reply, a small boy ran up, holding a wooden toy horse. “Fer ye, me lady! Papa carved it. Said ye used tae like ridin’.”
Isabeau took it gently, her throat tightening. The horse was small, but heavy, the wood dense, and it was carved with such care and craftsmanship that it was accurate, down to the last detail. Her fingers traced over the design, taking in the contours, the curves and corners of the wood, the intricate waves of the mane.
“I still dae,” she said softly. “Tell yer faither he’s a fine craftsman.”
The boy grinned and ran off, nearly tripping over his own feet. Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone else offered her a cup of cider, another a cluster of wildflowers tied with string. Everywhere she turned, there were smiling faces, eager voices.
And for the first time in years, Isabeau felt seen not as Angus Campbell’s daughter, but simply as herself.
“Me lady!” called a young man, grinning ear to ear. “The games begin soon! Come bless the field fer us, will ye? A bit o’ luck from our lady, an’ we’ll beat those braggarts from the next village fer once!”
Isabeau laughed—a sound so unexpected that even Michael’s lips twitched at the corners when their gazes met. “Ye dinnae need me blessin’ fer that,” she said. “But if it will help, then ye have it gladly.”
A cheer went up, rough and heartfelt. Next to her, Michael joined in, clapping enthusiastically, if with some restraint.
But the warmth of the moment didn’t please everyone.
“Enough o’ this nonsense,” Fergus barked, forcing his way through the crowd. The laughter dulled at his tone, and the people parted around him, letting him through as he tried to approach her and Michael. When he reached them, his voice dropped to something close to a whisper, so that only the two of them would hear. “We’ve nay time tae waste on peasant games. The laird expects us afore nightfall.”
