Isabeau turned toward him, the laughter fading from her face but not her resolve. “Fergus,” she said evenly, “these people are me faither’s tenants. They’ve shown naethin’ but kindness. Surely a few moments willnae offend the laird.”
“It’s nae fer me tae question the laird’s patience, me lady,” Fergus said, his voice slick and condescending. “Nor should ye.”
Isabeau tilted her head slightly, her voice calm but edged with steel. “Ye forget, Fergus, they are watchin’.”
And indeed they were. Dozens of villagers stood around them now, the joy in their faces tempered with curiosity and pride. To turn her away, to deny them even a moment of their lady’s time, would sour the crowd quickly, and news of that would reach her father before the carriage wheels cooled on the keep’s cobblestones.
Fergus realized it, too, it seemed. He gave her a scathing look, his lips curling in distaste as he glanced around him at the villagers, as though they were nothing but vermin.
“Two hours,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “Nay more.”
Isabeau smiled, all polite sweetness, though her eyes glinted with victory. “Thank ye, that will dae nicely,” she said, and then, she turned back to the crowd, her voice lifting once more. “Then let us enjoy the day, shall we?”
The cheer that followed nearly drowned out Fergus’s mumbled curses, but Isabeau could hear them—perhaps the only one who did, simply because she knew him well.
The next hour unfolded in a blur of conversation and laughter. Isabeau walked among the villagers, tasting their cider, admiring their handiwork, and watching the boys race across the green. One bold young man asked her to tie the starting ribbon for the caber toss, and she obliged, clapping when the great log flew farther than she thought possible.
Everywhere she went, Michael was never far behind. He said little, content to observe, his gaze flicking between her and the crowd with quiet vigilance. But when she caught his eye, when their smiles met over a sea of faces, there was something unspoken that rippled between them—an understanding that Isabel couldn’t explain, and one that she had never shared with another person.
But it felt dangerous, that fleeting connection.
Through it all, Isabeau could feel Fergus’ gaze on her, boring holes through her torso. He had never once let her out of his sight, like a hawk preparing to attack its prey, and though Isabeau knew he could chalk it up to being careful in case something happened to her, she knew that deep down, there was a far more malicious reason.
She couldn’t say that Fergus hated her any more than he hated anyone else—but that was plenty. He simply viewed her as an object to be traded, something to be used for the advancement of the clan, and he didn’t really care what happened to her as long as that goal was achieved. The only reason he was keeping her in his sights now was because she was surrounded by so many people, and both her father and the Grants would have his head were something to happen before the wedding.
Could it be that he suspects somethin’? Daes he see how I feel when Michael is near me?
But even the ever-watchful Fergus, glowering from his seat by the ale table, could not quite smother the spark of joy that hadtaken root in her chest. Isabeau lingered at the edge of the crowd, her hand curled around the small wooden toy the boy had given her earlier, and she realized she had not felt that light in years.
Soon, the crowd began to stir, voices rising with excitement as a long, thick rope was dragged into the clearing. “Tug o’ war!” someone shouted. “Two teams! Step up, lads an’ lasses, let us see whose side will eat free taenight!”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Isabeau laughed softly too, her eyes bright as she watched the villagers take their places. They were strong folk, all sinew and sunburnt faces, cheering one another with fierce loyalty.
“Go on then, me lady,” called a burly farmer grinning at her. “We could use a bit o’ noble strength on this side!”
A chorus of playful encouragement followed, and Isabeau flushed, shaking her head. “Och, I think nae! I’d be nay help at all!”
“Aye, this isnae a task fer noblefolk! Our lady hasnae lifted a single sack o’ grain in her life!” another man teased, earning a round of laughter.
Michael chuckled beside her, his voice quiet as he leaned in close. “Are ye truly goin’ tae let them say that?”
Isabeau shot him an unimpressed look. “Ye think I cannae pull a rope?”
“I think ye can dae anythin’ ye set yer mind tae,” he said with a shrug. “But if ye dinnae join, then I’ll have tae take yer place.”
The words were spoken quietly, only for Isabeau to hear, and she felt a rush of heat flood her face, her cheeks reddening at his words. Before she could respond, though, the villagers called out to them once more.
“The big lad against the village!” someone bellowed, and before Michael could protest, a dozen hands had dragged him toward the rope, and no matter how much he told them he couldn’t possibly win, they were not willing to let him go.
Isabeau’s laughter bubbled over, her excitement over the upcoming spectacle too great to contain. “Ye walked intae that one yerself, sir!”
Michael looked back at her, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Then ye’ve nay excuse nae tae join. Fair’s fair.”
Isabeau blinked in surprise. “What?”
“Ye heard me,” Michael said, a wicked grin curving his mouth. “Join the other team. Let us see if that grace o’ yers extends tae battle.”
“Och, I couldnae possibly?—”
