“Unless ye’re afraid tae lose?”
“Afraid?” asked Isabeau with a scoff, now thinking that there was no way Michael wasn’t mad. “Tae lose tae ye? When ye have half the village against ye?”
He gave a mock bow. “I can fight a whole village,” he said. “An’ I’d hate tae ruin yer reputation in front o’ yer people, so perhaps ye’re right… ye shouldnae compete against me.”
That did it. Isabeau clenched her fists, cheeks flushed, her skirts swishing like banners. “Fine,” she declared. “But when I win, ye'll owe me a prize.”
Michael chuckled under his breath. “Ye’ve nae even touched the rope yet.”
“Confidence is half the victory,” Isabeau said smartly, taking her place opposite him.
Behind Isabeau, four villagers gathered, while at the other side, the villagers spared Michael the pain and gave him two more men—both of them big like him, with muscles built from years of farming, strong and towering over everyone else. The teams braced, feet dug into the earth, hands gripping the rope. A villager lifted his hat high. “Ready… pull!”
The rope went taut.
At first, Michael’s side held steady, his muscles tightening under his shirt as he anchored the line. Isabeau leaned back, heels sinking into the grass, her dark hair tumbling loose as she pulled with every ounce of stubborn strength she had. Her laughter broke through the grunts and shouts around her, and she strained as much as she could, putting all her effort into the task.
“Come now, Mr. Gordon!” she called across the rope, breathless. “Ye’ll need more than words tae win!”
Michael grinned, teeth flashing. “Is that a challenge or a plea fer mercy?”
But even as he said it, Isabeau found that he was easing his grip. The villagers on her side were struggling, faces red with effort, and it seemed to her that he couldn’t help it. He let the rope slip, just a little, but Isabeau saw it and a spark of cunning lit her eyes.
“Ha! He’s tirin’!” she cried, rallying her team.
With one final heave, her side pulled the rope past the marker, pulling Michael and his two teammates along. Instantly, the crowd erupted in cheers, the villagers hoisting their makeshift banner high, and Isabeau stumbled forward laughing, breathless and triumphant.
“I told ye,” she said between gasps, brushing a stray curl from her face, as Michael approached her, his arms crossed over his chest and his lips curling into a smirk, “confidence always wins.”
Michael straightened, trying—and failing—to look solemn. “Or perhaps pity.”
Isabeau narrowed her eyes, suspicion coloring her tone when she spoke. “Did ye let me win?”
But Michael gave her a look of exaggerated innocence. “Would I dare?”
Though she was not entirely convinced either way, Isabeau’s glare softened into a smile, the kind that reached her eyes. “Good. Because I’ve a prize tae collect.”
One of the village women, giggling behind her apron, handed Isabeau a small tray piled high with sugared sweets—one of five identical trays given to the winners. The crowd applauded as she lifted it like a trophy, and her laughter bubbled out of her like a fountain, bright and clear.
“Victory tastes sweeter when nae shared,” she said loftily, eyeing Michael with a mock challenge.
Michael leaned closer, voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. “Ye’ll share eventually. Ye’ve too kind a heart nae tae share.”
Isabeau’s smile faltered just slightly, warmth blooming at the base of her throat. “Ye think ye ken me so well, Mr. Gordon?”
“Better with each passin’ hour,” he whispered.
She looked away quickly, pretending to study the sweets though her pulse thudded loud in her ears. Around them, the villagers laughed and feasted, Fergus glowered from his table, and the golden afternoon hummed with joy.
And yet, amid all those shouts and cheers, Isabeau felt acutely aware of the man standing too close, the weight of his gaze on her skin, and the thought blooming quietly in her mind that for a few stolen hours, she wasn’t her father’s daughter or another man’s betrothed.
But those hours would soon run out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dark clouds rolled low over the rooftops, heavy with rain. The first drops spattered against the packed earth of the village square, hissing where they struck the torches. Then came the wind, swift and biting, sending scraps of ribbon and fabric from the fair whipping through the air.
Before the villagers could even gather their wares, the skies broke open.
