Isabeau looked up at the steel-grey sky, her hair instantly wet from the raindrops. Before she could seek shelter, Michael grabbed her wrist and pulled her along through the village streets, through the rushing crowd that scrambled to get out of the rain.
“Come!” Michael shouted over the sudden roar. Her cloak flew wide behind her and her shoes sank into the ground that had quickly turned into mud. Around them, the villagers scattered, shouting, cursing, seeking cover beneath awnings and carts. Michael half-dragged, half-guided her through the chaos towardthe inn at the far end of the muddy street, and Isabeau followed him, looking at the crowd over her shoulder.
Even if only for a moment, they had lost Fergus.
By the time they reached the door of the inn, they were soaked through. Water streamed down Michael’s temples, plastering dark curls to his forehead, his tunic clinging to him like a second skin. Isabeau’s gown, once pale blue, was now ruined—darkened and heavy, outlining every contour of her body in the lamplight spilling from the doorway.
They only had a few seconds before footsteps approached them—a few seconds in which they stared at each other in silence, both of them breathing heavily under the inn’s awning. But soon, behind them came Fergus and two of Laird Campbell’s men, looking as ill-tempered as the storm itself.
“I’m tae keep ye in me sights,” Fergus told Isabeau, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “An’ I cannae dae that if ye keep rushin’ off.”
“Would ye rather she catches a cold?” Michael asked Fergus before Isabeau could say a single thing. “I would think ye’d want her tae remain healthy fer the weddin’. We cannae have the bride snifflin’ an’ coughin’ at the altar.”
Isabeau had to bite back a chuckle at the sour look Fergus gave Michael, his lips twisting as he glared at him. Parting his lips as if to speak, Fergus drew in a deep breath—and then only turned around to open the door.
Inside, the inn was crowded and loud, every bench and corner filled with dripping travelers who had reached the place faster than them. The air was thick with damp wool, smoke, and the sharp stench of spilled ale, the floor tacky with it. Isabeau’s soles clung to it with every step, even drenched and covered in mud as they were.
The four of them hovered behind Michael as he leaned on the counter and requested rooms for the night, his tone polite but brooking no argument. The innkeeper, a stout man with worried eyes, looked apologetic as he wiped his hands on his apron.
“I’m sorry, sir. The fair’s brought half the Highlands tae shelter here. I’ve but two rooms left.”
Before Michael could answer, Fergus stepped forward. “Then the lady will have one, and’ the envoy the other.” He turned to Michael, eyes narrowing as he regarded him. “I’ll see guards posted at her door. She’ll nae wander, storm or nae.”
Isabeau scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Dae ye think I mean tae flee in this weather, Fergus? Would ye have me swim home through the mud?”
Fergus’s expression didn’t change. “I’ve seen ye try stranger things, me lady.”
Isabeau clenched her jaw, stopping herself from saying anything more. Next to her, Michael shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the gesture impatient as though he was barely restraining himself. Isabeau’s hand still tingled where he hadgrasped hers. She wanted—foolishly, desperately—to get a reaction out of him, to have him shield her in the same way he had done right outside the inn’s doors.
But no retort came from him, not even when Isabeau could have sworn he looked as though he was about to say something.
They parted as Fergus led the men to arrange the guards. The innkeeper’s wife, bustling and kind-eyed, led Isabeau upstairs, muttering about dry linens and hot broth. Michael watched her go, each step of hers stirring something uneasy in his chest.
He should not have been thinking of her the way he was; not when his sister was rotting in the dungeons below her father’s keep, not when his brothers’ men were imprisoned, their lives hanging on a thread. But every time Isabeau turned her face toward him, it was like the storm outside found an echo within him, wild and unstoppable.
With Isabeau in her room, Michael stayed in the common room for a while, drying off over a bowl of stew. When the inn quieted, he climbed the stairs to his small chamber, where the window rattled in the wind. Stripping off his wet coat, he tossed it across the chair, trying to ignore the way his thoughts drifted toward Isabeau’s room down the hall.
He paced restlessly in front of the narrow bed. The entire room was sparsely furnished, with a basin and a looking glass tacked over it on the wall, and a small chest of drawers in one cornerand a small, round table in the other. Michael moved between the two, ill at ease and finding it impossible to calm his mind.
He could still hear the rain thrumming against the shutters, the muffled laughter of travelers in the taproom below. But, naturally, he couldn’t hear Isabeau, and Fergus’ words kept repeating in his head.
What if she tries tae leave? What if she tries tae escape in the middle o’ the storm?
Michael certainly wouldn’t put it past her. If anything, the short time he had known her had taught him that it was far more likely she would run than stay, regardless of the assurances she had given Fergus. Isabeau had the heart of a hawk—once she had scented freedom, she would no longer bear a cage. If she slipped away under cover of the night, she might not be so fortunate as before. The brigands roamed thick through those woods, and Fergus would relish the chance to drag her back in chains.
And if she vanished, Laird Campbell’s wrath would not stop with her. Michael would take the blame; the envoy who had failed to guard his laird’s future bride.
With a sigh, he came to a halt and stared at the door, his hands on his hips as he contemplated his options. He couldn’t reach her through her door; Fergus’ guards were there, and they would see him.
“Damn it all,” he mumbled, and reached for his cloak.
The corridor outside was dim and cold, the air smelling faintly of smoke and damp wood. A single lantern still burned near the stairwell, its flame trembling. Michael moved like a shadow, his boots soundless against the floorboards, and pushed open the side door leading out to the narrow balcony above the yard that stretched over the back of the inn.
The night met him with a breath of frost. The stone walls of the inn were drenched in rain, and so was the ground, the soil turning into deep, thick mud that clung to his heels. The yard was dark, the moon obscured by the rainclouds. Somewhere in the distance, dog barked, then fell silent.
Michael looked up.
The tree stood close to the inn’s wall, tall and skeletal, its branches reaching toward the upper windows. One branch, thicker than the rest, brushed the shutter of a chamber on the second floor. He already knew which one it was. He had watched Isabeau climb the stairs earlier, the innkeeper’s wife in tow, her step slow but steady as she favored the side still tender from the stab wound.
