Michael pulled his cloak tighter around him and tested the bark with one hand. It was rough and cold under his fingers, slick in places where frost had gathered. Tapping the ball of his foot against the bark, he found a foothold and began to climb.
Under his weight, the trees groaned softly, the branches bending, creaking. Michael moved carefully, each shift of his boots deliberate, every breath measured. The inn’s yardstretched out underneath him, and he imagined how foolish he must look—a supposed envoy of Clan Grant, scaling trees like a lovesick thief.
But he kept going. When he reached the thicker limb that curved toward her window, he crouched low, steadying himself with one hand. The branch trembled under him, shedding a flurry of brittle twigs and the last of the dead leaves that still clung to it.
Her shutter was half-closed, a thin slice of lamplight spilling through the crack. Michael could see the faint glow of the fire inside, the silhouette of her bed draped in shadow. For a moment, he hesitated. He could turn back now, slip inside before anyone saw him; pretend this madness had never crossed his mind.
But then he thought of her, trapped in the castle in the same way his sister was. He thought of her trying to escape, only to meet another group of brigands, only to be hurt once more. He thought of her face, delicate and doll-like, but at the same time holding so much pain in its depths; the way she looked at him, like she had long lost all hope.
He reached forward and rapped gently against the wood, once, then twice.
A soft sound came from within the chamber; the faint rustle of fabric, the creak of floorboards.
Then the shutter opened a hand’s breadth, and her face—curious, frightened, radiant—appeared in the window.
“Have ye lost yer mind?” Isabeau hissed the moment she spotted him, eyes wide with disbelief. Her hair, loose from its braid, framed her face in a tumble of dark warmth, and over her thin shift, her cloak was hastily pulled around her shoulders, as if she’d only just risen from bed.
Michael, unbothered by her fury, simply leaned a forearm against the window frame and smiled faintly. “Wouldnae put it past ye tae try another escape,” he said. “Thought I’d make sure ye werenae halfway tae the coast already.”
Her lips parted in indignation, color blooming high on her cheeks. “Ye’re givin’ me ideas, Mr. Gordon,” she shot back, though her tone betrayed the faintest flicker of amusement.
“Aye, I suspected as much.”
Isabeau glared at him a moment longer before exhaling sharply and stepping aside. “Well, since ye’ve already made a spectacle o’ yerself, ye might as well come in afore ye break yer neck.”
So she isnae sending me away.
The thought pleased him more than it should. Michael grinned, bracing one hand on the sill, and swung himself through the window with a quiet fluidity that betrayed long practice. His boots met the rug with barely a sound. Inside the room, the fire in the hearth had burned low, painting the chamber in a soft, amber glow. Shadows gathered in the corners, making the space feel smaller, more intimate, though the room was almost exactly the same as his own.
Isabeau stood with her arms folded, her gaze sharp enough to cut. “If me faither’s men see ye?—”
“They willnae,” Michael interrupted smoothly.
Isabeau rolled her eyes, but he could have sworn the corner of her mouth twitched in an almost smile. “Ye’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told,” Michael said, scanning the room. A part of him did worry that her father’s men would burst in through the door at any moment, even though he wasn’t about to share that concern with her. The last thing he needed was to make her skittish.
Instead, he remained silent as he took in the room, his eyes catching on a small tray on the table near the window; a neat stack of sugared sweets, gleaming faintly in the firelight. He raised a brow. “Ye still havenae eaten those?”
“All o’ them?” Isabeau asked with a scoff. “That would be gluttonous.”
Michael glanced at the sweets once more, saliva gathering on his tongue.
“They dae smell good.”
Before he knew it, he was reaching for one, his fingers brushing the edge of the tray?—
And Isabeau swiftly knocked his hand aside, eyes flashing with sudden mischief. “They’re fer someone special,” she said, her tone light and teasing.
And yet, the words pricked at him sharper than they should have.
Someone special.
Michael looked at her; at the faint smile curving her mouth, the mischievous glint in her eyes. His heart seized and his stomach twisted, jealousy wrapping around it like a vice.
“Someone special?” he repeated, keeping his tone even though his jaw had tensed. “Was there someone afore this marriage business began? A sweetheart, perhaps, ye’d rather be givin’ these tae?”
Isabeau blinked, surprise flashing across her face. Then her chin lifted, and her eyes glimmered with challenge. “An’ what concern is that o’ yers, Mr. Gordon?”
