He hesitated, caught, cornered by his own jealousy. “It’s only…” He forced a shrug. “It’s me duty tae ken where the lady’s loyalties lie. I’d be remiss if I failed tae?—”
“Failed tae report whether I’m pinin’ fer another man?” Isabeau interrupted, one brow arching in question—or perhaps in disbelief. “Yer dedication is admirable, sir.”
The sarcasm stung, though Michael supposed he deserved it. “Aye, well,” he said, stepping back, his hands clasped behind him. “A laird’s envoy cannae be too careful.”
Isabeau tilted her head, studying him. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she sighed and moved toward the bed, the silk hem of her gown whispering against the floorboards. “Ye’re a terrible liar, Mr. Gordon.”
Better than ye would ever imagine.
Michael swallowed in a dry throat, dragging a hand through his hair. “Best ye get some rest. I’ll stay here till dawn, make sure ye’re undisturbed.”
Instantly, Isabeau’s head snapped up. “Stay here?”
Michael gestured toward the space near the bed, to a patch of rug before the hearth, half-lit by firelight. “Aye, right here. I’ll nae disturb ye, but I’ll be here if trouble comes… or if ye decide tae become trouble.”
Isabeau’s eyes widened, incredulous. “Ye cannae possibly?—”
“I can,” he said, voice firm. “An’ I will. Nae up fer discussion, me lady.”
Something in his tone silenced her. Isabeau looked at him for a long moment, the rise and fall of her breath quick, uncertain.Then she mumbled something under her breath that might have been a curse and turned away.
Michael lowered himself onto the rug, stretching his legs out toward the warmth of the fire. The scent of lavender from her bed linens drifted through the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of sugar and baked bread from the tray nearby, but his hunger had little to do with the food itself.
It was dangerous, staying there in her room. But it was more dangerous to leave her alone when she was so prone to running.
Michael could hear her settle on the mattress, the rustle of fabric, the creak of the bed frame. Eventually, her cloak joined the rest of the clothes that were draped over a nearby chair, but he fought the urge to glance at her, if only for a moment. For a long while, neither spoke. The fire crackled softly, the only sound between them. Michael stared into the flames, trying to focus on the rhythm of his breathing—anything but the soft sound of hers.
He told himself it was just watchfulness that kept him alert, that the fluttering awareness in his chest was nothing but the unease of being too close to danger. But every time Isabeau shifted, the sheets whispered against her bare skin, and his pulse quickened.
And every time she stilled, the silence felt heavier than before.
Isabeau woke to the faint grey light of dawn pressing through the shutters. For a moment, she lay still, disoriented by the softness of her pillow and the low crackle of embers in the hearth. Then memory stirred—the knock at her window, the impossible figure balanced on the tree branch outside, the stubborn man who had refused to leave.
In the haze of sleep, she felt something soft and warm under her fingers—then, the rough texture of stubble, the faint rasp of it.
Her heart stuttered. Her hand had slipped, perhaps in her sleep, perhaps guided by something she didn’t want to name, and now she was touching him, ever so softly, ever so lightly.
For a fleeting instant, she didn’t move. The heat of his skin startled her. She rarely got that close to people, and she couldn’t help but let her fingers linger for a moment. Her fingertips grazed his cheekbone, tracing the line where the light met shadow. His skin was rough, but under the stubble there was a surprising softness, like brushed velvet against her hand.
And then he stirred.
The movement jolted Isabeau back to herself, and her eyes widened when she realized what she was doing. In one startled motion, she snatched her hand away and pressed it to her chest,praying Michael was in too deep of a sleep to notice what she had done.
Michael blinked awake instantly, his eyes hazy with sleep until they found hers. For a long heartbeat, neither of them spoke. His gaze dropped to her hand, then back to her face, and the silence between them felt unbearably fragile.
She said nothing. Michael straightened slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck, his voice rough with sleep. “Morn already?”
The casualness of his tone only made Isabeau’s pulse race faster. She tore her gaze away, sitting up and pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders to hide her trembling.
“Ye’d best go,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “Me faither’s men will come soon tae wake me. If they find ye here…”
He nodded, already rising to his feet. “Aye,” he said. “I’ll be gone afore they stir.”
Isabeau crossed to the window, pushing open the shutter to let the dawn air spill in. The rain had stopped. In the distance, the sky was painted in pale silvers and rose, and below, the mist curled over the inn’s yard.
Behind her, she heard Michael step closer. She could feel the warmth of him even from a pace away—his was a presence that filled the room and made her pulse jump.
“Be careful,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.
