Michael smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriating, quiet way of his. “Always am.”
Isabeau didn’t believe him for a moment.
He swung one leg over the sill, then the other, moving with a fluid ease that made her stomach twist. For an instant, he paused there, balanced between the darkness inside and the dawn outside, his gaze locking on hers.
Neither spoke. The soft breeze lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek, and she saw his fingers twitch slightly as if he wanted to reach out, to tuck it away.
Then he was gone.
Isabeau leaned against the window frame, watching him descend the tree as silently as he had come, his dark figure swallowed by the pale mist below. When she finally closed the shutter, the room felt larger, emptier. She pressed the hand that had brushed against his skin to her cheek, half expecting to still feel the warmth there.
And Isabeau missed him already.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The journey back to the keep passed in a blur.
Once again, she was in the safety of her carriage, her hood drawn over her face, her head resting on the small window. Outside, Michael rode next to her, just like he had done on the way to the village, and watching him, her mind was anything but quiet. Every jolt of the carriage, every creak of the seat’s leather, seemed to echo with fragments of the night before—the low timbre of Michael’s voice, the warmth of his skin where she had touched him, the way his eyes had met hers in the pale dawn light, as though he had wanted to say something he never did.
As the keep’s grey stone towers rose before her, her heart gave a small, traitorous flutter at the sight of him riding next to her. But by the time she reached her chamber, she was composed again—at least so it seemed. As she headed inside, she dismissed the maid who followed her up the stairs and closed the door behind her, exhaling slowly into the quiet.
She placed the small tray on her desk, still holding the sweets she had won at the village fair., and which she had carried with her all the way to the castle. The golden sugar glistened faintly in the light from the window and Isabeau crossed the room, her fingers brushing over them.
She had teased Michael mercilessly the night before, batting his hand away when he had reached for one, claiming they were for someone special. And she didn’t think she had imagined the flicker of annoyance in his gaze, the twitch of his brow and the twist of his mouth, as though he wanted to speak some words of disapproval but cut himself short.
And there she was, dividing the tray into two neat halves—one for herself, and one for the man she had only meant to torment.
“Ridiculous,” she mumbled, shaking her head at herself even as she set aside the portion for Michael. But she couldn’t help smiling. He would never let her live it down if he knew.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Isabeau called.
Maisie entered, a fresh jug of water in her hands and her usual bright curiosity in her eyes. Her apron was dusted with flour from the morning kitchen work, her hair escaping its braid in curls, and she gave Isabeau a warm smile as she walked inside.
“Good afternoon, me lady,” Maisie said cheerfully. “I thought ye might be needin’ some fresh water. It’s been a bit o’ a journey fer ye today.”
“Ach, the village isnae that far,” said Isabeau as she shed her cloak and perched on the edge of her bed. “But I would like a bath.”
“O’ course, me lady,” said Maisie, as her gaze drifted to the desk, and to the carefully arranged sweets waiting there. “Och, now those look lovely,” she said, setting down the jug and crossing over. “Where did they come from? The cook’s been in a mood all morn, and she’d near faint if she thought someone’s been bakin’ without her ken.”
Isabeau froze a little too quickly. “The fair,” she said hastily. “I won them from the baker’s wife.”
Despite her best efforts, her thoughts drifted back to Michael—to the way they had played that game at the village, the way he had smiled and laughed alone with everyone else, looking—even if only for a few, brief moments—as though the weight had lifted from his shoulders.
Maisie’s brow rose, her mouth curving in amusement. “Did ye now? Well, are ye nae a lucky lady.” She plucked one up delicately, sniffing the sugar-dusted top. “An’ tell me, was this afore or after ye went gallivantin’ about with Mr. Gordon?”
Isabeau blinked. “Gallivantin’?”
Maisie’s grin only deepened. “Ach, I ken ye, me lady… better than anyone, I’d say. An’ I ken how ye look at him. Just because ye can hide it from everyone else, it daesnae mean ye can hide it from me. An’, well… he is very handsome.”
Heat climbed up Isabeau’s neck, coloring her skin. “It was hardly like that,” she said, flustered. “He was there as me escort. Me faither insisted.”
Maisie gave a noncommittal hum, clearly unconvinced, and turned the sweet between her fingers. “Still, ye dinnae smile like that when Fergus is about.”
Isabeau bristled. “I dinnae think anyone smiles when Fergus is about.”
“All I’m sayin’,” Maisie continued, her tone light but her eyes shrewd, “is that ye seem tae like this envoy more than ye admit… or more than the situation allows.”
