The words struck too close to the truth, but Isabeau tried not to show it. “Maisie,” she said sharply, “dinnae be absurd.”
Maisie tilted her head, but her expression softened. “Aye, o’ course, me lady. Just me runnin’ me mouth.” She smiled faintly and set the sweet back down on the tray. “Still… ye’ve nae smiled like that in years.”
Isabeau turned away under the pretense of rearranging the sweets, her heartbeat far too quick. “It’s naethin’,” she insisted,her voice steadier now. “He’s here tae dae his duty, an’ so am I. That’s all there is tae it.”
Maisie said nothing, but the silence between them was telling. The girl knew Isabeau too well, she had been her maid for years, ever since they were both young. There was no hiding from her; there was no pretending when they knew each other so well.
After a moment, Isabeau cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Would ye dae somethin’ fer me?” she asked softly. “Take some o’ these sweets tae the guards, the ones on duty at the gate. Tell them they’re a small thanks fer their service.”
Maisie eyed her knowingly. “An’ the other half?”
Isabeau hesitated only a moment before saying, “I’ll see tae those meself.” She met Maisie’s eyes and added in a lower voice, “An’ if ye can, try tae slip one or two tae Alyson, quietly. I’ve nae been able tae visit her, an’ she must be near starved.”
Maisie’s teasing expression softened at once. “Aye, me lady. I’ll find a way.”
“Thank ye,” Isabeau said, and she meant it with all her heart.
Maisie picked up the tray, balancing it on one hand, and turned toward the door. “Ye’ve a kind heart,” she said with a small smile. Then, with that impish glint returning to her eyes, she added over her shoulder. “An’ maybe a bit of a soft spot fer handsome envoys, too.”
“Maisie!”
The maid laughed, ducking out the door before Isabeau could throw a pillow at her.
Left alone, Isabeau pressed her hands to her warm cheeks, trying to chase away the foolish grin tugging at her mouth. She told herself Maisie was only teasing, that she was imagining the quickening in her pulse and the way her heart had leapt at the thought of seeing Michael again. But as she glanced at the small bundle of sweets she had set aside for him, the truth rippled through her all the same, quiet and undeniable.
She did want to see him again, and that terrified her more than anything.
When Isabeau made her way down to the kitchens, the keep was alive with noise. The clang of pots, the hum of voices, the smell of baking bread and roasting meat—all of it crowded the air. The afternoon light slanted through the narrow windows, glinting off copper kettles and flagons of milk, making the busy space glow with warmth.
She stepped through the doorway quietly, her tray of sweets cradled in her hands, only to stop short.
Michael was there. He stood near the hearth, his back half-turned, the firelight catching in his dark hair. The plain linen ofhis shirt clung to his shoulders and arms, rolled at the sleeves, revealing the strong curve of muscle under sun-browned skin. One of the kitchen maids, a fresh-faced girl with curls peeking from her cap, hovered far too close, giggling as she poured hot water into a cup and stirred it with unnecessary care.
Isabeau’s heart gave a sudden, sharp twist.
The girl leaned closer, whispering something she couldn’t hear. Michael smiled, polite, distant, but smiling nonetheless, and the sound of the girl’s laughter rang like a bell in Isabeau’s ears.
Before she could stop herself, her voice cut through the bustle like a blade.
“Moira.”
The maid jumped, sloshing a bit of tea onto the table before whipping around. “Me lady! I?—”
“Go draw me a bath,” Isabeau said crisply. “Now, if ye please.”
Moira blinked, color rushing to her cheeks. “A bath?”
“Aye. An’ fetch fresh rose oil. I’ve had a long night.”
The girl bobbed a quick curtsy, flustered, and all but fled the room, leaving Michael watching Isabeau with one brow raised, his cup still half-empty in his hand. When the door swungshut behind the maid, he turned back toward her, amusement tugging faintly at his mouth. “Was that truly necessary?”
Isabeau busied herself setting the tray on the table, avoiding his gaze. “I simply needed a bath,” she said lightly. “After the tug-o’-war an’ the night at the inn, I’m still covered in dirt.”
“Dirt,” he repeated, clearly unconvinced. “That so?”
Isabeau ignored the skepticism in his tone and reached for the honey jar, her movements brisk to hide the warmth creeping up her neck. “Yer tea’s goin’ cold,” she said. “Ye take honey, dinnae ye?”
Michael tilted his head slightly. “Ye’ve been payin’ attention.”
