CHAPTER TWENTY
After the encounter in the kitchens, Michael needed air—distance from Isabeau’s soft laughter and the warmth of her gaze that lingered in his thoughts like a fever. The more time he spent in that castle, the more the lines between duty and desired blurred, and when he realized how little he had managed to do for Alyson in the days he had been there, he couldn’t help the wave of rage that overtook him.
He needed to act, and he needed to do it fast.
His feet took him to the stables as he walked around the castle grounds to clear his head. There, his horse, the creature he held so dear and had raised since it was a colt, waited for him, and Michael decided it was as good a time as any to give it a good brushing-down and an apple for its efforts.
But when he neared the stables, he paused.
Someone was there.
The quiet murmur of movement reached his ears. It was not the steady rhythm of a stable hand at work, but something hurried, furtive. Michael slowed his steps, eyes narrowing as they adjusted to the dim interior. Dust motes drifted in the shafts of light slanting through the gaps in the wooden boards. The smell of straw and animal breath hung thick in the air.
Near the tack room, a figure bent low over a chest.
Michael recognized him instantly. It was Alistair, one of Laird Campbell’s men; a big, broad-shouldered fellow with a pockmarked face and a permanent scowl, who seemed loyal enough to the laird.
Or so Michael had assumed.
At first, it looked as though the man was tending to the saddles. Then he saw it, the quick flash of silver as coins slid from his hand into a pouch at his belt.
I’ve got ye now.
Michael crossed the floor in silence, the creak of the wood under his boots the only warning Alistair got before his voice cut through the still air like a blade.
“Busy afternoon, is it?”
The man jolted violently, spinning around. The pouch slipped from his fingers, spilling coins across the dirt floor, their soft,ringing noise echoing in the space around them. For a few moments, there was nothing but that sound, as Alistair stared at Michael with wide, frightened eyes.
Then, he stammered his name a few times, trying to get the words out.
“Mr. Gordon!” Alistair said in the end, dropping to his knees, hands scrambling to gather the coins. “I… it’s nae what it looks like.”
Michael said nothing. He only stepped forward, the sound of his boots deliberate, measured, and stopped only when he stood close enough that the man had to look up at him.
“Then tell me,” he said quietly, his tone all the colder for its calm. “What is it?”
The man swallowed hard. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill, and he blinked a few times, opening his mouth as though he was trying to find something to say but words were failing him. “I… I was only takin’ what’s owed tae me, sir. Laird Campbell’s late with the wages again. Me wife’s sick. The bairns, they’ve nae eaten proper in a week.”
Michael crouched, picking up one of the scattered coins between his gloved fingers, turning it slowly in the light. “So ye thought ye’d help yerself tae the laird’s coffers, eh? A bold choice fer a man with hungry bairns.”
Alistair’s breathing quickened, his gaze turning pleading as he looked up at Michael, his fingers laced as if in prayer. “Please, sir. I’ll put it back. Nay one needs tae ken.”
Michael studied him in silence. The man’s fear was genuine, that much was plain. His voice trembled, his hands shook. He was a man driven by desperation, not greed.
An’ desperation can be turned intae somethin’ useful.
Michael let the coin fall back into the pouch with a soft clink. “Listen tae me carefully, Alistair,” he said, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond them. “I’ve nay interest in exposin’ ye. I’ve use fer ye instead.”
Alistair blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Use?”
“Aye.” Michael leaned closer, his shadow falling across the man. “Ye’ll deliver a letter fer me, sealed, tae be taken beyond the keep. Nay questions, nay delay, an’ nay word o’ it tae anyone. Nae tae the guards. Nae tae Fergus. Nae tae the laird himself. Understand?”
The man stared at him, wide-eyed. “A letter? I … I cannae leave me post without permission?—”
Michael’s hand shot out, gripping the man’s shoulder hard enough to make him flinch. “Ye can an’ ye will, or I’ll see tae it that Laird Campbell kens one o’ his own men’s been stealin’ from his coffers.”
His tone was still calm, almost conversational, but the steel in it was unmistakable. Alistair’s breath hitched as he listened intently to the threat laid out before him, as if he feared that missing even a single word would lead to his demise. He swallowed, his gaze darting toward the coins still scattered across the floor. “If I dae this… what then?”
