Michael released him, pushing himself up to his feet. “If ye dae it well, there’ll be more coin fer ye. Enough tae feed yer bairns an’ see yer wife through the winter. Fail me…” He let the threat hang in the air, sharp and silent as a drawn blade, “an’ I’ll let Laird Campbell decide what’s fair punishment fer a thief.”
Alistair stared at him, pale and trembling. “Ye’d truly dae that?”
“Try me.”
Michael didn’t enjoy blackmailing this man, especially when he knew he was doing it for his children and his wife. But he had found Clan Campbell’s weak spot, and he had no choice but to exploit it. He needed this; he needed a way to communicate with his brothers that wouldn’t leave him vulnerable and exposed, and this man was the key.
For a moment, the stables were silent but for the horses shifting restlessly in their stalls, hooves scuffing the straw. Then Alistair nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. “Aye,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll dae it. I swear it.”
“Good.” Michael crouched again, gathering the last of the coins and pressing the pouch into the man’s shaking hands. “Ye’llhave the letter by nightfall. An’ ye’ll leave through the east gate, quietly. Nay one needs tae ken ye’ve gone.”
Alistair clutched the pouch to his chest as if it might save him. “I’ll nae breathe a word.”
“I ken ye willnae,” Michael said, and turned to go.
As he stepped out into the cold, a grim satisfaction coiled in his chest. The pieces were shifting.
Finally.
A frightened, hungry man, the kind who would keep his head down and his mouth shut if there was coin in it for him. Through Alistair, he could send word to the MacDonald men hiding beyond the hills, tell them what had gone wrong, warn them about the captured spies in the dungeon.
And all without stepping foot beyond the keep himself, without drawing the gaze of Fergus or Laird Campbell.
The thought steadied him, sharp and clear as the chill wind that swept through the yard. But as he turned toward the tower stairs, another thought intruded, soft and unwanted; that of Isabeau, her laugh, her touch, tender as the barest spring breeze. The way she had looked at him that morning, sunlight catching in her hair.
Michael clenched his jaw and forced it from his mind. He had no room for that kind of weakness.
Michael returned to the keep with his pulse still tight from the stables. The deal with Alistair had been struck, but the satisfaction that came with it was thin, uneasy. Every plan he made, every step toward rescuing Alyson carried another risk, another chance of ruin.
The keep’s corridors were dim now, lit only by the dull flicker of torches, the sunlight almost gone as the sun sank in the horizon. His boots thudded softly against the flagstones as he climbed the stairs, his mind caught somewhere between the letter he would have to write for Alistair and the memory of Isabeau’s laughter. His thoughts tangled—faces, plans, words—until the familiar path to his chambers seemed unfamiliar.
He must have turned down the wrong corridor without realizing. He reached a door that was half-ajar. Thinking little of it, he looked in to try and figure out where he had ended up.
And then he froze.
The room was filled with steam and it parted just enough to reveal Isabeau, standing in the bath. Her bare shoulders gleamed in the lamplight, beads of water sliding down the smooth curve of her skin. His gaze moved down the shape of her body—the curve of her breast, the peak of it where her nipple was pebbled by the cold, the swell of her hips, her skin drenchedin water. For one disbelieving heartbeat, he stood rooted in the doorway, his eyes wide, his breath caught in his throat.
Then she moved with a sharp intake of breath and the splash of water as she reached for the towel beside her.
“Good God!” she cried, clutching the linen to her chest. “Mr. Gordon! What are ye—get out!”
Michael turned instantly, his cheeks bright with color, muttering a curse under his breath. “Me apologies. I… I got turned around and the door was slightly open?—”
But his body betrayed him before his mind could stop it. For just one fleeting, damning instant, his gaze flicked back, drawn by something he couldn’t name. Maybe it was the soft rise and fall of her breath or the pale line of her neck above the towel. Maybe it was the shimmer of the lamplight on wet skin. Or maybe it was that under his desire, under his need, there was something else entirely—the sight of her scars, which marked her entire body.
He had suspected it; he had considered the possibility that the scars she bore extended past her arms, down her torso and legs. But seeing it was a whole different thing from suspecting it, and now that he was forced to face the reality of her father’s cruelty, he couldn’t push down his guilt anymore.
I brought her back here. I brought her back tae this monster, an’ I ken he’ll never stop.
Her only hope is Laird Grant.
But what good could Laird Grant be? Isabeau was simply being passed between two men who were just as cruel, just as uncaring.
However, the scars she bore on her skin did nothing to retract from her beauty. If anything, they only showed him how strong she was, how resilient.
Isabeau saw it, the way his eyes lingered, the way his breath hitched, and in a rush of movement, she leapt from the bath, dragging a nightshift over her damp skin. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the ties, shame and anger clashing on her cheeks in a red bloom.
“Ye’ve nay right tae look!” she spat, her voice trembling. “Nay right at all!”
