Michael tried to force himself to turn away, but his feet stayed where they were, unwilling to move. “I wasnae—” He stopped, knowing the lie wouldn’t hold. Instead, he exhaled, voice low and rough. “I didnae mean tae see ye like that.”
“Then leave!”
He should leave; of course he should. It was the right thing to do. Leave and pretend none of it had happened, focus on his mission, forget all about that day. But something in the way hervoice broke, not just with outrage, but with something wounded, something brittle, made him stop.
Slowly, he turned back toward her.
Isabeau stood near the bath, the nightshift clinging damply to her skin. Her arms were wrapped around herself, not only to cover but to protect. The short gown did little to cover her scars, and her arms did even less. There was nothing that could hide them from view, those thin, silvery lines that seemed to glow under the light of the candles.
Isabeau looked at him as though daring him to recoil.
“Dae ye think I’ve nae seen scars afore?” he said.
Isabeau scoffed, her chin lifting in defiance, though her eyes glistened. “It’s different.”
“How?”
“Because they’re mine.” The words came out sharp, trembling. “Because they’re ugly.”
Michael took a step towards her, slow and deliberate, though he didn’t get too close. “They’re nae.”
“Dinnae lie tae me.”
“I’m nae.”
Isabeau shook her head, gripping the fabric of her gown tighter. “Ye dinnae understand. Ye havenae?—”
Michael interrupted her softly. “Ye’ve already seen mine.”
That made her still and fall silent, her throat bobbing once as she swallowed. She looked at him for a moment, observing him as though she could peer past his clothes and look at the skin underneath.
When he spoke again, Michael’s voice was low, rough with memory. “The one on me side is from when I was sixteen. The blade o’ a raider, iron rusted. Near took me tae the grave.” He took another step closer. “An’ the one across me shoulder, from a border fight two summers past. The men say it looks like lightnin’.”
Isabeau’s gaze faltered. “I remember,” she said.
“Then ye ken scars dinnae make a body shameful,” he said. “They only show wheat ye’ve lived through, what tried tae kill ye.”
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The space between them was thick with steam and silence, and the desire that seemed to fill every gap between them now, leaving no part of them untouched.
Michael’s eyes met hers, and in that instant, every line between duty and desire blurred. He reached out, slow and hesitant, his fingers brushing her arm. Her skin was still warm from the bath, soft under his calloused touch. Isabeau’s breath caught, but she didn’t pull away from him, and that only emboldened him.
She feels the same… I ken she daes.
“Dinnae hide from me,” Michael said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Ye’ve nay reason tae.”
For a fleeting moment, Isabeau’s eyes flicked to his mouth. “Ye should go,” she said, but her voice had lost its strength.
Michael didn’t move. The pull between them was magnetic, maddening. His hand slid higher, tracing the line of her shoulder where a scar faded into skin.
“Dae ye find me body repulsive, then?” Michael asked quietly, already knowing the answer that came without hesitation.
“Nay.”
For a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but the space between them, the closeness of their breaths, the soft rise and fall of Isabeau’s chest, the plush curve of her pink mouth. He could feel her trembling, could hear the faintest sigh escape her lips as he leaned closer.
He wanted to taste that sigh, to forget everything else—the lies, the danger, the reason he was there—and lose himself in her instead. Their lips nearly met, a heartbeat’s width apart, the tension coiled tight between them when a knock shattered the moment.
“Me lady?” came Maisie’s voice from beyond the other door.
