Bastard… o’ course he wants me up there.
Michael could hardly even fault him.
There were six guards there, blocking his way. He had dealt with two, but even he couldn’t survive such odds.
Perhaps I can convince them.
“I dinnae trust ye with this,” he said. “Two o’ ye are already dead. Dae ye think six o’ ye will make a difference? I’ll stay here.”
“I’m afraid Laird Campbell was very clear, sir,” said the guard. “He said he said if ye didnae join the battle, he’d consider ye a… a coward an’ useless tae him. He said he’ll write tae yer laird.”
Michael had to bite back a groan of anger, his pulse beating like a hammer behind his eyes. There was no way out of it; all he could do was follow Laird Campbell’s orders if he didn’t want to reveal his true identity.
And with six guards there, he could do nothing but nod and push his way pas them, climbing up the stairs.
Outside, the battle still raged. Both sides had suffered many losses—McDonald and Campbell men laying dead on the ground, their blood thick and metallic in the air. From across the courtyard, Michael caught Tòrr’s gaze, and from the small shake of his head, his brother understood everything he needed to know.
“Fall back!” he called, his voice echoing through the courtyard. “Fall back! Retreat!”
And as the MacDonald forces poured out of the courtyard and galloped back towards safety, Michael felt the sting of failurelike a physical blow, like a blade to the gut, knowing he had let Alyson down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Smoke still clung to the sky above the keep, a grey veil mottled with the aftertaste of burning rope and oiled timber. The MacDonald war cry had thinned to ragged echoes along the heather. Farther out, Michael could hear men dragging the wounded from the line of fight, voices rough with adrenaline and grief.
Michael moved through the keep’s walls quickly, blending in with the waves of guards and servants that were frantically trying to tend to the wounded and clean up after the battle. Blood pocked the flagstones—Campbell blood mostly, a dusting of MacDonald where his clansmen had been less fortunate. Michael's cloak, dark as wet peat, hid the hook of a dirk and the smattering of blood across his bicep, where he’d been cut.
Just as he rounded a corner, Alistair stepped from a side passage like a rat from a hole, the light catching on the wet hair at his temples. He smelled of smoke and sweat, and his hands fidgeted with the edge of his bloodied sleeve.
“Can we talk?” Alistair asked, and Michael had to bite back a sigh.
“Nay,” he said, and tried to push past the man, only for him to block his way. Michael glared at him, but Alistair was relentless.
“I think we should talk.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Michael saw a small group of guards passing by the other end of the hallway. With a snarl, he grabbed Alistair by the shirt and pulled him into the nearest room—a small study, dark and damp, with nothing but the moon shedding some cold light on the dusty furniture.
“Speak,” barked Michael, crossing his arms over his chest.
Alistair hesitated, but only for a moment. “I will keep yer secret,” he said.
Michael gave him no reaction. “What secret?”
“I’m nay a fool, Mr. Grant… or whatever yer name is,” Alistair said, and Michael cursed under his breath. “Had it nae been fer the letter, I wouldnae have suspected ye, but now…”
Alistair let the words hung heavy between them, and Michael had half a mind to kill the man where he stood. But unnecessarily killings would only draw more suspicion on him, and besides, the man had a family. Without him, Michael could only imagine the fate of his wife and children.
Besides, as much as he despised being blackmailed, it was useful to have a man like Alistair in the keep, who would do anything he asked at the drop of some coin.
“Are ye offerin’ yer… services, then?” Michael asked him.
Alistair shrugged a shoulder, his dark, slightly greasy hair flicking over his face with the movement. “I suppose ye could say that, aye.”
Michael considered it for a second, though he had already made up his mind. In the end, he nodded once, firmly. “I will call ye when I need ye, an’ ye will be rewarded as I see fit. Ye willnae want fer coin, but if ye speak a word tae anyone, Icanan’willkill ye. Dae ye understand?”
Alistair swallowed audibly, his eyes widening as he took in the threat. He nodded silently, and Michael was relieved to see it was easy to frighten the man. He needed him frightened. He needed him scared and quiet, and he was not above some threatening.
“Good,” he said. “Best be on yer way, then.”
