Michael waited in the room as Alistair slipped out, leaning against a large, mahogany desk that stood near the wall. There was little to do now other than wait. With the failed attempt, everything was too risky, too fragile, and for a while, he would have to lie low.
Ach, Alyson… I hope ye can forgive me.
But he had not yet lost hope. He would give his own life before he gave up on her.
The great hall reeked of smoke and damp wool. The rafters above still trembled with the echoes of the night’s violence. Between the thud of men’s boots and the hiss of extinguished torches lingered the ghost of the battle. Michael stood among a sea of Campbell men, his sword still stained with blood. The long table had been cleared of food and drink; only a single candle burned before Laird Campbell, its light carving harsh planes into his weathered face.
Laird Campbell did not sit. He prowled, boots clicking against the flagstones, a beast caged in his own hall. His beard caught the candlelight as he paced in front of the table, and his hands—broad, veined, trembling slightly—rested on the pommel of his sword.
“Ye’ll tell me,” he said at last, voice low but cutting through the murmur like an axe through bone. “How in the Lord’s name the MacDonalds breached me yard.”
A hush swept through the hall. The only sound was the pop of the fire. One of the guards—a younger man, pale and uncertain—stepped forward, bowing stiffly.
“Me laird,” he said, “it was the change o’ the watch. We’d just swapped patrols at the north gate when… when the cry went up. They came through the fog, quick an’—”
“Quick an’ what?” Laird Campbell barked.
The man swallowed. “Organized, me laird. Too organized. We were caught afore the horns could sound.”
A muscle jumped in Laird Campbell’s jaw as he came to a halt and faced the young soldier. “An’ ye expect me tae believe that a small MacDonald force is stronger than all the men in this keep? Men I’ve trained since the cradle?”
The guard shrank under the weight of that fury. “Nay, me laird. But the timin’… perhaps a traitor among the men?—”
“Enough.” Laird Campbell’s hand slammed against the table, rattling the candle in its holder. “There’ll be nay talk o’ treachery here until I name it so.”
But the seed was planted. Every eye shifted, uncertain, searching for guilt in the faces beside them. Michael kept his own still, his breathing shallow.
Then came the moment he feared.
One of the dungeon guards, a broad man with a nose flattened by years of brawling, cleared his throat. “Me laird,” he said, voice hesitant, “when the fightin’ broke, we saw this man—” hegestured toward Michael “—down by the lower passage, near the cells.”
A ripple went through the room. Every head snapped toward Michael, eyes narrowing. Worst of all was the look Laird Campbell gave him, severe and suspicious, the kind of look that didn’t need words to express hostility.
“What business had ye in the dungeons?” he asked, his tone too calm, too measured.
Michael met his gaze, heart pounding a steady drum under his ribs. “I’d gone tae call on the guards there, me laird,” he said evenly. “We heard the clamor from the walls. I told them the fightin’ was thickest in the yard, an’ that their steel was needed above.”
Laird Campbell studied him. The candlelight caught the faint sheen of sweat at Michael’s temple, and the hall seemed to shrink until there was only the two of them—hunter and hunted.
“Brave o’ ye,” Laird Campbell said finally, though the words had no warmth. “But curious. A man sent as envoy takes up command as though he were born tae it.”
“I served under Laird Grant afore he made me messenger,” Michael replied, voice steady. “Old habits die hard.”
The lie came smooth, honed by the hours he and his brothers had spent drilling the details into his skull. The real Grant envoyhad died with those words in his throat, but his knowledge had been stripped clean before his last breath. Michael’s story was built of truth—other men’s truth, borrowed and sharpened.
Laird Campbell grunted, his gaze still on him as though he was trying to decide whether or not he should believe him. Then, just when Michael thought the man would call him out on his lie, he turned back to the room. “The MacDonalds have grown bold. They strike with a small force an’ cause such… such damage! This willnae stand.”
A murmur of assent ran through the guards and the men of his Council. Michael said nothing; he only gave a stiff nod, finding it best to stay quiet. Around him, everyone else quieted down as well, a lull falling over the room.
Laird Campbell raised his head, his voice loud and cold. “Once me daughter’s weddin’ tae young Cody Grant is sealed, the Pact o’ Argyll will be unbreakable. An’ then…” he paused, letting the silence swell, “we will strike at the remainin’ MacDonald brood afore they can raise a hand against me again. Afore that bastard Tòrr finds friends enough tae think himself me equal.”
The room filled with the sound of approval—muttered oaths, grim nods, the dull pound of fists against tables. Michael forced his jaw not to clench. Every word was a lash, every plan a dagger aimed at his own blood. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor until Laird Campbell’s voice dropped again.
“Dismissed,” the laird said at last, and Michael stood, eager to leave the room, only for the laird to add, “All but ye, Mr. Gordon.”
Michael’s gut turned to ice. Around him, men filed out, murmuring, their glances quick and curious. The door thudded shut, and the hall seemed suddenly too vast, the fire too small.
Laird Campbell poured himself ale from a flagon, the liquid dark as old wine. “Sit,” he said, gesturing with the cup.
