Michael obeyed, every muscle in his body taut.
“Tell me,” Laird Campbell said, almost conversational, “why did Cody Grant send ye alone? Seems a strange choice, sendin’ but one man tae speak fer two clans.”
Michael lifted his cup, more for his hands to have something to do than from thirst. “Laird Grant is still green in such matters. It was Herman who sent me, he thought one voice quieter than a delegation, less likely tae draw eyes. The pact’s dealings are better kept discreet.”
“Aye,” Laird Campbell said slowly after a moment of deliberation. “Herman’s a sly fox. But he trusts ye much, daesnae he? Tae send ye here tae speak fer the boy.”
“He does, me laird.” Michael met his gaze evenly. “I’ve been with the Grants since afore Cody came o’ age. His uncle values loyalty above all.”
Laird Campbell leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying him like a chess piece he hadn’t decided to move yet. “An’ what daes Herman offer in return fer that loyalty?”
“Land,” Michael answered, without pause. “An’ peace.”
A thin smile tugged at Laird Campbell’s lips. “Peace.” He took a slow drink, the sound of him swallowing loud in the quiet. “There’s nae peace in these hills, Mr. Gordon. Only the silence afore the next war.”
“I’ve learned tae live in that silence,” Michael said.
The words seemed to please him. Laird Campbell chuckled, low and humorless. “Ye speak well. Too well, maybe. Nae like the other Grant curs I’ve dealt with. Ye carry yerself like a man who’s seen more blood than words.”
Michael allowed the faintest shrug. “I’ve served long enough tae ken both spill easy.”
For a heartbeat, something like respect flickered in the laird’s eyes—but it was gone as quickly as it came. “Aye. Perhaps that’s why I like ye. Still…” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a rasp. “If I find ye’ve lied tae me, if I find one hair’s breadth of deceit, I’ll see ye hang from me gate afore the next dawn. Dae ye understand me?”
Michael met that cold, gleaming stare without flinching. “I dae, me laird.”
Laird Campbell held his gaze for a long, punishing moment—long enough for Michael to feel his heartbeat counting seconds in his throat—then finally leaned back, draining the last of his ale.
“Good,” Laird Campbell said at last, tone casual again, as if the threat had never been uttered. “Go. Rest while ye can. On the morrow, we speak o’ marriage contracts and dowries, an’ o’ the future o’ the Highlands.”
Michael rose, bowing stiffly. “Aye, me laird.”
As he turned to leave, he felt Laird Campbell’s stare between his shoulders like the point of a knife. He walked with measured steps until the door closed behind him; only then did his shoulders drop, the tension not quite leaving him, not yet—but letting go just enough for him to draw in a deep breath.
He knew he had survived the moment, but only barely. Angus Campbell’s suspicion was a living thing now, coiled and waiting. One slip, one misplaced word, and his head would decorate the gate before dawn.
And worse still, the laird’s plan for Isabeau, for all of them, was set in motion.
Michael clenched his fists, the rage pulsing in his veins to the rhythm of his rabbit-fast heartbeat. He would not let Laird Campbell have his way. Not with Alyson, not with Isabeau, and certainly not with the Highlands.
The night outside the hall was cold and sharp, the sky bruised with smoke. Somewhere below, in the dark belly of the keep, his sister still waited in her cell.
And it took every ounce of Michael’s self-control to keep himself from slaughtering his way through the keep to get to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The corridor was dim, torches burning low and unsteady, their light bleeding over the cold stone walls. The air smelled of wet ash and steel—remnants of the battle still clinging to the keep like ghosts. Isabeau moved quickly, her slippers silent on the floor. Her heart was a frantic thing in her chest, a fluttering bird that refused to be stilled.
After the previous day’s battle, she had waited through the interrogation in the great hall, unseen behind the carved oak of the gallery door, hearing every word that fell from her father’s mouth. Once the wedding was sealed, he had said, he’d strike at the MacDonalds. Her blood had gone cold upon hearing it—the same blood, she thought, that her father would spill without hesitation if it bought him one more scrap of power.
But it wasn’t her father she hunted now. It was the man who had stood before him, too calm, too steady, too self-assured for someone who was under suspicion.
Isabeau had seen him fight. From her window, the night had burned below her. She had seen the MacDonalds breach the yard, the Campbell men falling one by one under the chaos. Then she had seen Michael cut down two guards near the lower passage, moving with a precision that spoke not of panic but of purpose. And when the smoke cleared, he had gone toward the dungeon doors.
Now, as his boots struck the flagstones ahead, Isabeau stepped out from an alcove, blocking his path.
“Mr. Gordon.”
Michael froze, the sound of his name making him halt on the spot. When he turned to her, the torchlight caught his face—the edge of a bruise at his jaw, the gleam of sweat along his brow. He looked dangerous, more so than she remembered. His hand twitched near the hilt of his dagger before he saw who it was.
