“Me lady,” he said, his hand falling from the hilt of his dirk. “It’s late. Ye should be in yer chambers.”
“I was,” she said. Her voice trembled, but she forced steel into it. “I saw ye in the yard. I saw ye kill me faither’s guards.”
Michael’s gaze sharpened instantly. The mask of courtesy slipped, and he took a few steps towards Isabeau, closing the space between them. She let him; though she had suffered much in that keep, it was still her home, and she would not be intimidated or threatened within its walls. If she wanted to,she could have all of her father’s men in that corridor within seconds, and Michael was surely well aware of that.
“Ye should choose yer words carefully,” he said.
“Dinnae play at diplomacy with me.” Isabeau took a step closer, challenging him, her pulse thundering in her throat. “Ye’re nae envoy. Ye fight like a man born tae war, nae one sent tae speak o’ peace. Ye went tae the dungeons. I saw ye.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The torch beside them hissed, throwing their shadows against the wall like two figures locked in struggle. Then, in a single motion, Michael closed the last of the distance between them and caught her arm, dragging her back through a side door before she could cry out.
The cold night swallowed them—stone walls falling away into a narrow courtyard half-drowned in moonlight. The wind smelled of rain and charred wood, and it whipped Isabeau’s cheeks until they were red and stinging.
“Are ye mad?” Michael hissed, his grip hard but not cruel. “Dae ye ken what they’d dae if they heard ye speak like that? If yer faither heard?”
Isabeau’s back hit the wall. She could feel the heat of him this close, the tension in his arm like coiled wire. “I dinnae care,” she said through her teeth. “I care about the truth.”
Michael stared at her for a long moment, chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping his anger in check. “The truth,” he said finally, his voice rough, “is a dangerous thing in this place.”
“So is a lie.”
Cursed softly under his breath, Michael stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “What exactly did ye see?”
Isabeau met his eyes. The fear she had felt was real, but so was something else—something that unsettled her more. Though she was certain now he was not the man he claimed to be, but rather a spy, sent there to bring down her clan, she couldn’t help but see him as the man who had saved her in the woods, the man who told her that her scars were nothing shameful; the first man who had fought for her and not for her father.
But she still wanted to know the truth.
“I saw ye,” she said quietly. “I saw the MacDonalds come through the gate, an’ ye didnae run fer the walls. Ye went tae the dungeons. Ye cut down the guards there yerself.”
Michael’s jaw worked. He turned his face slightly away, but not fast enough for her to miss the flicker of guilt in his eyes.
“I thought so,” she said.
“That’s what ye think ye saw,” he said, voice low and sharp as a blade’s edge.
“Dinnae insult me,” she snapped. “Ye were there. I watched ye an’ I ken me faither keeps a prisoner in those dungeons… a lassie. Alyson MacDonald.”
Michael’s eyes widened, only slightly, but it was enough for her to take it as an admission. Ever since the previous night, ever since the battle, she had suspected he was there for Alyson. And now, she knew it for certain.
“So it’s true,” she said. Her heart clenched, both with relief and dread. “She’s yer kin.”
Michael didn’t answer at first. The silence stretched, heavy and trembling. Looking over his shoulder as if making sure there was no one else there but them, he turned to face Isabeau and gave one small, almost imperceptible nod.
“I have a… connection tae her.”
For a long moment, Isabeau could only stare at him. The wordsI have a connection tae herstill echoed in her ears, almost unbearably heavy between them. Her breath came unevenly, the night air slicing cold through her chest.
Her mind was racing, chasing after the meaning behind what he had said. He was there to save her; to save Alyson.
So that is it.
Of course. Alyson was his lover, perhaps even his betrothed. It explained everything—his recklessness, his need to hide, the way he had gone toward the dungeons instead of the walls during the attack. No envoy would risk his life for politics, but a man might for the woman he loved.
“Ye care fer her,” Isabeau said quietly, almost to herself. “That’s why ye came here. That’s why ye lied.”
Michael’s face hardened, but something like pain flickered in his eyes. “It’s nae what ye think.”
“Isnae it?” Her words came out sharper than she intended. “Ye risked everythin’ fer a prisoner. I saw ye fight yer way tae her cell. Ye killed men who stood in yer path. Dinnae insult me by pretendin’ otherwise. Admit it… ye’re here fer her an’ ye’ve been lyin’ all this time.”
