But then, as Isabeau watched him, something familiar was dragged up from her memory. She remembered the one time she had taken a good look at Alyson, under the light of a torch. She was not his lover, but rather a member of his family.
A sister, perhaps. She was the right age for it, and the resemblance was strong, too strong for them to be cousins.
That means… he’s a MacDonald.
Isabeau’s throat went dry, her stomach twisting in a knot. Her clan’s greatest enemy was standing before her, admitting toeverything—but she couldn’t feel hatred for him. No one had been as good an ally to her as the MacDonalds, it seemed. Not only was Alyson her friend, but Michael—if that was even his name—had saved her life and had defended her in front of her father. Her own clan had hurt her more than the MacDonalds ever had.
“I couldnae tell ye,” he went on, voice low and raw. “Nae with Alyson’s life at stake. I couldnae be sure what ye’d dae… if ye’d tell yer faither or one o’ his people. I couldnae risk her safety.”
His words stung more than she expected, not because they weren’t reasonable, but because they were.
“Ye dinnae trust me,” she said softly.
“I cannae,” he insisted, the honesty of it slicing through her.
Isabeau swallowed hard, anger flaring to life to cover the ache in her chest. “Ye think I’d hand yer sister over tae me faither?” she demanded. “I would never betray Alyson like that. I helped her escape. They caught us, aye, but I helped her. I did what I could.”
For a moment, Michael looked struck, as though that was the last thing he had expected to hear, and Isabeau could hardly blame him. Why would he ever consider the possibility that she had helped his sister? Why would he think anyone in that keep would help her? She was surrounded by enemies; finding a friend was no easy task.
“I didnae ken that,” Michael said, almost pleading. “Ye’ve nay reason tae owe me anythin’.”
“If ye’d just asked, I would have helped ye.” Her voice trembled, both furious and pained.
He opened his mouth, but she was already moving to push past him. But his hand shot out, fingers catching her wrist.
“Isabeau.”
The sound of her name in his voice stopped her cold. She turned, eyes flashing, but his gaze caught hers, dark, conflicted, and burning with everything he hadn’t said. The night pressed in around them. Isabeau could feel the heat of him, the calloused roughness of his hand around her wrist. The closeness was dangerous, intoxicating.
“Let me go,” she said, though her voice faltered.
He didn’t.
Their eyes locked, and in that heartbeat the air between them seemed to vanish. The anger, the suspicion, the lies—all of it tangled into something heavier, hungrier.
Michael moved first. One moment there was distance, the next there was none. His hand rose to her face, fingers brushing her cheek, and then his mouth found hers in a searing kiss.
It hit her like a shock, wild, desperate, and unbidden as it was. The world tilted; her back was pressed to the wall, his hand splayed beside her head, his breath came hot and uneven. Michael’s lips were fierce at first, tasting of ale, then they softened in a way that made her knees tremble.
For a few breathless seconds, Isabeau forgot who they were—enemies, divided by blood and name. She only knew the fire in her veins, the taste of danger she could no longer resist. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard, eyes wide, stunned by what had just passed between them.
Michael’s hand lingered at her jaw, his thumb brushing her skin as if he couldn’t quite bear to let go. Then he drew back, the guilt on his face sharp and unguarded.
“I shouldnae have done that,” he rasped. “Fergive me.”
Isabeau’s heart was still hammering, her breath catching in her throat, her hand reaching out for him only to find empty space. “Michael?—”
He shook his head. “Ye shouldnae trust me. An’ I shouldnae—” He stopped, his voice breaking slightly. “I shouldnae want ye tae. If ye tell anyone any o’ this…”
He didn’t finish his sentence, but rather let the vague threat hang between them, her eyes burning with the implication. And then, before she could find words to stop him, he turned and walked away, disappearing back inside, into the dark corridor.
Isabeau stood motionless, the world spinning around her. Her hand rose to her lips, still tingling from the kiss, from the ghost of Michael’s lips on her own. Her stomach twisted and knotted with the knowledge that what had once been risky between them was now entirely too dangerous—not only because they had finally acted on their desire, but also because he was the enemy.
And because, despite it all, Isabeau couldn’t find it in her to care.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The torchlight burned low along the corridor. Isabeau moved through it in a daze, her fingertips grazing the cold stone as though it could steady the storm in her chest. Her lips still tingled from Michael’s kiss, the memory of it pressing against her like the echo of a heartbeat she couldn’t silence. Every breath she drew seemed to taste of him—smoke, ale, and under it, something sweeter, something uniquely his.
