But the corridor was silent now, save for the faint drip of rain from the battlements. The air hung thick with the residue of battle and fear. Her steps faltered as she turned a corner—and froze.
Her father stood there.
His shadow stretched long across the wall, his figure broad and unyielding. The fury in his eyes was immediate, bright as a lit spill.
“What are ye daein’ out here, Isabeau?” He said, his voice cracking like a whip. “It’s near the dead o’ night, an’ ye skulk about like a thief.”
Isabeau’s throat closed at the mere sight of him. “I… I couldnae sleep,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice that she could never fight when her father was near. “I only wished fer air.”
“Air?” he repeated, mocking. “Ye think ye’re some free lass tae wander as ye please? Daes the daughter o’ Laird Campbell answer tae nay one?”
His steps closed the distance between them, each one a warning. The smell of ale and smoke rolled off him, and the hatred in his eyes—so easily stoked, so often directed her way—made her shrink without meaning to.
He’s in one o’ his moods. I must be careful.
“I said I?—”
“Enough!” he snapped, his hand slamming against the wall beside her head. “Ye shame me! Always flittin’ about when ye should be unseen. Dae I need tae lock ye in yer chambers like a wayward bairn?”
Isabeau tried to steady her breathing, though her heart pounded painfully against her ribs. “I dae naethin’ tae shame ye,” she managed, trying to reason with him. “I’m here, in the keep, Faither. I’m nae goin’ anywhere.”
The words barely left her mouth before his hand rose.
She saw it coming—the spark in his eye, the curl of his lip—and her body reacted before her mind did. She braced herself, muscles tightening, her jaw set against the familiar sting. It had been years since she had last cried from one of his blows; she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction again. But still, deep in the corner of her heart, something desperate flared. She thought of Michael. She thought of him coming to her rescue, stopping her father before he could lay a finger on her.
And then, as if by magic, the blow didn’t fall.
A hand, stronger, more certain, caught her father’s wrist mid-air.
The impact of it cracked through the silence like thunder. Her father’s arm jerked to a halt, his breath catching in surprise as Michael’s grip tightened around his forearm, unmoving as iron.
“Me laird,” Michael said, his voice low, controlled—but there was heat under it, barely leashed. “That’s nay way tae treat the lass ye’ll marry off tae the Grants.”
The fury that had been meant for Isabeau turned on Michael instead. Isabeau saw it, the moment her father’s face flushed red, his teeth bared. “Ye forget yerself, Mr. Gordon,” he hissed. “This is me blood. Me daughter. I’ll dae with her as I see fit.”
Michael’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then I’ll remind ye,” he said, calm but with an edge in his words that frightened even Isabeau, “that the Grants wouldnae take kindly tae a bride offered already broken. They’re proud men. Ye’d make a mockery o’ the alliance afore it’s begun.”
Her father wrenched at his arm, but Michael didn’t release him. For a heartbeat, the two men stood locked in that narrow corridor in a silent battle of will. The flickering torchlight carved them in gold and shadow—her father breathing fury, Michael taut with the effort of restraint.
“Ye dare tell me what bargain I make?” her father spat. “I set the terms, lad. Nae the Grants an’ certainly nae ye.”
Michael’s jaw tightened, a vein there jumping under the skin, but his voice remained measured. “Aye, ye set the terms. But if word reached Herman that the lass he’s meant tae wed intae his bloodline is beaten in her faither’s hall, he’d take that as an insult. An’ I’ve seen how the Grants answer insults… with steel.”
The silence that followed was knife-sharp. Isabeau watched them with bated breath, trying her best to remain as quiet, as small as possible, so as to not invite any more of her father’s wrath. Before her, her father’s face twisted, his fury battling with calculation. He tore his arm free with a growl, glaring between them.
“Ye speak boldly fer an envoy,” he said coldly. “Perhaps too bold.”
“I speak only sense,” Michael replied calmly.
Her father’s gaze flicked to Isabeau, trembling where she stood against the wall, and something darker, something crueler, flashed there. “Go tae yer chamber,” he ordered her, voice dripping venom.
Isabeau hesitated, her eyes flicking toward Michael. He didn’t look at her, not directly, but she could see the effort it took for him to remain still, to not give himself away entirely. His shoulders were rigid, his hand still clenched where it had stopped the strike.
When she didn’t move, her father seized her arm and all but dragged her down the corridor. Isabeau had no choice but to follow, her feet slipping over the stone floor with every forced step. Behind them, Michael followed, his boots sounding heavy, and though he didn’t try to intervene again, he never once left her alone with her father.
Isabeau’s heart was pounding—not only from fear, but from relief, shame, and gratitude, all tangled into one unbearable ache. For all his lies, for all his secrets, Michael had stood up to her father for her once again. But what terrified her most was how much comfort she found in that, how instinctively she now reached for him in her mind when danger loomed.
At her chamber door, her father shoved her forward. “Get inside,” he snarled. “An’ remember yer place.”
