Michael leaned closer to the bars, watching his sister for a moment. “I must ask ye somethin’… what is yer relationship with Isabeau?”
“Isabeau?” Alyson asked, surprised by the question. “She’s been helpin’ me, all this time. Why? Did she say somethin’?”
“Aye,” said Michael. “Aye, she did. She… she found out about me, an’ she told me she’s been helpin’ ye.”
“She brings me food when nay one’s watchin’,” Alyson said. “Water. Once she even tried tae help me get out. She nearly paid fer it … I think she took a beatin’ meant fer me.”
Michael stared at her, disbelief curdling into something heavier. He thought of Isabeau’s haunted eyes, the tremor in her breath when Laird Campbell had raised his hand, and the realization hit harder than he expected.
“She truly did all that?” he asked quietly.
Alyson nodded. “She’s naethin’ like her faither. Ye can see it in her eyes. She hates what he’s done tae me, tae their people. An’ if nae fer her, I might have starved weeks ago.”
Michael leaned against the wall, his throat tight. His mind twisted around the image of Isabeau sneaking down here, slipping through torchlight and guards to bring scraps of food to a prisoner her father despised—to his sister.
“I…. didnae ken,” he said finally. “When she found out who I was, I threatened her… tae keep her quiet. I thought she’d tell him.”
Alyson’s expression hardened. “Ye what?”
“It was the only way tae keep me cover.”
His sister shook her head, her voice fierce but low. “Michael, she’s nae him. Ye should’ve seen the look in her eyes when she came tae me, how terrified she was, but she still helped me. She’s risked more fer me than any o’ the servants would dare. Ye owe her more than threats.”
Shame flooding him, Michael looked away, the weight of Alyson’s words heavy as stone.
Alyson crawled closer to the bars, her tone softening. “Ye wouldnae ask so many questions about her if ye didnae care.”
Michael gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Care? She’s Laird Campbell’s daughter. I’ve nay right.”
“That daesnae change what’s in yer heart, I ken tell,” she said simply. “An’ fer what it’s worth, she’s worth fightin’ fer.”
Alyson’s words lodged deep, echoing in his chest long after Alistair’s warning whisper drifted down the corridor, telling him that time was up. Michael gave Alyson’s hand a brief, fierce squeeze through the bars, then pulled back, trying to swallow around the knot in his throat now that they had to part.
“Hold on,” he murmured. “We’ll come fer ye again. I swear it.”
Then he was gone, slipping through the darkened corridors before the next patrol could find him. By the time the first pale light of dawn crept through the arrow slits, Michael had reached his chambers again. He leaned against the door, breath ragged, his heart still pounding, not from fear, but from the war inside him that he could no longer ignore.
Alyson’s words wouldn’t leave him.
She’s worth fightin’ fer.
And as much as he hated to admit it to himself, he knew Alyson was right.
The morning air in the Highlands was crisp, edged with the faint sweetness of rain-soaked heather. Mist still clung to the slopes beyond the keep, veiling the world in soft gray, and the courtyard below was coming to life again—clattering armor, the shouts of men-at-arms resuming their drills.
Michael moved through it like a man apart from it all. Every motion, every sound around him felt distant. He needed air, distance, anything to silence the noise in his head. His boots carried him toward the stables without thought, the old instinct of escape guiding him more than intent.
He hadn’t rested since the dungeons. Alyson’s words, her faith in Isabeau, still pulsed through him, blurring the lines of anger and duty. He had gone there with one purpose—to free his sister and destroy the Campbells from within. Yet Isabeau lingered in his thoughts like a wound he couldn’t stop touching.
The stables were quiet when he entered, the smell of hay and horse breath grounding him for the first time in hours. Sunlight filtered weakly through the slats of the roof, striping the straw-strewn floor.
And there she was.
Isabeau stood near one of the smaller stalls, her hand resting against the flank of a gray pony. She was murmuring softly toit, her voice low and melodic, like she was confessing secrets to something that could never tell. A few loose strands of her hair had fallen from their braid, and they caught the light.
Michael stopped, watching her for a heartbeat too long. But she must have felt his presence, because she turned, and her eyes met his.
The air between them thickened instantly.
