They hadn’t spoken since the previous night; since the corridor, since his hand had caught her father’s mid-swing.
Since that charged, dangerous moment when everything he had meant to keep hidden had been laid bare.
Her gaze flicked over him, measuring and wary, and then she turned back to the pony. “I didnae expect tae see ye here, Mr. Gordon” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “Or dae ye prefer MacDonald when nae one’s listenin’?”
Michael’s jaw tightened as he took a faltering step towards her. He deserved the barb, but the sound of his clan’s name on her lips still cut deep. “Ye can call me whatever ye like,” he said quietly.
“I wish tae call ye whatever yer true name is,” she said. “I wish tae ken the truth.”
Michael stepped closer, the straw crunching under his boots. “Aye. Truth, then.” He hesitated, then nodded toward the open stable doors and the pale light beyond. “Ye should ride. It’s a fair morn fer it.”
Her brow furrowed slightly, suspicion flickering across her face. “Why?”
“Because ye could use the air,” he said, his tone gentler now. “An’ because I’d like tae speak with ye.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Her fingers moved idly along the pony’s mane, twisting a strand of hair around her hand as though weighing the risk of his offer.
“About what?” she asked finally.
“About what I said afore,” Michael answered. “An’ what I didnae.”
That gave Isabeau pause. The faintest flicker of uncertainty passed through her eyes before she drew a slow breath. “Very well,” she said, her chin lifting in defiance. “But if this is another threat?—”
“It’s nae.”
Something in his voice—low, raw, stripped of its usual guardedness—seemed to reach her. She searched his face for deceit, and finding none, gave a small nod.
They saddled their mounts in silence. Michael prepared his horse while Isabeau guided her pony with practiced care. When they led the horses out into the misty yard, the guards were still shouting in the distance, their attention fixed on training drills. No one noticed as the two slipped through the gate and out onto the narrow trail leading toward the hills.
In that moment, Michael could almost convince himself they were both free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Angus sat in his library, the chamber dim save for the fire crackling low in the hearth. Shadows stretched long across the shelves of books and the banners draped along the walls—remnants of his lineage, of Campbells who had ruled with iron and cunning long before him. Yet that night, the weight of his blood felt heavier than ever.
He stared into the flames, the flicker of light painting sharp lines across his weathered face. The memory of the MacDonald raid still throbbed in his mind—the sudden chaos, the clang of steel against steel, the screams echoing through the courtyard. They had come too close; far too close.
And that thought burned hotter than the fire before him.
When the door opened, the creak was soft but it sliced through his thoughts like a knife. Fergus entered first, broad-shouldered and grim, followed by a small circle of Angus’ most trusted men—Ewan, Alaric, and Hamish, each of them hard-eyed and loyal beyond question. Angus gestured for them to shut the door, andthe latch clicked closed, sealing them in with the smell of smoke and old leather.
“Ye ken why I’ve called ye,” Angus began, his voice low but sharp. “The other night’s attack was nae chance. The MacDonalds struck when our guard changed. They kent our movements, our rotations.” He leaned forward in his chair, the firelight glinting in his eyes. “That means someone inside told them.”
A murmur passed among the men. Fergus was the first to speak. “Ye think there’s a traitor among us?”
“I ken it,” Angus hissed. “Nay man outside these walls could have kent when the yard would be bare o’ watch. Nay one but those who sleep under me roof.”
His hand tightened around the armrest, the old leather creaking. He could still see it—the enemy banners cresting the rise, the clamor as the yard erupted in battle. The humiliation of it made his blood boil anew.
Ewan, ever cautious, shifted uneasily. “We’ve questioned the gate guards, me laird. Nay one will confess tae any wrongdaein’.”
“Aye, because they fear the noose,” Angus growled. “But fear willnae hide the truth forever.”
He rose then, the movement slow but commanding, his presence filling the room like thunder rolling across the glen. The men’seyes followed him as he moved to the window, where rain streaked down the glass in silver lines.
“Fergus,” he said, not turning. “I want ye tae shadow the Grant envoy. Dae it with courtesy, make him believe it’s out o’ respect fer our alliance. But ye’ll watch him, every step, every word. If he so much as breathes where he shouldnae, I want tae ken it.”
Fergus bowed his head slightly. “Aye, me laird. I’ll see it done.”
