“An’ another thing,” Angus continued. “A guard at the lass’ cell, one who daesnae leave his post. Nay excuses, nay drink, nay sleep. If a mouse so much as squeaks near that dungeon, I want it reported tae me.”
Hamish nodded. “Consider it done, me laird.”
Angus turned then, his gaze hard as hammered steel. “We’ll nae be caught unawares again. I’ll have nay more breaches, nay more shame brought tae me hall.”
There was a pause. The fire popped, the only sound for a long breath, until Fergus spoke again.
“Ye said the MacDonalds are three brothers,” he said carefully. “Aye? But last night, only two led the charge. The eldest, Tòrr, an’ the younger, Daemon. The third wasnae seen.”
Silence fell over the room as Angus and his men contemplated Fergus’ words.
Only two o’ the braithers… where was the third?
Could he have been there all that time?
Angus stilled, his eyes narrowing. Slowly, he moved back toward the hearth, his mind turning over the thought like a blade between his fingers. “Three braithers,” he echoed.
Ewan frowned. “The third may have been killed in the skirmishes north o’ the glen.”
“Or,” Angus said quietly, dangerously, “he may already be inside me walls.”
The silence that followed was taut enough to snap. Angus could almost feel it now—the possibility slithering through his mind, sharp and cold. A MacDonald hiding in plain sight. A spy wearing another man’s name. And he, Angus Campbell, had let him walk freely through his keep, eat at his table, speak with his daughter.
Rage simmered low in his chest. “I let that Grant envoy in too easily,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “He comes at the perfect time, askin’ all the right questions. Too perfect.”
He looked up sharply. “Fergus… if the MacDonalds’ missin’ braither is inside me walls, I want tae ken by dawn. Send word tae the men in the glens. Tell them tae scour the lands near the loch fer any trace o’ him an’ the other braithers. If he’s nae dead, he’s either here or he’s hidin’. Either way, he’s too close.”
Fergus nodded once, his expression grim. “We’ll find him, me laird.”
Angus paced slowly before the fire, hands clasped behind his back. His thoughts churned like the waters of a storm tide—flashes of the envoy’s calm, his measured speech, the way he had met Angus’ gaze without flinching. A man too composed, too precise with his words.
And Isabeau—his foolish, soft-hearted daughter—had been seen speaking with him far too often.
A slow, humorless smile spread across Angus’ face. “Keep yer eyes on the envoy,” he said, voice low and lethal. “An’ keep them on me daughter as well. If there’s rot in me house, I’ll root it out with fire.”
He turned back to the fire then, the heat of it casting over his face. The men shifted uneasily, sensing the danger under his calm.
“Go,” Angus ordered. “Find me the truth. Whatever it takes.”
They filed out without another word, the door shutting behind them. The moment it did, Angus let his composure slip, his expression twisting into something dark and calculating.
If the third MacDonald truly was inside his keep, then he had already stepped into his grave, and Angus meant to be the one to bury him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The morning carried with it the scent of rain and heather, but Isabeau could have sworn the smoke from the battle lingered in the air. Ever since the attack on the keep, her father and the entire clan had been on edge, suspicious of their own shadows, waiting for the next hit that Isabeau knew wouldn’t come—not for a while, at least. Michael hadn’t spoken of the attack; he had said nothing more and Isabeau was reluctant to ask, fearing the answer she might receive and the reaction Michael would have.
What if he still daesnae trust me? What if he daesnae want tae tell me?
Their horses moved at a slow, careful pace along the narrow trail, their hooves muffled in the damp moss. Isabeau rode beside Michael, his handsome face outlined in the golden light of the morning sun. Behind them, the faint glow of Castle Inveraray torches shimmered through the mist, distant, but never far enough.
For a long while, they said nothing. The wind sighed through the pines, and Isabeau was content to let the silence stretch between them. But Michael had told her he wanted to talk, and so he did, breaking the silence first just as they took a bend on the path.
“Alyson told me o’ ye,” he said, his voice low, almost lost under the sound of the horses. “She said ye were kind tae her… that ye brought her food when ye risked a beatin’ fer it.”
Isabeau’s throat tightened. She looked away toward the dark ridges of the hills, the way they were silhouetted against the sunlight. Every mention of Alyson twisted her stomach in a painful knot, reminding her of her father’s cruelty, of everything the man had done to hurt an innocent girl—and who knew how many others before her.
“Alyson daesnae deserve her cage,” she said. “She has courage. I saw it in her eyes. I thought… I hoped she might be free by now.”
