Michael let out a soft sigh, relieved, as though the mere thought of overstepping had frightened him. “Then what?—”
Once again, Isabeau interrupted him, but this time, she found the strength to meet his gaze.
“What happens when ye’re gone?”
The words hung in the air between them, suspended, lingering. For a long time, Michael said nothing; he only stared into the waters once more, as though he was trying to find his own words in them, as though something would be revealed to him if he stared long enough, hard enough.
When he turned his gaze back to her, his mouth was set in a firm, determined line.
“I will get ye out o’ here,” he said, and Isabeau had never heard him sound more certain of anything else. “I will get ye out o’ here, I swear it. Ye willnae have tae suffer another pain by yer faither’s hands.”
Hope swelled inside her, like a tidal wave that threatened to consume her. It wasn’t often that she dared hope. It wasn’t often that she could, and now that she had a reason to hope, dread began to creep in along with said hope.
What if somethin’ goes wrong? What if me faither finds out an’ hurts us both?
But Isabeau had no choice but to try. If she stayed there, she was certain she would soon meet her end—if not from her father, then from the grief that would overtake her.
“I’ll take ye with me, Isabeau,” he said, then added, a little tentatively, “If that’s what ye wish, o’ course. If ye wish tae leave, tae flee…”
Michael let his words trail off, uncertain and wary. It wasn’t what Isabeau had expected to hear. She hadn’t dared envision a life with Michael; she had only hoped to disappear to a different place—somewhere in the Lowlands, perhaps, far away from her father’s reach. She could steal some gold; she could change her name and her clothes and her hair, and live out the rest of her life modestly, alone.
But now Michael had offered to take her with him. He had offered a life, away from all that, away from the pain and suffering her father had caused her.
A life with him. A life where we can be together.
Michael reached for her hand once more, and though Isabeau didn’t flinch away from his touch, she didn’t return the gesture either. “If ye wish tae leave, I understand. But there will always be a place in me clan fer ye… there will always be a place by me side fer ye.”
Isabeau looked at their joined hands, then up into his face. His eyes were dark, full of grief and something that, in the moment, she dared to name as longing. It was a confession of sorts; an unexpected one at that, and Isabeau didn’t know what to make of it.
Once again, she allowed herself hope.
“Then I trust ye,” she said. “An’ if we’re offerin’ me a place by yer side, then that is where I wish tae be.”
He hesitated, then pressed her hand to his lips, which stretched around a smile.
Before she could draw another breath, Michael’s hand slid to the nape of her neck and pulled her toward him again. His kiss came deeper this time, unguarded, all the restraint stripped away. It stole her breath, set her heart to racing in a wild, uneven rhythm. The world narrowed to the press of his lips, the warmth of his chest against hers, the faint taste of smoke and rain on his mouth.
And the kiss felt more like an oath than any words spoken between them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When they broke apart, the air between them felt alive, charged, trembling with all that had been kept unsaid. For a moment Isabeau simply looked at him, memorizing the shape of that rare, quiet smile.
“Dae we have tae go back already?” she asked softly. Her voice was low, uncertain, as though the words themselves might shatter the spell. The last thing she wanted was to break the illusion that, even for only a few hours, she was free.
Michael glanced toward the distant torches of the keep, their glow dim behind the trees. Then he looked back at her, one brow lifted in a teasing arc.
“An’ what, me lady, dae ye have in mind that makes ye want tae linger?”
Isabeau felt her cheeks warm despite the chill air. “Perhaps I simply want tae spend some more time alone with ye,” she said, her tone carrying a shy spark of playfulness.
Michael’s answering grin was small but genuine. “Then let us stay a while longer, an’ give ye somethin’ worth rememberin’.”
They walked around for a while, their pace leisurely, slow, their hands brushing with every other step. Their footsteps took them near the bank, where the grass grew thick and damp with dew. A lone pear tree stood there, gilded by sunlight, its branches heavy with fruit, and the sight made Isabeau’s lips curve.
“I’ve nae tasted a pear since last summer,” she said, tilting her head back to look up through the leaves. “Me faither had them brought from the Lowlands, but the servants kept them fer the table. I’d steal one if I could.”
Michael chuckled quietly, crossing his arms. “A thief as well as a rebel. Me respect grows.”
