Isabeau’s lips curved faintly. “Nae tonight, I hope.”
They worked quickly, their hearts racing in unison. Maisie slipped under the blankets, arranging the heavy coverlet up toher chin, the edge of the robe shadowing her hair. From the doorway, she looked convincingly asleep, and Isabeau spent a second to make sure that none of her face or her hair were visible in the dim light. Then, she pulled on Maisie’s plain cloak in turn over her nightgown, ducking her braid under the hood. Her hands trembled slightly as she drew the fabric close, not from fear, but anticipation.
“If anyone comes,” she said, turning toward the bed, “If anyone comes, say naethin’. I’ll return afore dawn.”
Maisie nodded once, eyes wide in the dim light. “Go, then, afore I lose me nerve.”
Isabeau slipped through the door and into the corridor beyond. The keep was quiet, save for the soft crackle of dying torches, but she still kept to the shadows, her slippers soundless on the worn stone floor. Each turn, each stairway, was etched in memory—the dark hall near the kitchens, the narrow stair that led toward the guest chambers where Michael stayed.
Her breath came quick as she neared the west wing. At the end of the corridor, faint light spilled from under his door, and she knew him to be awake.
For a heartbeat, she hesitated, whispering reason to herself.
Ye’ve risked enough.
But her heart, reckless and yearning, would not obey. She raised her hand and knocked softly.
There was a pause, the scrape of a chair, and then the latch lifted. Michael appeared at the door, his shirt loose at the throat, his hair tousled as though he’d been pacing. When he saw her, his eyes widened and he looked over her shoulder at the corridor beyond, his skin blanching as if he expected someone to have followed her there.
“Isabeau?” His voice was rough, startled. “What in the Lord’s name are ye daein’ here?”
Isabeau slipped inside before he could stop her, closing the door quietly behind her. “I had tae see ye.”
He stared at her a moment longer in silence, looking as though he was torn between sending her off and keeping her there. “Dae ye ken how dangerous this is? If anyone saw ye?—”
“Nay one saw me,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I couldnae sleep. Nae while ye sit here alone with half the keep watchin’ yer every step.”
The fight seemed to leave him at that, replaced by a slow exhale. Michael crossed the room, poured a measure of ale into a cup, and handed it to her. As he did, his hand brushed hers, and the touch sent a shiver through her whole body.
She didn’t think she would ever get used to it, even that casual touch.
“It’s that obvious, then?” he asked, taking a sip from his own cup. “If ye noticed…”
“Aye,” said Isabeau. “It’s quite obvious.”
She took a sip, the ale warm and bitter on her tongue. Ever since she had noticed the guards watching Michael, ever since they no longer even bothered hiding it, her stomach had tied itself in knots at every sight of him. She kept wondering what would happen if her father caught him. Surely, he would have Michael’s head. Surely, he would make him suffer before he had him hanged.
And Isabeau could only imagine what he would do to Alyson.
“With so many eyes on me,” he said quietly, “it willnae be long afore one o’ them sees too much. If that happens, everythin’ turns ill quickly.”
“Ye mean if they find out who ye are,” she said.
He didn’t answer; he only nodded, his jaw tight. Then his eyes softened slightly. “If anything’ happens, ye’ll need a way tae defend yerself. I promised tae teach ye an’ we may nae have another chance.”
Isabeau’s pulse quickened at the offer. “Here?” she asked. “Now?”
“Aye. Here. Now. Nay one will disturb us.”
He moved to the center of the chamber, pushing aside the chair and table to make space. The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing golden light across the floor.
“Come,” he said, beckoning her. “Let me show ye how tae strike.”
Isabeau set her cup aside and stepped toward him. The air between them was heavy with silence as she walked, the only sound that of her shoes on the floor.
He guided her into position, his hands firm on her shoulders. “Feet apart,” he said, “like this.” He shifted her stance slightly, the heat of him seeping through the thin linen of her gown. “Now, if a man grabs ye here?—”
He caught her wrist, gently but sure, and showed her the twist that would break free. She tried it, failed, and tried again, laughing softly under her breath.
