Before she could answer, he kissed her, slow and deep, a promise sealed in the hush of the storm. When they parted, she was trembling, though whether from fear or love, he could not tell. He brushed his thumb along her jaw, then pressed a final kiss to her brow.
“Go,” he whispered. “Afore the dawn finds ye here. Rest while ye can.”
Isabeau nodded, reluctant, and slipped from the bed. The candle’s glow traced her as she gathered her cloak, its light catching the curve of her shoulder, the gleam of her hair. At the door, she turned back once, her eyes meeting his in silence.
Then she was gone.
Michael lay back against the cold sheets, listening to her faint steps fade down the corridor. His hand clenched in the linen, his thoughts already turning to the plan—the herbs, the gate, the path through the lower cells. Soon, he would get up and find Alistair to send a letter to his brothers, detailing the plan.
And if fate had any mercy left for men like him, soon Alyson would be free—and Isabeau in his arms again, no longer bound to the Campbell name.
Morning came, gray and heavy, the kind that felt older than the day itself. Clouds crouched low over the Highland hills, pressing down on the keep like a hand upon a wound. The air smelled of iron and rain, and Michael moved through the corridors with a predator’s restlessness, every nerve drawn tight. His boots echoed softly against the stone, each step haunted by thought—of Alyson in the dark below, of his brothers waiting somewhere beyond the walls, of Isabeau’s promise whispered against his skin only hours before.
He had not slept. He could not.
Today everything would be decided by the turn of a single chance. And when he turned a corner, he nearly collided with her.
Isabeau was moving lightly, her cloak gathered close, her face pale in the gray light that bled through the narrow windows. When they almost collided, she jumped back, frightened, but then a serene expression flashed across her face upon recognizing him. Their eyes met, and the noise of the keep seemed to fade around them.
“Come tae the healer’s croft,” she whispered, barely parting her lips. “In a few minutes.”
Then she was gone, her skirts brushing against the wall as she vanished down the passage.
It had been like that ever since Michael had noticed people watching him—whispered promises, fleeting moments, plans that they had to share in the span of mere seconds.
The healer’s croft stood at the edge of the courtyard, a small, stone-walled chamber that always smelled of earth and sage. Once there, Michael eased the door open and stepped inside.
It was empty save for her.
Isabeau knelt by the worktable, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hands moving deftly among a scatter of herbs and small clay jars. The sunlight shining through the high window traced deep red across her dark hair, and for a moment, Michael was mesmerized by the sight of her.
She looked up as he entered. “The healer’s gone tae the village fer more supplies,” she said, her voice low. “She’ll nae return until evenin’.”
Michael closed the door softly behind him, his gaze falling to the small bundles of dried plants spread before her. Their scent was sharp, pungent.
“Ye’re certain these will dae what ye claim?” he asked. “Enough tae fell grown men?”
“Nae fell,” she corrected gently, crushing a handful of leaves with a mortar stone. “Only weaken. They’ll sleep or stumble, but they’ll live.”
Michael frowned, the doubt creeping in despite himself. “An’ if ye’re caught mixin’ them?”
Isabeau’s hands stilled. Then she rose, wiping her palms on a linen cloth before stepping closer. “Then I’ll face it.” She stopped before him, the faintest tremor in her breath as she lifted her chin. “But I trust ye, Michael. Ye’ll dae everythin’ ye can tae free Alyson. Ye willnae fail her this time.”
He wanted to believe it; he needed to. But the keep felt like a living beast around him, full of eyes and whispers. “It’s nae us I doubt, Isabeau. It’s fortune itself.”
At that, she moved closer still and wrapped her arms around him. The motion was simple, instinctive, a gesture of faith and comfort, but it struck through his defenses like a blade through silk. Michael breathed her in, the scent of crushed herbs and warm skin filling his lungs. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and for a moment he let his chin rest on the crown of her head.
“Ye’ll dae this,” she said. “Ye were born tae fight fer those ye love.”
Michael closed his eyes with a sigh. “Ye speak as though I’ve strength enough tae move mountains.”
“Perhaps ye dae,” she said, her voice a smile.
Michael drew back slightly, looking down at her. “Ye said ye've used poison afore. Ye, o’ all people.”
Isabeau’s eyes flickered with something between shame and defiance. “When I fled this place the first time, there was a guard outside me chamber door. I kent he’d never let me pass, so I slipped him a draught in his wine.” She paused, her expression softening. “Ye found me in the woods that day, remember? That was the only reason I made it as far as I did.”
The memory cut through the grim tension like sunlight through storm clouds—that first glimpse of her, pale and furious and unafraid, fighting the brigands who had cornered her.
