Isabeau pressed a finger to her lips and knelt, fitting the key into the iron lock. The tumblers clicked softly, and the door eased open.
“Listen tae me,” she whispered, already reaching to help Alyson up. “Michael has a horse waitin’ beyond the south wall. Me faither’s men will sleep fer a few hours, nay longer. We must go now.”
Alyson stiffened. “Michael? Then this is truly happenin’?” She looked around the dungeon, terror and hope battling in her eyes. When she tried to stand, she only managed to take one, trembling step before she toppled over again, her legs not used to the movement anymore. But Isabeau was there to catch her, her arms wrapping around her to keep her upright.
A distant clang echoed through the corridors above—just a door, she told herself, or a gust of wind. But every sound felt sharp, dangerous, too close for comfort.
Alyson swallowed hard and leaned close. “I’m frightened.”
“So am I,” Isabeau admitted. “But we move anyway.”
Alyson nodded and clung to her arm. Together, keeping low to the floor where the torchlight thinned, they slipped from the cell, Alyson taking step after laborious step, clinging to Isabeau as though she was her only lifeline.
Isabeau peeked around the corner. Both guards remained unconscious, sprawled in an unnatural slumber. The air smelled of damp stone and spilled tea, of blood lingering in the cracks of the walls. She tightened her grip on Alyson’s hand, whispering in her ear.
“Stay close.”
Together, they crept into the narrow corridor, their shadows stretching long behind them. Every heartbeat echoed like a drum in Isabeau’s chest. Above them, the castle slept, unaware that its laird’s daughter was about to betray her blood.
But me blood betrayed me first.
The night pressed cold and sharp against Michael’s skin as he waited in the shadow of the outer wall. Every heartbeat felt like a blade sliding between his ribs. The castle loomed above him,silent for now, but never a thing to trust. He gripped the reins of his horse, the beast shuffling restlessly under his steady hand.
Come on, lass… where are ye?
A flicker of movement in the courtyard shadows made him tense. His hand drifted instinctively to the dagger at his belt?—
Then he saw her.
Isabeau emerged first, pale in the moonlight, a cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, the hood drawn over her head—but Michael would recognize her anywhere, even blind. There was the familiar silhouette, the familiar slope of her shoulders, the familiar sound of her footsteps on the flagstones. There was no mistaking her for anyone else. Alyson followed, small and trembling, clinging to the fabric of Isabeau’s sleeve, and upon seeing them, relief slammed into him so hard he exhaled sharply.
“Good Lord,” he whispered. “Ye did it.”
Isabeau’s gaze met his, and for a breath the world stilled. Her eyes shone, not with fear, but with fierce resolve—a resolve he had come to trust.
“There is nay time tae waste,” she whispered back. “The guards… they’re asleep, but nae fer long.”
Michael nodded and stepped forward, catching Alyson as she stumbled into his arms. It had been so long since he had last seen her. Even that day in the cells, when he had snuck into the dungeons, had only given him the chance to catch a brief, fleeting glimpse of her, but now there she was, alive and breathing in his arms, and Michael’s eyes stung with the tears of relief he refused to shed.
He owed everything to Isabeau. Without her, he didn’t know how he could have ever gotten Alyson out of the dungeons, and now, looking at her over his sister’s shoulder, he didn’t know how he could ever thank her enough. She had risked life and limb for them both; she had put everything on the line to help his sister, and now it was Michael’s turn to save her from her father, from the man she was meant to marry.
“I’ve got ye, I’ve got ye both. Ye’re safe now.”
He helped them onto the horse, wrapping her shaking fingers around the reins. “Hold fast. I’ll lead ye.”
When they slipped into the tree line, shadows swallowed them, and the familiar scent of pine and frost steadied his heartbeat.
His brothers weren’t far. Soon, a shape detached from the darkness ahead and Daemon showed himself, a sword in hand. Next to him, Tòrr stood like a pillar, still and silent, watching through the dark, and behind him, a handful of MacDonald men waited, their breath misting in the icy air.
“Alyson.” Daemon’s voice cracked as he strode forward and pulled Alyson into his arms. “Lord, lass, ye’re alive.”
He sounded as though he could hardly believe it, as if the sight of her was nothing more than an illusion. Next to him, Tòrr knelt on the ground, his face in his hands, silently trying to pull himself together, Alyson’s presence finally making him fall apart.
Michael felt it in his own chest—the relief, the unfathomable solace. The three of them had been carrying that weight, that guilt, that fear for far too long.
Alyson lifted her face, streaked with tears and torchlight. “Isabeau… she helped me.”
Isabeau, who was standing nearby, took her hand in hers. Alyson’s eyes were brimming with tears—tears that were mirrored in her own eyes, stinging.
