"You must hide," Marcus whispered, attempting to rush Isabelle towards the service corridor. Sam had placed himself between her and the door, his sword ringing as he drew it from its sheath.

"Isabelle please, I only want to talk. I can help you," Leopold said, his voice muffled by the door.

"He's lying," Marcus hissed, sensing Isabelle's hesitation. They'd made it halfway across the room when the service door opened, a pair of burly Germanians blocking their path. Sam whirled around, roaring a warning, only to freeze in his tracks as the bedchamber door was kicked open behind him.

In his bed, the duke groaned and all the pain in Isabelle's heart congealed into rage.

"For the love of all that's holy, you will sheathe your weapons in my father's presence!" Isabelle roared, whirling around to face Leopold. "Call off your men at once, before I consider this invasion an act of war!"

The foreign prince, whose expression had been nothing but schooled surprise from the moment one of his henchmen had broken the lock, gestured to his men in the service corridor. Once again, steel sang as their swords slipped back into their sheaths. Sam Winters, however, remained coiled like a spring, his knuckles white around his broadsword as he kept his eyes trained on Leopold.

One wrong move and Isabelle had no doubts that the northerner would attack, which would inevitably result in Leopold's men massacring the rest of them. But if she could keep Leopold from acting rashly, if she could lie to him and convince him that she hadn't really meant what she'd said in Highcastle, perhaps she could prevent him from resorting to violence.

The room teetered on a knife's edge, her father's coughing the only sound cutting through the tension.

Inhaling to steel herself, Isabelle marched across the room towards Leopold. She would not cower in her own castle, nor would she accept so many armed men in her dying father's bedchamber. She'd chosen her words carefully, well aware that the suggestion of a declaration of war would give Leopold sufficient pause to allow her to take control of the situation.

Praying that she'd learned enough of Graham's tricks, she forced an expression of annoyance onto her face, burying her fear and sadness to better play the role that might save all of their lives.

"You dare break down my father's door?" she demanded, poking Leopold in the chest. He stared at her, that same surprise on his face.

"Forgive me...I thought..." he began, but she shoved past him, throwing open the door to her father's study.

"Isabelle," Sam said, a warning in his tone.

"He wants to talk, then we will talk. But like civilized people in my father's study, not like savages with swords over his deathbed!" Isabelle snarled. Leopold blinked while Sam swallowed. The prince eyed the northerner warily as he passed him, following Isabelle towards the study.

"Marcus, you mind this door and fetch someone to sort this all out. Sam, you mind the hall," she said, fighting down the panic that clawed at her throat as Leopold approached her.

But she would not let that show. She would play the part of angry, conflicted, mourning daughter. She would throw herself, sobbing, into his arms if she must, even if it made her skin crawl. Anything to buy enough time for Marcus to alert Sam's men and give her some chance of ridding her castle of this pestilence of a prince.

Isabelle had no idea how many men Leopold had with him, nor how he'd managed to get them onto the castle grounds, but she'd leave that to the estate agent in the bedchamber and the warrior in the hallway to figure out. She had no time for such worries, not when Leopold was gently closing the study door behind him, as if to make amends for his earlier entrance.

At least he was still attempting to maintain his persona of charming prince, Isabelle thought. She fought to keep from gulping, instead seating herself as daintily as she could while still dressed in Cedric's trousers. Leopold lowered himself into the armchair opposite her, warily gauging her mood just as much as she was gauging his.

It did not take much for Isabelle to force herself to tears, which had their desired effect. Leopold's face softened as he slipped completely back into the charming role he'd played to woo her, fishing out a handkerchief for her.

"Oh, Isabelle," he said, their fingers brushing as she took it from him. The mere scent of it revulsed her, that cologne too reminiscent of the man who had once been her betrothed. The man who had punched a hole into her suite wall. The man who had kicked down her father's bedchamber door because he "only wanted to talk."

Stifling those thoughts, Isabelle forced her mind to the task at hand. She needed to get Leopold out of her castle with as few casualties as possible. The only way to do that would be to placate him, to somehow convince him that she'd changed her mind since their last encounter in Highcastle, that she needed some time to think before making a decision about their betrothal. Crying like a terrified child had seemed a fitting reaction, softening him into thinking that he was dealing with a sobbing little girl.

But sobbing little girl she was not, not any more.

~*~

Graham had his men change out of their royal livery before they rode into Inverloch. Having abandoned his own princely garb, Graham's signet ring was now the only sign of his royal station. They dismounted at the inn, he and William striding in to speak with the innkeeper. It was a fine, clean place, much like the town surrounding it. Inverloch itself was alive with chatter and business, despite the winter chill in the air.

"We'll need rooms for a dozen men, as well as stables for the horses," Graham said, flashing enough gold to ensure the innkeeper's compliance. The older man, however, wrung his hands even as he took in the two men before him.

"Aye, I can do that for you," he said. "Though if ye was planning to stay more than a night, I should warn ye that we'll be full up."

"Why?" Graham asked, tamping down his annoyance when all he wanted to do was sleep. They had been riding for nearly a day and he was saddlesore, hungry, and tired. He had no time for fretful innkeepers and didn't much care what happened in a few days, so long as he was able to get a few hours' rest.

"Well..." the innkeeper hesitated, before Graham bit back his sigh and fished out another coin.

"What news?" Graham demanded.

"The duke has fallen gravely ill," the innkeeper said, pocketing the coin with surprising ease for one so fretful. "Our cook is friendly with his cook, ye ken, and it seems they're preparing for a feast."

"A feast?" William repeated, frowning. But Graham's blood had already turned cold.

"Stable the horses and prepare our rooms," Graham said to the innkeeper, before nodding for William to follow him.

"What does that have to do with anything?" William asked, stoically blinking away his own fatigue as they emerged into the cold once more. Graham ordered the rest of the men to ensure that their horses were taken care of before they retired to the inn.

"Because northerners don't have funerals like we do, they have feasts," Graham said, striding out of the inn's courtyard and back towards the town's central square, Kentshire castle looming above them in the mist.

"Perhaps we should take the horses, your-" William started. In his irritation, Graham silenced him with a sharp gesture.

"We walk. The horses need rest and I want you to pick up whatever gossip you can gather from the marketplace. I need to know what's happening in that castle, but I'm not alerting them to our presence yet." Graham said, tossing his captain a few coins. "Find yourself something to eat, I'll go eavesdrop at the tavern."

"As you wish," William said, bowing ever so slightly before he broke away from the prince and headed the opposite way down the market street.

Graham waited for his captain to disappear into the throng of townsfolk before turning to the nearest vendor. He had no intention of wasting his time at the tavern, not if there was a chance of gleaning information directly from the source.

"Three dozen eggs," he said, looking over the farmer's produce. "With the basket."

The farmer goggled, but held his tongue as Graham offered more than enough in payment. Tugging the hood of his cloak up to hide his face, Graham ensured his signet ring was safely hidden beneath his gloves before he set off towards the castle.

Falling in beside a wagon laden with root vegetables, he slipped easily past the guardhouse, showing them the eggs with a vague gesture towards the wagon that preceded him. The harried gate guards waved him through with little more than a moment's scrutiny as they turned to the three women behind him, each bearing heavy bolts of dark cloth.

Sloppy work, Graham thought. The guard hadn't even thought to check him for weapons, of which he had many. But his cloak had concealed them, just as it had concealed his face as he strode onto Kentshire castle's grounds.

He could have been anyone, armed to the teeth with no more than a basket of eggs as a disguise, and the guards had allowed him to saunter in at a time when the very future of the duchy hung precariously in the balance. Sure enough, there was a steady flow of deliveries to the castle, coupled with the load of dark cloth carried by the women behind him. The innkeeper's cook seemed to have been correct, they were indeed preparing for a funeral feast, but Graham still couldn't shake that nagging feeling that something else was amiss.

Neither his party nor the northerners ahead of him had come across Leopold on the road, which had both surprised and relieved Graham. But now with the innkeeper's ominous gossip, he had to be sure that Isabelle had indeed arrived home, safe and sound. He kept a sharp eye out for any Germanians, but the bustling courtyard was filled with northerners talking in shouted Gallic, the castle staff at work.

He slipped into the kitchen, sliding back his hood so as not to draw any suspicion. His eyes raked the room as he crossed to a worktable, spotting a pair of corridors leading off the opposite side.

"Oy! Eggs go over there!" someone barked, smacking his hand with a wooden spoon. Forcing a smile, Graham muttered an apology before moving the eggs towards where the older woman had pointed with the wooden spoon. She watched him only until she was sure he'd done as she'd directed before turning her attention elsewhere and rapping someone else with the wooden spoon.

Graham slipped into the nearest of the two corridors, taking in every detail of the castle layout. Two stairwells led off the hallway, one currently being used by a maid bearing a tray laden with a half-finished bowl of broth and countless soaked cloths.

When she'd darted past him towards the kitchen, he hurried up the staircase. Pausing at the top, he listened to the quiet din of male voices in the hallway. Risking a peek around the corner, he eyed the men assembled there, biting his tongue to keep from swearing.

Before the door, Sam Winters stood like a great northern ox, a hand on the hilt of his sword as he surveyed the men around him. To either side were two more burly northmen, their red tartan bright in the dim hallway. They eyed the men lounging against the opposite wall, their battle-hardened faces unreadable.

The men across from the northerners were clearly not Pretanian, which was the reason for Graham's stifled curse. Snippets of Deutch, the Germanian language, reached Graham's ears, confirming his worst fears. That Sam Winters hadn't drawn steel was as good a sign as any, but what lay beyond the door was far more worrisome.

Running the calculations in his head, Graham turned on his heel and hurried back the way he'd come. He needed his father's men and he needed them now, but their sheer numbers would be cumbersome enough on the narrow northern roads. They'd arrive in a few days' time, but Graham doubted that he had the luxury of such time.

Leopold was in the castle. His men were in the castle. Graham needed to know how many more were stationed in the surrounding countryside and whether he even stood a chance of holding Inverloch against the Germanians.

Because if he didn't, he had a duchess to kidnap.

He was halfway across the courtyard before Gallic shouts and the sounds of men and horses tore himself from his thoughts. Red tartan was everywhere as dozens of men rode through the gates, the tide of deliveries stemmed to make way for them. The red stretched down the road as far as Graham could see, the tartan gracing both foot soldiers and cavalrymen.

Relief washed over the prince as he paused for a moment, taking a quick tally of the men climbing the road towards the castle. Ensuring that his hood was still in place, he skirted the courtyard, careful not to draw the eye of their leader, a man familiar enough that he might've recognized Graham on sight.

Between twin banners of a black dragon on a red field, Lord Callum Winters rode into Kentshire castle's courtyard, surrounded by his men-at-arms.

**A/N: Lots of new developments! What do you think will come of Isabelle and Leopold's discussion? What about Graham, what do you think he'll do now that Sam's dad and his soldiers have arrived? As always, if you enjoyed it, please don't forget to vote and comment! :)