Page 120 of The Laird's Masked Desire
He almost laughed, but instead, he suffocated the sound into a mocking snort.
“Ye will dae as ye are told,” he replied.
And then, his hand stilled, without releasing her.
“Margaret?”
Both she and her father tensed at the sound of Domhnall’s voice. He was still far enough not to notice them
Margaret turned sharply. The coward that was her father had retreated, without an attempt to confront Domhnall. He slipped past the edge of the passage and into the movement of the crowd beyond, swallowed by lantern light and bodies before Margaret could take a step toward him. Just like that, he was gone, as if he had never existed at all and as if she had imagined this nightmare.
“Wait—” She did not finish.
He was gone. Domhnall reached her a heartbeat later. His presence was reassuring, now claiming the space her father had occupied moments prior.
“Margaret, is everything all right?”
She turned to him.
The threat, the knowledge, the suddenness of it all pressed against her, seeking to fracture the composure she had held. She did not allow it.
“Aye,” she said, though her voice was quieter than usual.
Domhnall’s gaze moved over her, assessing not her words, but her state.
Margaret’s fingers tightened at her sides. She could still hear her father’s voice. She could still feel his hand and see the certainty with which he had spoken.
“Ye look troubled,” he told her, standing in front of her.
She smiled through the apprehension. “I’m just tired. I needed a moment tae meself, but I am ready to go back to the celebration.”
In an effort to prevent him from asking any more questions, she grabbed him by the hand and dragged him back to the square. She pretended not to see the concern in his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The ride back to the castle was quieter than the one that had brought them to the village.
The night had deepened and the air cooled with each passing mile. The sound of hooves against the road fell into a steady rhythm as Domhnall rode next to Margaret. He did not press her about the tension he sensed in her. But, now, within the walls of Inveraray, the quiet followed them still.
Their chambers had been prepared ahead of their return. A fire burned low, casting a steady glow across stone and wood. The remnants of the evening clung faintly to them in the form of smoke, salt and the press of shared air and bodies.
Margaret moved first. She crossed the room without speaking, setting aside the cloak she had worn. Domhnall closed the door behind them. The sound settled with finality. He watched her.
There was something in her stillness, but it was not fear, for she didn’t move like one afraid. It was something she held close to her heart, something restrained in its secrecy.
He stepped toward her. “Margaret.”
She did not turn at once. His gaze moved over her back, noticing the tension in her shoulders and the set of her spine, then the way her hands had stilled at her sides, as though she had forgotten what she meant to do next.
“Are ye certain that everything is all right?” he asked.
Margaret turned then. There was a crack beneath her composure, and it did not voice itself in speech, but rather in movement. She crossed the little space that was left between them. There was not a modicum of hesitation in her.
Her hand caught at his coat, her fingers closing with sudden force as she pulled him toward her. And then her mouth was on his in a kiss that was fierce and demanding. She didn’t wait for permission, nor did her touch soften. She claimed him with power and certainty.
It made him still for just a single breath. Surprise gripped him as fiercely as she did, but his hand came to her at once, firm at her waist, drawing her closer still as he answered her with equal force. The restraint he carried so easily in all things fractured in that instant.
She tasted of the night, of smoke, of salt, of something wholly her own. There was no distance between them now. Only heat, only want.
