Page 42 of The Laird's Masked Desire
Silence stretched. He did not rush to fill it.
“At Falkland,” he finished, “when I saw him look at ye, when I understood what he believed he had lost, and I kent exactly what would follow.”
Margaret’s voice, when she spoke, was quieter. “So this is punishment… fer him.”
“Nay,” Domhnall replied at once. “This is prevention, fer ye.”
She searched his face, as though weighing whether the truth he had given was complete.
“I am really sorry fer what happened tae ye. But what if I tell ye,” she cautiously spoke then, “that I will nae live as a ghost behind yer walls?”
He met her gaze without flinching. “Then I will find another way tae keep ye safe.”
She studied him for a long moment, the wind lifting a loose strand of her hair before letting it fall again.
“Dinnae mistake me anger fer ignorance,” she urged. “I understand danger. I simply refuse tae be treated as though I cannae judge it.”
“I dinnae think ye incapable,” Domhnall replied. “I think ye are brave enough tae risk yerself for others.”
Her mouth curved into a sharp and knowing smile. “And that frightens ye.”
“Yes,” he admitted after a moment’s pause.
The word cost him. He did not soften it.
At last, she inclined her head, but it was not an act of obedience. She merely offered acknowledgment.
“Very well. I will remain within the grounds, fer now.”
“Fer now,” he echoed.
She turned away then, Annabel already moving to her side. Before she passed beneath the archway, she paused.
“Ye should ken,” she said without turning back, “that cages, be they pretty or otherwise, have a way of teaching those inside them how tae break locks.”
Then she was gone, but her words lingered with him much longer. He had told her the truth. Whether it would be enough, he didn’t yet know.
Domhnall lay awake long after the castle had settled into its nightly stillness, listening to the familiar sounds of Inveraray breathing around him. The distant shift of guards on the walls, the low sigh of wind along stone, the muted lap of the loch far below, they were sounds he had trusted for years.
But that night, they did not bring peace. Margaret’s voice returned to him instead.
Why are ye so afraid?
He turned onto his side, staring into darkness. He had given her the truth, which was more than he had offered anyone in years. Yet the admission had not quieted his thoughts. If anything, it had sharpened them.
After a time he rose, moving without summoning a servant. He left his chamber, and took the inner passageways toward the oldest wing of the castle. The library lay there, thick-walled andinsulated from drafts. It was a place of maps, records, and long nights spent alone with strategy and memory.
Upon arriving there, he noticed that light was glimmering beneath the door. It made him slow down.
No one should have been there. The hour was too late and the castle too quiet. His hand settled instinctively near the knife at his belt as he reached for the latch. The door resisted him at first, then gave way with a long, protesting groan. The sound tore through the silence like a blade dragged across bone.
“Damn—”
The word was still in his mouth when he saw her. Margaret was standing halfway up a narrow ladder, with one foot braced on a rung that had seen better centuries. Her body was angled toward the shelves as she reached for a book set just beyond comfortable grasp. Candlelight pooled around her, gilding the edges of her hair and the pale line of her throat.
The door’s cry startled her.
She gasped, her foot slipping as the ladder shifted beneath her weight. The book came loose in her hand and she did, too.
