Page 5 of The Laird's Masked Desire
And though nothing had yet been done, though the risk still lay ahead of them, and the danger had only just acquired a shape, the words, once spoken, made it feel terribly real.
CHAPTER ONE
September 1592, Falkland Palace
Lady Margaret Drummond had no business running through a royal palace, and certainly not dressed as a maid.
She slipped through Falkland’s torchlit corridors, forcing out shallow breaths beneath the borrowed mask. Stone walls closed around her and voices drifted.
Tonight, she was not meant to be seen, for discovery would not bring embarrassment, but her ruin. She had to rush to the meeting spotnow,before they caught her.
Lost in her thoughts, Margaret turned a corner too quickly only to collide with something, or better yet,someonesolid. The impact jolted the breath from her lungs. Her shoulder struck muscle, not stone, and she staggered back with a soft cry she immediately swallowed.
A chill slid through her as she looked up. She was not meant to be seen, not tonight of all nights.
“Oh, I beg yer pardon,” she said at once, lowering her head as she had been taught since childhood. “I wasnae looking where I went.”
Two men stood before her, both masked and both clearly not servants. One smelled of wine and polish, the other of damp wool and iron. Neither stepped aside.
Her pulse thudded painfully in her ears. Worry tightened into fear as she realized how exposed she was and kept her gaze down, her fingers playing with the beads of her bracelet, as she willed herself to become small and unnoticed.
“Nay injury done,” the first said pleasantly, though his gaze lingered in a way that made her skin tighten. “Though ye move as though ye’re being chased, lass.”
Margaret drew her hands together in front of her apron as she’d seen maids do. “I have duties tae attend tae, sir and I took the turn too quickly. Me apologies once again.”
“Duties,” the second repeated, while amusement colored his voice as he looked her over. “A shame, that.”
She shifted her weight, angling her body toward the corridor beyond them. “If ye would excuse me?—”
“Ye ken,” the first continued, stepping closer, “ye are far too pretty tae be wasted as a maid.”
Her pulse quickened, though her expression did not change. “I assure ye that yer judgment is hasty, me laird,” she replied, swallowing heavily.
The men laughed, but they did not move. Instead, they closed the distance between them. The torchlight flickered, allowing shadows to stretch long and thin along the walls. Margaret became acutely aware of every sensation: the rough chill of stone at her back, the faint smoke in the air, and the sound of her own breath beneath the mask.
“We see enough,” the second man murmured. “Pretty mouth, slim wrists. Ye’d draw attention even without silk.”
The words struck too close. Margaret’s gaze lifted despite herself, fixing on the man who had spoken, and in that instant, something in his stance, along with the sharp impatience of his movements, tightened painfully into recognition.
God help me… ‘tis Laird Kenneth MacGregor.
The knowledge landed with a cold, dreadful clarity. She had seen him only twice before, both times at a distance and both times unwillingly.
He was meant to meet her tonight. Nother, precisely, but the daughter of House Drummond. He was meant to weigh her worth and then, to decide terms.
Her stomach hollowed.
She lowered her eyes at once, schooling her posture into meekness, into nothing at all. If he recognized her or if he heard her voice long enough to place it, there would be no retreat and no explanation that would not damn them.
“Please, leave me tae me business,” she said more softly now, carefully flattening her voice of any inflection.
Laird MacGregor stepped even closer. He smelled of wine and tobacco. She could feel the heat of him, the restless violence held barely in check.
“And if we dinnae?” he demanded. “Perhaps we’d like tae be certain of our assumptions.”
Her breath shortened.
Dinnae look up. Dinnae answer. Even if ye want tae put them both in their places.
