Page 63 of The Laird's Masked Desire
“Ye’ll never have tae ask tae see yer sister again,” Domhnall said, though the words came out rougher than intended, as though he were warning himself as much as her. “But dinnae make a habit of keeping me in the dark. This was too much.”
Margaret nodded quickly, her gaze dropping to the floor between them. Her hands were trembling slightly, but she steadied them. “I willnae,” she promised. “I swear I willnae. I just?—”
“I ken,” he interrupted.
He stepped closer to her, his gaze flicking as if to remind her of the danger still looming around them. “I just need tae ken when ye’re going. I cannae protect ye if I dinnae ken where ye are.”
The weight of his words hung in the air. He wanted to say more, but the silence between them was filled with everything he couldn’t yet voice. It was the promise of something deeper, something both fragile and strong. He felt her trust in him, even after everything that had happened.
He was still angry. He was still furious with her for the risk she had taken and for the decision to sneak off without him. But there was something else beneath it all that frightened him far more than any blade or battle.
“Yer sister and her husband can come tae the castle,” he said, and the words surprised them both. “They are welcome there if they need refuge.”
The offer was sincere. It was rare for Domhnall to extend such a gesture, particularly in uncertain times, but for her, to ensure she knew the depth of his commitment, it felt natural.
“Thank ye,” she said softly, her voice touched by emotion she didn’t try to hide.
However, the weight of reality was not lost on her, as he expected it. She shook her head. “But fer now, I think it’s better if they stay hidden from me faither.”
Domhnall’s gaze softened slightly, but there was no hesitation in his reply. “Aye, I understand.”
The shadow of Drummond’s influence had been cast long before Falkland, and though he had been forced to respect her upcoming marriage, his pride and power remained his foremost concern. For her sister and her husband to step into the light, even there, in that moment of fragile peace, was not wise.
“It’s safer,” she added. “He would use them against me if he kent they were here. If it became kent that Eleonor had married without his consent… It could stir up more than just trouble.”
Domhnall met her gaze, understanding the unspoken fear between them.
“The choice is yers,” he said, though his voice was tinged with the weight of what it meant. “We will protect them as best we can. But if they must remain hidden, so be it.”
Margaret nodded, grateful for his understanding. “Thank ye,” she said again. “I dinnae wish tae cause more trouble fer ye or yer house. I only want me sister safe.”
“And I will keep her safe,” Domhnall replied. “Just as I will keep ye safe.”
The space between them hummed with the words unspoken, a quiet promise shared without the need for further explanation.
Margaret stayed close, for a moment longer than she had planned, before she gathered her resolve and nodded toward the path ahead. “I think it’s time we head back.”
Domhnall stepped aside, his eyes lingering on her a moment longer than necessary. “Aye, but remember this, Margaret: whatever comes, we face it thegither. Ye are nae alone in this.”
“I ken,” she said with a small smile. “And I will stand by ye, as ye’ve stood by me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Morning light spilled softly into her chamber, pale and tentative, as though even the day were unsure how to behave.
Margaret stood before the looking glass while Annabel moved about her, smoothing fabric, adjusting folds, and murmuring small, practical observations that betrayed how little she trusted herself to speak plainly just yet. The room smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen, while the hearth newly stirred to life against the chill that lingered in stone.
“Ye look…” Annabel began, then stopped, clearly at a loss.
Margaret lifted her eyes to the reflection.
She barely recognized the woman looking back at her.
The gown was simple in cut but exquisite in its making, while the fabric was falling in soft, elegant lines that moved when shebreathed. Her hair had been left loose and woven through with a wreath of wildflowers, green and white and blue, resting lightly against her temples. It lent her an air of something unearthly, as though she had stepped out of the woods rather than a castle chamber, like a fairy from an old tale.
“Oh, me lady,” Annabel breathed at last, stepping back to take her in fully. “I’ve dressed many brides, but never one like this.”
Margaret touched the glass, half-expecting the image to dissolve. “I dinnae look like meself,” she said softly.
