Page 116 of The Laird's Masked Desire
She belonged to the moment as though she had always been meant to stand there with him. The realization did not come as surprise.
He had spent years ensuring his people endured, ensuring they were protected, provisioned and controlled. Here, he was witnessing a real connection, and she had stepped into it as though she had been born to it.
A woman approached Margaret then, pressing something into her hands. It was a small bundle, wrapped in cloth. Margaretprotested softly, but the woman insisted. Margaret relented. Of course she did. She always chose to meet them where they stood.
Domhnall watched her fingers close around the offering. He watched the way she inclined her head not as a lady accepting tribute, but as one receiving something shared. It was a small thing. A bundle of cloth, likely no more than bread or dried fish, given from hands that could ill afford to spare it. And yet, she took it as though it were worth its weight in gold.
He had seen noblewomen accept gifts before, with distance and expectation, but most importantly with the quiet assurance that such things were owed. Margaret did not. She thanked the woman and spoke a few words that made the older woman’s shoulders ease, while her face lit up.
This was how loyalty was forged. It was not demanded or given easily. It was earned.
The music rose again, louder now, as though the moment of formality had passed and the village claimed the night fully for itself. Fiddles cut sharp through the air, quick and bright, while boots once again struck earth in a steady rhythm.
Margaret turned at the sound. He saw the curiosity in her smile. And a moment later, she was drawn into the circle of dancers. A woman caught her hand, and Margaret didn’t resist. She allowed herself to be led toward the others.
Domhnall watched. He didn’t move to follow.
She did not dance as they did. Her steps were too measured, shaped by halls and polished floors, by expectation rather than instinct. But the women around her corrected her gently and with smiles. Their hands were guiding her, while their voices were calling the rhythm and Margaret adapted surprisingly quickly.
Her feet found the pattern easily, and although she still faltered, it only caused her to break into a melodious chuckle. She didn’t retreat from her mistakes. She learned, as she always did. And in learning, she became part of it.
The children circled her, delighted by her attempts. A young boy darted too close, nearly colliding with her, and she caught him instinctively, steadying him before sending him back into the chaos with a quiet word that made him grin.
“Me laird!” he suddenly heard a voice call out to him.
He turned only to see Cameron and a few of his guards having arrived prior to him and Margaret, in an effort to secure the area. Now, they were standing before him, without that weight of command.
It was a strange sight. The sharp edges of vigilance had softened into something more familiar. Cameron’s stance, though still upright, lacked its usual tension. The guards behind him were no longer fixed to their posts, but part of the gathering, their attention divided between duty and the pull of the evening. They had done their work, and now, they allowed themselves some fun.
“Ye’ve kept them waiting,” Cameron added with a hint of delighted amusement.
Domhnall’s eyes moved briefly past him to the square, to the forming lines of men already setting themselves for the next reel. Behind Cameron, one of the men stepped forward, grinning in a way that would have been unthinkable within the walls of the castle.
“Me laird,” he said, already reaching as though to seize him by the arm, “ye cannae stand aside this time.”
Domhnall did not move. He was aware of Margaret somewhere behind him, of the sound of her laughter and the life that had settled into the square. This was an invitation.
He did not often accept such things. He considered refusal, as he always did and remaining on the sidelines, making sure that everyone was safe. That was what he always did.
Then Cameron’s voice came again. “Go on,” he urged. “They’ve earned it, and so have ye.”
The distinction did not escape Domhnall.
He exhaled once, realizing he was right. “Aye.”
The men did not wait. They pulled him forward at once, with laughter rising as he was drawn into the forming line. The circle tightening around him, while boots struck the ground inquick succession, because the rhythm was already building even before the music caught it.
The fiddles lifted and they were unforgiving in their pace. Domhnall set his stance. It had been years.
Too many tae count.
But somehow, the body remembered what the mind had long set aside. The first steps came measured and controlled, as all things were with him, but the pattern took hold quickly. Turn, step, strike, shift and the movement started unfolding not as performance, but as something ingrained.
The men around him matched him without hesitation. They did not falter, nor did they temper themselves for him. They met him as they would any other. That, more than anything, kept him there.
The rhythm deepened, and their boots were striking harder now, while the ground was echoing beneath them. Arms clasped and released, and bodies were turning in sequence, the reel tightening and breaking, reforming again with sharp precision. Voices rose around them calling the steps and urging the pace, with laughter cutting through the music like sparks.
He moved with them, not above or apart, butamongthem. A hand struck his shoulder as the line broke, and another man took his place in the turn. Domhnall pivoted, stepping into the next pattern without pause, feeling the rhythm pulling him forward again before he could consider stepping away.
