Page 118 of The Laird's Masked Desire
Margaret slowed slightly.
“Thank ye,” she said, placing a gentle hand upon the child’s shoulder. “Ye may return.”
The girl nodded, already turning back toward the warmth and noise of the square, her small figure quickly swallowed by light and movement. Margaret remained where she was for a moment longer. Then, she stepped forward.
The space beyond was quiet. There were no voices, and neither could she see any movement. There was only shadow and the faint creak of wood shifting with the wind. Margaret’s gaze swept the area, searching for any sign of the gentleman she had been sent to meet. But there was none.
She took another step.
“Sir?” she called calmly, and her voice traveled just beyond the immediate darkness.
Still, no answer came. The quietness pressed closer now, no longer gentle, but watchful. Margaret’s fingers curled slightly at her sides.
Something was not right.
She turned, instinctively and her gaze moved back toward the square, but the light felt further away now and the sound dimmer, as though she had stepped beyond the reach of it without quite realizing when.
A faint unease settled low in her chest.
She wondered, for one brief moment, if she had been mistaken, if the gentleman had thought better of his request or if the child had misunderstood completely.
“Is anyone there?” she called again, sharper this time.
Silence answered her again, and in that silence, she felt the unmistakable awareness of not being alone.
She then turned slightly, intending to retrace her steps, but then, a hand closed over her shoulder.
It made her breath catch. She didn’t need to see him to know who he was.
“Dinnae scream,” came the low growl at her ear, controlled and familiar in a way that chilled more than any stranger’s threat might have done. “Unless ye wish the wee lass tae pay for it.”
Her blood ran cold.
“Aye, Faither,” she addressed him, and the word left her in a breath, though her body had already gone rigid beneath his touch.
Her father did not loosen his grip.
“Good,” he murmured. “I’m happy tae see that ye have nae forgotten how tae listen.”
Margaret focused herself to remain still. Her mind moved quickly, even faster than her fear. She thought of the girl, of everyone gathered in the square, and of Domhnall.
“Ye will nae harm her,” she told him, fighting the tremor in her voice. “She has done naething.”
“That depends,” her father replied in a tone that was almost conversational, “entirely upon ye.”
Margaret’s fingers curled at her sides.
“Ye should nae be here,” she said. “If ye are seen?—”
“I am nae concerned with being seen,” he cut in smoothly. “I am concerned with being obeyed.”
The words struck with the same force they had carried all her life. She felt the old instinct rise. She felt the trained response that threatened to break her into compliance.
She buried it.
“Ye have nay authority here,” she reminded him, turning her head just enough that her voice would carry back to him. “And nay authority over me.”
His grip tightened. “Dinnae mistake yer situation, Margaret.”
