Page 18 of The Laird's Masked Desire
Domhnall did not move. “The claim was lawful.”
Kenneth’s mouth twisted. “Lawful,” he repeated, as if tasting something rotten. “Ye think law will protect ye from this?”
Her father bristled beside him. “This marriage can still be challenged if it was entered through deception, as it was.”
“Nay,” Kerr said firmly, stepping forward. “It cannae. Once sealed, Masquerade law forbids interference.”
Kenneth’s hands clenched at his sides. Margaret could see the effort it took for him not to advance.
“She was promised,” he said in a voice low with fury. “Her faither and I had…quietlyarranged fer it, although it was never formally contracted. Still, everyone kent it.”
“Everyoneassumed,” Domhnall replied calmly. “The Crown daesnae recognize assumptions.”
For a moment, it seemed as though Kenneth might strike out regardless, law, guards, and witnesses be damned. The air around him felt charged, ready to fracture. Margaret’s breath caught as she realized how much violence coiled between the two men and how old it must be, how personal. She sensed a history there, one shaped by blood and loss, though the details remained maddeningly out of reach.
Guards shifted again, signaling their readiness to act if need be. Hands hovered near sword hilts. The corridor had become a line no one could cross without consequence.
Kenneth laughed once, but it was a sharp and bitter sound. “This is nae finished,” he vowed, with his gaze flicking briefly to Margaret before returning to Domhnall. “Nae fer ye, and nae fer her.”
Her father said nothing now. His silence was heavy with calculation rather than fury.
Kerr raised his voice. “This confrontation is concluded. The Crown’s business is done.”
Domhnall placed his hand at Margaret’s back once more. “We are leaving.”
As they moved away, Margaret felt the weight of Kenneth’s stare burn into her spine. She felt her father’s unfinished rage linger like a shadow behind it.
She did not look back, however. She already knew this union had forged more than a marriage.
It had awakened enemies.
Cameron, Domhnall’s cousin and second-in-command, the captain of Argyll’s household guard, was ordered to stay by Margaret’s side, while Domhnall altered his course through a narrow passage off the main corridor, one known only to men who had bled within these walls and been trusted to keep silent about it. A guard admitted him without question, shutting the door behind him.
The chamber was small and unadorned. It had a single table and one narrow window shuttered against the night. Three men already waited inside.
Colin MacKenzie, the Laird of Wester Ross, stood near the table. Lean and severe, he carried himself with a stillness that spoke of constant calculation rather than ease. His dark hair was worn back from a face marked by discipline, not softness, and his eyes were sharp and watchful, measuring everything in the room without revealing a single thought in return.
Niall Gordon, the Laird of Badenoch, occupied a chair with careless elegance, having one boot braced against the wall as though he had all the time in the world. His clothes were cut with courtly precision, and his posture was relaxed to the point of insolence, yet nothing about him was inattentive. Hispale, intelligent eyes were alert as always, cataloguing risk and opportunity in the same quiet breath.
Ruaridh MacLean, the Laird of Duart, Mull, and Morvern, loomed near the window, like a storm given shape. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, he stood with his arms crossed and jaw set hard, and dark hair loose at his shoulders. There was no attempt at refinement in him, only coiled violence and absolute readiness, the kind of presence that promised blood long before words ever failed.
They turned as one.
“Well,” Ruaridh said, “that waslouderthan expected.”
Domhnall closed the door himself. “The claim is sealed.”
Niall exhaled slowly. “So we heard. The corridor nearly caught fire.”
Colin tilted his head. “Drummond?”
“Furious,” Domhnall replied. “MacGregor more so.”
Ruaridh’s mouth curved into something humorless. “Of course he is.”
Domhnall moved to the table, resting his hands flat against the stone. “The marriage stands, Crown-blessed and lawful.”
“Lawful rarely means safe,” Colin pointed out.
