Page 1 of The Laird's Masked Desire
PROLOGUE
August 1592, Clan Drummond lands
The castle, though built of stone and governed by order, was never wholly without sound.
Margaret moved through its corridors with an ease born not only of familiarity, but of habit. She had long since learned where voices carried, where footsteps softened, and where one might pass unremarked. On this occasion, however, she was not inclined toward quiet observation, but toward a more immediate concern.
“Eleonor?” she called, pausing at the bend of a passage. “Where have ye gone now?”
There was no reply. Margaret allowed herself the smallest smile. It was not uncommon for her sister to withdraw.
She continued on.
It was only when she reached the far end of the corridor that she observed something amiss. A curtain, which was heavyand seldom disturbed, fluttered in a manner that could not be attributed to chance.
Margaret approached it at once, her amusement returning.
“Me dear Eleonor,” she began, drawing the fabric aside, “ye cannae suppose that I shouldnae—” But she wasn’t allowed to continue.
She was interrupted by brisk movement. Eleonor seized her hand and pulled her within, the curtain falling closed behind them with a finality that extinguished both light and levity alike.
“Hush.”
The command was scarcely more than a breath, yet it admitted no disobedience. Eleonor’s finger was pressed to her lips, her expression intent in a manner Margaret had never seen in her before.
Margaret stilled from the sudden, unmistakable sense that something was not as it ought to be.
“What is…” she began, but again, the words did not form.
There were voices. They were unfamiliar ones, and at first, she thought that they had to be servants. But then, she realized that they came from the adjoining chamber.
Their father’s study.
Margaret’s gaze darted instinctively toward the door, though it remained out of sight beyond the curtain. The study was not a place to which they were ever admitted. Its threshold alone carried with it a prohibition that neither of them had ever thought to question.
And yet, the voices were clear.
“… it is already settled.”
The words reached them distinctly, though the tone in which they were spoken carried a quiet authority that made them no less imposing.
Another voice answered. “There is nay benefit in delay.”
Margaret felt Eleonor’s hand tighten around hers. They could not move.
“… the arrangement will proceed,” came the first voice again.
“And the lass?” a third inquired.
A pause followed. Margaret’s breath slowed, not from ease, but from attention so complete it left no room for anything else.
“She will comply.”
There was no uncertainty in it. Margaret’s tension did not ease, though something within her had already begun to settle into understanding.
“… Laird MacGregor expects the matter tae be concluded,” the second voice continued. “It has been discussed.”
The name was not unfamiliar.
