Page 34 of The Laird's Masked Desire
Her bracelet lay cool against her wrist, newly reclaimed. She let her thumb brush its golden edge, steadying herself with the reminder that some things still belonged to her.
Annabel clapped her hands in delight, bringing her back to the present moment. “Ye look breathtaking, me lady,” she said with quiet conviction.
Margaret let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. “Dae I?”
Annabel nodded emphatically. “Aye. Ye look as though ye’ve always belonged here.”
The words struck deeper than any compliment. Margaret studied her reflection again, searching for some trace of the fear she still carried. It was there, if she looked closely, in the tightness of her mouth and the alertness in her eyes, but it no longer dominated the image.
She straightened her shoulders.
“Thank ye, Annabel,” she said softly.
The maid smiled with warmth and pride, as though she had played a part in something larger than pins and silk. But the moment did not last, because a knock on the door interruptedthem to remind her that the reality beyond it waited. Margaret drew a steadying breath and followed as she was escorted from her chambers, with Annabel a respectful step behind her, and guards moving with quiet precision ahead and to either side.
The walk to the Great Hall felt longer than it was. Every archway echoed. Every turn carried the weight of what she was about to face. By the time the doors were pushed open, Margaret had forced her expression into serenity, though her heart was beating hard enough that she feared it might betray her.
The hall was full. It was not crowded, but it was still deliberately assembled. The Council sat along the High Table in a row of men hardened by war and governance alike. They were sitting alongside senior household figures whose faces revealed careful curiosity rather than welcome. And at the head of the table sat Domhnall.
He rose the moment she entered. The simple act drew every eye to him and then to her.
“Me lairds,” he announced, “this is Lady Margaret Drummond of Perthshire.”
The words settled over the hall with quiet authority. He took her hand and brought her closer to himself.
“Ye have heard the news already, and ye ken the manner in which it came about.”
A few heads inclined. No one interrupted.
“The Masquerade binds by law and by Crown,” he continued. “I was named. I made me claim. It was sealed before witnesses and blessed in the King’s name.” She heard him pause here, but there was no uncertainty in his voice. “She enters this hall under me protection and me word. She will be me wife, and as such, she is tae be afforded the respect due tae that place.”
His gaze swept the table.
“Judge her by her conduct,” he went on, “nae by rumor. By her strength, nae by assumption. Any slight offered tae her is offered tae me.”
Silence held, taut and deliberate. Domhnall inclined his head once, the speech concluded as cleanly as it had begun. He pulled out her chair himself, a simple gesture that carried far more weight than ceremony and waited until she was seated before taking his place beside her.
The hall exhaled.
Margaret felt the impact of his words settle around her not as a shield that diminished her, but as a foundation beneath her feet. She adjusted in her seat with measured grace, allowing her hands to rest lightly before her. She watched as platters were brought out in orderly succession: roasted fowl glazed with herbs, trenchers of bread still warm, bowls of stewed roots and greens. Wine followed, poured carefully, the soft sound of it marking the beginning of what was meant to be a civil evening.
She felt the eyes on her still, though less openly now, as conversation began to flow around the table. At first, they spoke only to Domhnall.
“Me laird,” one of the councilors said, lifting his cup, “Perthshire’s ties at Court will change the balance somewhat.”
“And Drummond isnae kent fer subtlety,” another added. “How dae ye expect him tae respond once the Crown’s patience wears thin?”
Margaret lowered her gaze to her plate, her instinct urging silence. This was familiar ground, men speakingaroundher, as though she were not present.
Domhnall cut a slice of meat, unhurried. “That,” he said calmly, “is a question Lady Margaret understands better than I dae.”
Several heads turned. Margaret looked up, startled. Domhnall met her gaze in an inviting gesture.
She swallowed and straightened. “Me faither values leverage,” she told them. “Nae speed. He will protest loudly at first, but he will wait tae see which way the wind turns before he moves in earnest.”
A murmur followed, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not hear disapproval.
“And the Crown?” a steward asked, his eyes still fixed on Domhnall.
