Page 38 of The Laird's Masked Desire
“Kenneth MacGregor willnae strike at ye directly,” Cameron went on. “Nae yet. He’ll look fer what can be taken, frightened, or broken without banners raised. And right now, she is new, visible, and nae yet surrounded by loyalty.”
Domhnall’s hand tightened on the stone. “She will be.”
“But until then,” Cameron advised, “her movements need watching. They need tae be limited.”
The word tasted foul.
Domhnall exhaled slowly, the way he did before giving an order he disliked but knew to be necessary. “She willnae be confined like a prisoner in her own home.”
For that was what this was for her: a home. And he wanted her to see it as such.
“Nay,” Cameron agreed. “But she cannae wander the grounds alone as long as we’re under danger, me friend. She must have escorts, always, her chambers secured and nay unscheduled visitors.”
“And nay messages in or out without review,” Domhnall added quietly.
Cameron nodded. “Until we ken where MacGregor’s eyes are.”
Domhnall’s thoughts flicked unbidden to her standing at the window the previous night. He remembered how firelight caught in her hair. He remembered her desire to show him how good she was on a horse, good enough to almost beat him.
He sighed. He knew she would not welcome this. He hoped she would understand it, but she would not welcome it.
“I’ll speak tae her meself,” he said.
“That would be wise.”
Domhnall straightened, feeling decision settling into resolve. “This is temporary.”
“It always is,” Cameron replied. “Until it isnae.”
Domhnall did not respond to that. He turned from the battlements and toward the stairs, already bracing himself for the conversation ahead, one that would test not law or loyalty, but trust.
Margaret followed Annabel, who moved through Inveraray with the ease of someone who knew every draft and echo of it.
“This way leads down toward the east gardens,” she said cheerfully, gesturing along a stone corridor brightened by tall, narrow windows. “They’re nae much tae look at in winter, but in spring, oh, they’re lovely! The laird’s maither planted the hawthorns herself, they say.”
Margaret listened, grateful for the ordinary cadence of Annabel’s voice. It grounded her in the vastness of the castle that still felt like half-dream and half-trap. She walked slowly, taking in carved doorways, worn stair treads, and the quiet dignity of a place shaped by centuries rather than fashion.
But she became aware of them at once. She glanced back casually, as though admiring a tapestry. Two guards followed at a respectable distance, with their eyes forward and their handseasy near their weapons. They did not hurry when she slowed. They lingered when she paused.
They were there for her. The realization tightened her chest.
Annabel noticed her look and lowered her voice without breaking stride. “It’s only fer now, me lady,” she said gently. “The laird gave strict orders this morning.”
Margaret nodded. “I ken.”
She did know. Intellectually, at least. After Falkland, after the river, after the Council’s wary glances, it would have been foolish to expect otherwise. Danger had not vanished simply because she had crossed a threshold.
Still, being followed, however politely, set her teeth on edge.
She folded her hands together to still them. “It’s good tae ken this is nae… permanent.”
“Oh, nay,” Annabel was quick to assure her. “Nae once things settle. It is just caution.”
Just caution. Just survival.
Margaret breathed out slowly and turned her attention forward again. She would not resent the men for doing what was asked of them. Nor would she pretend she did not feel safer for theirpresence, unwelcome as the reminder was. She had chosen this path with open eyes.
As they reached a balcony overlooking the loch, Margaret paused, resting her hands on the cold stone rail. The water below was calm, almost deceptively so, reflecting the pale morning sky.
