Page 56 of The Laird's Masked Desire
When he lifted his eyes, he found Margaret watching the letter with the same instant recognition. Of course she had seen it. She had grown up with that seal. It was as familiar to her as her own name.
For a fleeting moment, Domhnall considered dismissing her. Habit urged it. Caution demanded privacy.
Then he saw her expression, and he recognized that quiet readiness that told him she already understood what this was. And that whatever lay inside concerned her as much as it did him.
Domhnall broke the seal. The wax cracked cleanly, pressed by a hand that had taken time to compose itself before striking. He unfolded the parchment and began to read aloud.
“Tae Domhnall Campbell, Laird of Argyll,” he read aloud, the formal cadence unmistakable. “It has come tae me attention that the union contracted at Falkland was entered under false pretenses, the identity of the bride having been deliberately misrepresented.”
Margaret did not flinch. He could feel her attention sharpen beside him.
“Me daughter, Margaret Drummond, was deceived intae this marriage through circumstances engineered without me consent, knowledge, or lawful negotiation.”
Domhnall’s hand clenched around the parchment.
“Such deception renders the union morally suspect and legally contestable. I therefore demand her immediate release from thismarriage and her return tae me custody, so that proper remedy may be pursued without further scandal.”
The wordcustodytasted like rot.
“Should this demand be ignored, I will have nay choice but tae petition the Crown tae examine the validity of the claim and the conduct of all parties involved.”
He reached the end and folded the letter with deliberate care, as though keeping it from tearing required effort. Margaret was the first to move. She stepped closer to the writing table and laid her fingertips lightly on the folded letter, not touching it so much as acknowledging its presence.
“He has never accepted anything he didnae arrange himself,” she said. “This only confirms it.”
Domhnall nodded once. “Aye. Men like him will always frame it as concern, as law, as morality.” His mouth tightened. “Never as control.”
“He will insist I was deceived,” she went on, measured and clear-eyed. “That I was misled, overwhelmed, taken advantage of in the confusion of Falkland.”
“And the Crown will listen,” Domhnall nodded, “because Drummond has allies who enjoy the sound of their own outrage.”
She looked up at him then. “So now I am a question.”
“Ye are a pressure point,” he replied. “Which is worse.”
The words were blunt, but not unkind. He would not insult her by pretending otherwise.
Margaret folded her hands before her, drawing herself inward. “If he challenges the marriage publicly, every step I take inside these walls will be examined.”
“Aye,” Domhnall said. “And every man will begin tae wonder whether ye are a temporary solution.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Am I?”
The question struck harder than Drummond’s letter. Domhnall did not answer at once. He looked at her, unable not to see the way she had already woven herself into the lives and survival of his people.
“Nay,” he said finally. “Ye are me wife in the eyes that matter, and those are me own.”
“That will nae stop the whispers,” she said quietly.
“Nay,” he agreed. “It will deepen them.”
The truth of it settled between them. Already the castle would be reacting. Servants would be exchanging glances, guards would be listening more closely, and stewards would be recalculating where loyalty might be safest.
A contested lady was not merely a personal matter. She was political weather.
“He will press fer me return,” Margaret told him. “Perhaps nae immediately. But he will want a meeting and negotiation.”
Domhnall’s jaw tightened. “He will get neither.”
