Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The palace did not sleep.
Margaret sensed it in the restless echoes of boots, in the muted clatter of tack and steel filtering up through the corridors, in the way servants moved with hurried purpose and lowered voices. Falkland Palace, so carefully composed only hours earlier, had slipped into a state of quiet alarm.
She stood near a narrow window, watching torchlight bloom and vanish in the courtyard below as horses were brought out and lines of men assembled. Cloaks were pulled on. Saddlebags were checked and rechecked. Orders were passed hand to hand with silent efficiency.
They were leaving. The certainty of it settled in her chest with equal parts relief and dread.
Domhnall entered without ceremony. He did not soften his stride or his expression, but his attention went immediately to her, as though to confirm she was still there.
“We ride before dawn,” he informed her.
“I ken,” Margaret replied. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. “Most people are.”
“A messenger has already been sent to Argyll,” he continued. “The betrothal is announced. The castle will be prepared.”
The word betrothal still felt unreal, heavy with implication. She inclined her head, accepting it as she had accepted everything else this night.
“How long?” she asked.
“At first light,” he answered. “We cannae risk delay.”
She glanced once more toward the courtyard, toward the men gathering below. “Ye expect pursuit.”
“I expect resentment,” he corrected. “Pursuit will depend on how quickly they decide tae ignore the law.”
That did not reassure her, but she nodded all the same.
When she descended to the courtyard, the air was cold and damp, while the scent of horses and oil was thick and grounding.
Domhnall’s men stood ready. They were warriors broad-shouldered and scarred, sailors hardened by wind and salt.
They looked at her with open curiosity, but not insolence. In some eyes, she saw respect, even.
Cameron waited near the mounts, his solid gaze sweeping constantly across the perimeter. Margaret mounted the given horse, adjusting her skirts for the ride. The moment she settled into the saddle, she felt the unspoken acknowledgment that she rode under Domhnall Campbell’s protection.
And then he was there. Domhnall swung onto his horse with practiced ease.
He gave a short order, and the courtyard moved as one, with men falling into formation without hesitation or debate.
They rode out while the sky was still ink-dark, Falkland Palace receding behind them in torchlit fragments. Margaret did not look back.
The road west opened before them, narrow at first, then widening as they left the Lowlands behind. She rode among men who bore arms as naturally as breath and watched how they responded to Domhnall without question.
He turned his head slightly, as his grey eyes cut to the left.
“Close the flank.”
The man riding there shifted at once, angling his horse without breaking stride. Two others followed instinctively, tightening the line as if they had been waiting for the order all along.
A few minutes later, Domhnall lifted his hand. It was no more than a subtle motion of his fingers.
“Slow the pace.”
The escort eased back in perfect unison, with the hooves finding a quieter rhythm on the road. No one questioned the change. No one asked why.
Cameron rode a little ahead. Domhnall nodded once.
“Scouts farther out,” he said quietly.
Cameron inclined his head and signaled with two fingers. Riders peeled off smoothly, disappearing into the grey edge of the road without a word spoken between them.
Margaret watched it all from her place among them.
She focused on the economy of motion and the certainty.
Commands passed softly, almost casually, yet carried the weight of inevitability.
Men responded before the words had fully settled, trust and discipline moving faster than sound.
Nothing was repeated. Nothing was debated.
Domhnall looked ahead again, as though the road itself answered to him.
The land began to change, with rolling hills giving way to harsher ground, and the air carrying the promise of sea and rain.
Margaret wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and looked ahead.
The road stretched open before them as the last shadows of night thinned into grey.
Margaret felt the hours in her bones now, the constant rhythm of the saddle pressing against muscles unaccustomed to such distance.
Domhnall drew his horse closer to hers, his gaze flicking briefly to the way she shifted her weight.
“If the ride grows too hard,” he said evenly, “there is a litter among the supplies.”
The words struck like a slap.
Margaret turned to him at once. “Absolutely nae.”
His brow lifted a fraction. “It was an offer.”
“It was an assumption,” she corrected. “And a poor one.”
Cameron, riding just ahead, very deliberately did not turn around.
Margaret straightened in her saddle, lifting her chin despite the ache in her thighs.
“I ride well,” she said. “I always have.”
Domhnall studied her for a moment, as though reassessing terrain rather than pride. Then something like amusement lit up his eyes.
“Have ye?” he inquired.
She bristled. “Aye.”
He looked ahead, then pointed with his chin toward a solitary oak standing apart from the others, its dark shape stark against the paling sky.
“Then race me tae that tree.”
Margaret’s pulse jumped. “Ye are joking.”
“I dinnae joke,” he replied.
Before she could reconsider, he leaned forward and gave his horse its head.
Margaret swore under her breath and followed.
They rode hard across uneven ground, with the horses’ hooves pounding as the road dissolved into rough earth and scattered stone.
The wind tore at her cloak, while her breath burned in her chest as she urged her horse on, leaning low.
Every lesson she had ever learned rose instinctively to meet the challenge.
She refused to look at him. She refused to yield.
The land pitched beneath them, with ruts and hidden stones testing horse and rider alike. Margaret focused on balance, on rhythm, on the tree growing steadily nearer. She was gaining. She could feel it.
A fierce, exhilarated laugh tore from her before she could stop it. For one wild moment, she forgot the Crown, her father, the sealed parchment waiting behind them.
There was only the ride, and she had every intention of winning.
Domhnall had not expected her to keep pace.
He had started first, given his horse its head without hesitation, confident the challenge would end as most did, which was with distance established and pride satisfied. The ground was rough, the path uneven, and he knew every trick of riding hard across land that did not wish to be crossed.
Yet when he risked a glance to his side, she was there, not floundering and not struggling, but riding.
Her posture was low and sure, while her hands were steady on the reins.
Her horse responded to every command. She had closed the distance he had taken with ease, matching his speed stride for stride.
For a brief, incredulous moment, Domhnall felt something dangerously close to admiration cut through him.
Damnation.
He pushed harder, urging his mount forward, but the ground betrayed them both.
He heard it before he saw it: the sharp crack of stone beneath iron.
Her horse struck a hidden rock at full speed.
The animal lurched violently. Domhnall turned just in time to see her thrown forward, the world tilting as she vanished from the saddle.
“Margaret!”
She hit the slope hard, tumbling end over end. Her cloak tore free as she slid toward the river below. The incline offered no mercy. Loose earth and wet grass carried her faster than she could stop herself.
Then she was gone. The river swallowed her with a violent splash.
The escort erupted in shouts. Horses screamed as reins were hauled back, men fighting to stop their mounts on treacherous ground.
Domhnall did not slow. He wheeled his horse sharply, already dismounting before the animal had fully stopped.
He ran to the edge of the slope. He could feel his heart hammering as he caught sight of her below.
Her dark hair was slicked to her face, and her body was dragged sideways by the current as the river seized her without pause.
She tried to surface. The water pulled her under again.
Cold clarity sliced through him. There was no time to think.
Domhnall tore off his cloak and plunged after her into a shock of ice and violence. He hit the water hard, his breath tearing from his chest as the current seized him at once, wrenching him sideways and spinning him before he could find his bearings.
Cold slammed into his limbs, numbing and brutal, stealing his strength even as he fought for it. The roar of the river filled his ears, drowning out the shouts from above. He forced his eyes open. Margaret was ahead of him, but she was too far and she was moving too fast.
Her head broke the surface for a breathless instant, as her mouth opened in a gasp before the water dragged her under again. Panic flared sharp and blinding in his chest.
Nay.
Domhnall drove himself forward, feeling his muscles burning as he cut through the current. Every stroke was a battle of its own. The river did not yield easily. It clawed at him, pulled at his legs, tried to spin him away from her. His lungs burned. His arms screamed with effort.
He had faced men in battle without fear. He had faced blades, blood and fire. But this helpless fury was worse.
“Hold,” he snarled through clenched teeth, though he did not know if she could hear him. “Hold on!”
Her hand surfaced again, her long fingers clawing at nothing, her body twisting as the current tried to roll her onto her back and carry her farther downstream. The sight tore something raw open inside him.
He surged the last distance and caught her. His hand closed around her arm. She struck against him with the force of the water, and a startled cry was torn from her as she sucked in air. She clutched at him instinctively, her fingers digging into his shoulder, his neck, anything she could find.
“I have ye,” he said hoarsely in a ragged breath, feeling as if the words were ripped from his chest rather than spoken. “I have ye.”
The river fought them both now, dragging at her skirts, at his boots, trying to pull her free of his grasp. Domhnall wrapped one arm around her middle, locking her to him, and turned his body sideways to the current, angling them toward the bank inch by brutal inch.
Every movement cost him. The cold bit deep, seeping into bone and muscle. His vision narrowed, the edges darkening as he forced himself not to let go, not to lose ground, not to lose her.
Margaret coughed violently against his shoulder, but she stayed upright, clinging to him as though he were the only solid thing left in the world.
He reached the shallower edge with a stumble, and his feet finally felt the scraping of stone.
He dug his boots into the riverbed, hauling them forward as the current tore at their legs in furious protest. One final surge, then his knee struck ground.
Hands reached for them. Shouts broke through the roar of water. Domhnall dragged her up onto the bank, half-carrying, half-falling with her as they collapsed onto wet earth and stone.
For a moment, he could do nothing but kneel there, with his arm locked around her as though the river might rise again and steal her back.
She was alive.
The realization hit him harder than the cold. His hand shook as he tightened his grip, his forehead dropping briefly to her temple.
She was alive, and he had had never been so afraid of losing anything in his life.