Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Domhnall kept his gaze forward, but his thoughts had turned inward.
“Ye never told me why,” he said at last.
Margaret did not shift this time. “Why all that trouble?”
“Aye.”
He felt the slight hesitation in her breath before she spoke again. “Me sister Eleonor was meant tae be offered at the Masquerade,” she explained quietly. “Me faither had decided it long before the invitation arrived. She was tae be the price for his safety.”
Domhnall’s jaw tightened, but he did not interrupt.
“But she was already in love,” Margaret continued. “With a man he would never approve of. If she had gone tae the Masquerade, she would have been claimed, bound, and broken of it. Me faither didnae care a wit about her feelings.”
Her voice did not waver, though he could feel the tension in her back where she leaned against him.
“So I offered to take her place,” she said as if such sacrifice were the most natural thing in the world. “We exchanged clothes and she fled that night with the man she loves. I stayed.”
“Ye risked yer own life,” he said.
“Aye,” she said and looked at him. “I ken me duty as a daughter, me laird. I would have ended up married tae a man I dinnae love anyway. Why nae grant me sister happiness while daein’ it?”
He absorbed that in silence, weighing the truth of it against what he knew of power and fathers and daughters shaped into tools. It explained the composure, the resolve and finally, her refusal to bend.
“Ye did it kenning ye might be claimed,” he clarified what did not need any clarification.
“I did,” she nodded. “Only I didnae expect it tae be ye.”
He didn’t know whether to take it as an insult or a compliment. But the words nestled inside of him, regardless.
“And yer sister?” he asked.
“Free,” Margaret said with a smile he did not see, but which he still heard. “For now. She has a head start. I intend tae see her safe before anything else.”
Domhnall nodded once. He did not tell her what that would cost. She already knew.
After a moment, she tilted her head again, not playful now, but intent. “Laird MacGregor.”
The name landed between them like a blade laid carefully on stone.
“There is history,” she pressed. “Between ye. Is there nae?”
“Aye.”
She waited. He felt the quiet patience of a woman who had learned when to hold silence and when to demand truth. He did not give it to her.
“That is nae a tale fer the road,” he simply told her.
Nor fer today. Nor, perhaps, fer ye… yet.
Margaret studied him for a moment, then inclined her head in acceptance. “Very well.”
He respected her for that more than he ought to have.
The day passed and the light faded as they rode, and the forest started thinning into open ground where the wind carried the sharp scent of the sea. By the time Inveraray rose ahead of them, the sky had darkened, with the loch below it reflecting only faint light.
Torches lined the outer approach, their flames steady despite the wind, throwing long shadows across stone and water. The gates stood open. Men waited in ordered ranks, wearing dark cloaks and polished weapons. Their faces were turned toward the road with unmistakable expectation.
Word had arrived before him.
He brought his horse to a measured halt at the head of the escort. The sound of hooves stilled, replaced by the low murmur of voices and the crackle of fire. Castle staff assembled in the courtyard, each in their proper place, each already aware that the laird had not returned alone.
Domhnall dismounted first, turning at once to Margaret. He set his hands at her waist and lifted her down without ceremony, though he did not release her immediately. He waited until her feet were steady on the stones before stepping back.
She stood in his clothes still, cloaked now in fresh wool. She looked more lovely than any woman he had ever seen. He felt the brief hesitation in discipline at once. Several gazes lingered a fraction too long. One young guard, scarcely seasoned, failed to pull his eyes away at all.
“Eyes front.” Domhnall’s voice cut through the moment.
The young guard stiffened as though struck, snapping his gaze forward. “Aye, me laird!”
Domhnall didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Instead, he stepped forward, placing himself between Margaret and the assembled men, with one hand settling briefly at the small of her back. The touch was controlled, an assertion rather than a caress.
A steward stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Welcome home, me laird. Chambers have been prepared fer ye, and fer…” He hesitated, then added smoothly, “yer future wife.”
The title carried weight. Domhnall felt it land, heavy with consequence.
“Good,” he said. “She will be attended.”
He placed himself subtly between Margaret and the watching crowd as they crossed the courtyard, a quiet assertion that required no explanation. Whispers followed them, respectful and restrained, their curiosity tempered by discipline.
As they passed beneath the torchlight, Domhnall was acutely aware of what this arrival meant. Inveraray Castle had seen him bring a woman home.
And from this moment forward, nothing within these walls would remain untouched by that fact.
Margaret felt the weight of the moment the instant she stepped into the courtyard.
It was not merely the size of Inveraray Castle, with its ancient stone rising dark and formidable against the night, but the stillness of the people within it.
Men stood at attention. Servants watched from measured distance.
Every eye followed her progress as Domhnall guided her forward.
She felt his presence as a quiet shield at her side.
She was keenly aware of how she must appear: dressed in a man’s garments, with her face pale with fatigue. And yet, no one laughed. No one stared openly. The looks she caught were curious, respectful, and most unexpectedly, careful.
Inside, the great doors closed behind them with a resounding echo that seemed to mark a crossing she could not undo. Torchlight bathed the stone halls in gold, illuminating banners, shields, the long memory of a place shaped by war and endurance rather than courtly display.
They did not pause. As they moved deeper into the castle, a line of women stood waiting just beyond the entry hall. They were maids in neat order, with their hands folded and their eyes respectfully lowered.
The sight tightened something in Margaret’s chest. She had been waited upon before, but never like this.
One stepped forward. She was young, slight, with hair braided tightly and eyes warm despite her careful composure. She dropped into a low, respectful bow.
“Me laird,” she greeted him first. Then she turned to Margaret and bowed again, just as deeply. “Me lady.”
The title sent a strange, almost dizzying sensation through Margaret.
“I am Annabel,” the maid continued. “I have been assigned as yer lady’s maid. If it pleases ye, I will escort ye tae yer chambers.”
Margaret hesitated only long enough to gather herself, then inclined her head. “Thank ye.”
She turned instinctively to Domhnall, uncertainty flickering through her fatigue. The hall felt vast all at once, and the quiet expectation pressing in on her was unlike anything she had known.
“Ye should go and rest,” he urged softly. His voice was even, but there was a gentleness in it she was beginning to recognize. “It has been an ordeal… fer everyone.”
She nodded, but evidently, she didn’t do it with much conviction.
“Ye are safe here,” he added, telling her exactly what she needed to hear, although deep down, she already knew it. “If ye need anything, all ye need tae dae is ask fer it.”
The certainty of the words steadied her more than she expected.
Before she could reply, he bowed his head in a brief, restrained gesture that somehow felt more intimate for its restraint, and stepped back.
Without another word, he turned and withdrew down a side passage, already shedding the role of escort for that of laird.
Margaret watched him go, but something lingered in the space he left behind.
Then Annabel gestured gently. “This way, me lady.”
They started walking and Annabel filled the silence at once.
“Oh, I’m so glad ye’ve arrived safely.” Her voice was soft and bright, and the words tumbled out in a way that felt truly relieved.
“There’s been such a stir all evening, fires lit, linens aired, the housekeeper nearly in a state.
It’s nae every night the laird returns with news like this. ”
Margaret smiled faintly, grateful for the sound of an ordinary voice after so many hours of tension. “I imagine nae.”
Annabel glanced at her. Her big blue eyes were quick and curious, but not impertinent. “The castle isnae often taken by surprise. But when it is, it moves very quickly.”
They stopped before a heavy wooden door. There was a torch burning steadily beside it. Annabel opened it with a small flourish, stepping aside to allow Margaret to enter first.
The chamber was vast, warmed by a generous fire that chased the chill from stone walls draped in rich hangings.
A bed stood near the far wall, its linens freshly turned down.
Candles were placed carefully at intervals as though to soften the space.
A dressing table waited near the window, laid with combs, pins, and a small arrangement of flowers that looked newly gathered.
It was unmistakably a woman’s room. It was not a space borrowed or hastily cleared, but one considered and prepared, as though someone had imagined a woman living there and had taken care to make room for her.
“Oh,” Margaret breathed.
Annabel beamed. “The housekeeper insisted everything be ready. She said if a lady was tae come, she wouldnae be made tae feel like an afterthought.”
Margaret crossed the room slowly, allowing her fingers to brush the back of a chair, then the smooth linen of the bedcover. It unsettled her more than any hostility might have done.
This was kindness… quiet, deliberate kindness.
Nothing about it matched the stories she had heard of Domhnall Campbell, the ruthless laird, the iron-handed ruler, the man whose name was spoken with unease in courtly circles. And yet, from the moment he had claimed her, he had offered protection, not cruelty.
She found herself struggling to reconcile the beast with the man who had stood between her and her father, who had jumped into a river for her, who had spoken of right and wrong as though the distinction mattered to him.
More troubling still was the awareness that had settled beneath her ribs: she was attracted to him.
The realization was unwelcome in its timing and undeniable in its truth.
It had been there on the ride, in the closeness of the saddle, in the warmth of his voice when he spoke her name, in the certainty of his hands when he lifted her from danger.
Margaret sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted.
Annabel hovered at once. “Shall I draw ye a bath, me lady? Or perhaps ye’d rather sleep?”
Margaret looked around the room once more, taking in the firelight, the careful preparations, the sense that she had been expected even before she arrived.
“Aye, please,” she said softly. “I think… I think I would like tae stay here a while.”
Annabel smiled, as though she understood more than she said.