Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Margaret was still trembling, but not from the fall. That shock, she realized distantly, had passed the moment his arms caught her. It had faded quickly enough, leaving only a strange lightness in her chest.
But the trembling remained.
He stood before her for another moment after declaring that he would judge her injuries himself, studying her with that intense, assessing gaze that made it impossible to feign indifference.
Then Domhnall turned abruptly and crossed the chamber.
Margaret let out a slow breath she had not realized she was holding.
He moved toward the small cupboard in the corner, opening it with a familiarity that suggested he had used it often enough. Inside sat several small jars, folded cloths, and the practical remedies of a man accustomed to injuries. He selected a small jar.
Margaret watched him the entire time. Her pulse had not slowed since he had carried her across the courtyard.
If anything, it had worsened.
He returned to her without a word and knelt before the bed. The motion startled her more than the fall had. Domhnall Campbell, Laird of Argyll, feared across half the Highlands, knelt before her as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Yer hand,” he said.
She blinked. “Me—?”
He reached gently for her wrist before she finished the sentence and Margaret let him take it. His fingers were warm and firm around her hand, the rough calluses of a swordsman brushing lightly against her skin. The touch sent a sharp shiver racing through her.
Domhnall turned her palm upward.
“There,” he murmured.
Margaret followed his gaze. The splinter-thin scratch across her skin seemed absurdly small now.
“It truly is naething,” she whispered.
He opened the jar anyway. A faint scent of herbs rose into the air as he dipped two fingers into the salve.
Margaret’s attention had drifted away from the scratch entirely.
She was watching him. She was unable to take her eyes off of the dark bend of his head, as he held her hand with surprising care.
When his fingers touched her palm again, this time spreading the cool salve across the scratch, Margaret inhaled sharply.
Domhnall glanced up immediately.
“Did that hurt?”
“Nay.”
Margaret tried to focus on anything other than the man kneeling between her knees. The position was entirely improper. Dangerous, even. His shoulders filled her vision when she looked down. The linen of his shirt pulled slightly across his back as he moved, revealing the powerful shape beneath.
Her body reacted to that awareness with alarming speed. Warmth spread through her.
Margaret watched him as he finished smoothing the salve across the scratch. The longer he remained kneeling there, the more she became aware of how close he truly was, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, close enough that if she leaned forward…
Her breath caught again. Domhnall looked up once more. Their eyes met. Margaret felt as though the air itself had thickened between them. His hand still held hers, warm and steady, his thumb resting lightly against the inside of her wrist where her pulse fluttered uncontrollably.
He was close enough that she could see the darker ring around his grey irises and the faint crease between his brows that appeared when he was trying to control something. Margaret realized suddenly that he was trembling, too. The discovery sent a sharp wave of heat through her.
“Domhnall,” she whispered his name like a prayer.
He moved before she could say anything else. The distance between them vanished in an instant. His hand slid from her wrist to her waist as he rose from his kneeling position just enough to lean forward and claim her mouth.
The kiss was not gentle. It was fierce, sudden, and filled with a hunger that made Margaret gasp against his lips.
For a single stunned heartbeat she froze, then she kissed him back. Domhnall made a low sound in his throat, something between relief and surrender, as though the moment had been waiting far too long to happen.
His arms wrapped around her and pulled her toward him as he shifted his weight backward, sitting down onto the floor beside the bed. Margaret followed without resistance.
And then, she was in his lap. The world tilted.
His hands were everywhere, at her waist, her back, her shoulders, holding her close as he kissed her again and again, each kiss deeper than the last. Margaret barely had time to breathe. Her fingers slid into his hair instinctively, gripping the thick strands as she pulled him closer.
He kissed her like a man who had been starving, like a man who had tried very hard not to do it and had finally given up. Margaret felt the same wild urgency rising inside her.
Her hands moved over him without hesitation, across the strong line of his shoulders, down the warmth of his arms, tracing the solid strength of him as though confirming he was real. Domhnall’s breath grew rougher as she touched him.
His hands slid along her back, pulling her closer against him until there was no space left between their bodies. Every touch sent a new shiver racing through her. Her fingers tightened in his hair, as she bit his lower lip, unable to contain the pent-up energy that threatened to tear her apart.
The room felt suddenly too small for what was happening between them.
Margaret had never felt anything like it.
Nothing could have prepared her for that wild, breathless closeness.
Domhnall’s arms held her firmly against him, his mouth still brushing hers in slow, heated kisses that made her entire body feel as though it had forgotten how to remain still.
And then, a sharp knock sounded at the door. Both of them froze. Margaret’s forehead rested against his, their breaths mingling in the small space between them as they stared at one another.
The knock came again, louder this time.
Domhnall closed his eyes briefly, as though mastering himself.
“Me laird?” A voice from the other side of the door.
Margaret felt his chest rise beneath her hands as he drew in a slow breath.
Then he called out, his voice rougher than usual. “I’ll be right out!”
Silence returned to the chamber. For a moment, they simply looked at one another. Margaret could still feel the warmth of his mouth lingering on her lips. He lifted one hand slowly, and his fingers brushed his lower lip, where she had bitten him.
He smiled in a way she had never seen him smile before. And that very smile made her heart stumble painfully in her chest because in that moment, she knew, without hesitation and without any doubt, that she was completely, madly and utterly in love with him.
The realization left her momentarily stunned. Domhnall rose slowly, helping her to her feet as he stood. His hand lingered lightly at her waist, then he stepped back.
“Rest,” he said quietly.
Margaret nodded, though she was not entirely certain she possessed the ability to do so. He crossed the room toward the door. Before opening it, he glanced back once. His eyes softened again when they met hers. Then he stepped outside, closing the door gently behind him. The latch clicked softly.
She touched her lips lightly with her fingertips. Her heart was still racing and her hands were still trembling. And though she tried to calm herself, the warmth of his kiss lingered far too vividly for that to succeed.
Night wrapped the western hills in thick silence. The loch lay black beneath the moon, its surface smooth as polished stone. Far away from the castle lights of Inveraray, where the path narrowed between ancient pines, a horse waited in the shadows.
Laird Kenneth MacGregor stood beside it.
He had chosen the place carefully, far enough from the roads that no curious traveler might wander upon them, yet close enough that a man could reach the castle walls before dawn.
He preferred such meetings in darkness. Truth was easier to hear when the world was quiet and enshrouded in darkness.
At that moment, bootsteps approached on the path. Kenneth did not turn. He already knew the sound of the man’s stride.
“Laird MacGregor,” came the quiet voice.
Kenneth smiled faintly. “Sir Laurence.”
Kerr emerged from the shadows of the trees, brushing pine needles from the sleeve of his coat as though he had merely stepped from a pleasant evening stroll rather than a secret meeting with a Highland warlord.
The royal commissioner carried himself with practiced composure. Kenneth had always despised men like him, men who spilled blood with parchment instead of blades.
“Ye are late,” Kenneth pointed out.
“Discretion requires patience.”
Kenneth gave a quiet laugh. “At least we understand each other.”
The wind stirred faintly through the trees. Then, Kenneth exhaled.
“Well?”
Kerr clasped his hands behind his back. “I have confirmed what ye suspected.”
Kenneth’s attention sharpened instantly.
“Nay consummation sheet was produced.”
The words settled between them like a blade sliding from its sheath, and Kenneth’s smile widened slowly.
“Nay sheet,” he echoed.
“Nay proof,” Kerr nodded.
“Nay evidence that the marriage has been fulfilled.” Kenneth exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a laugh. “So the proud laird of Argyll refused the Crown’s request.”
“It would seem so,” Kerr confirmed.
“Fool,” Kenneth shook his head, more than amused.
Laurence shrugged faintly. “Perhaps. But useful, because the law is quite clear on the matter. Without proof of consummation, the union may still be challenged.”
Kenneth’s eyes gleamed in the dim light and he gave a small nod, his pale face calm in the moonlight.
“But, there is more. I overheard Campbell speaking with the other lairds in the courtyard.” Laurence clasped his hands behind his back. “He admitted it plainly.”
Kenneth stepped closer. “Admitted what?”
Kerr’s voice lowered. “That the marriage has nae been consummated.”
The forest fell silent around them. Kenneth stood very still. The only sound was the distant lap of water against the shore. Then he laughed in an explosion of careless sound.
“Campbell always did have a talent fer arrogance.”
Kerr watched him with faint curiosity. “Arrogance, me laird?”
“He thinks the Crown’s blessing makes the lass untouchable.”
Kenneth’s gaze drifted toward the dark hills where Inveraray lay hidden beyond the trees.
“Paper marriages,” he murmured, “can still be broken.”
Kenneth’s mind had already begun moving. He could see it now with perfect clarity. Domhnall Campbell, so certain of his victory, so proud of his claim before the Masquerade, and so careful with the girl, careful enough to leave the marriage unfinished.
Kenneth’s smile returned. “That was his mistake.”
Kerr tilted his head. “And what dae ye intend tae dae with this… opportunity?”
Kenneth’s eyes glinted. “Take her.”
“That will create a scandal,” Kerr replied, though he did not appear too surprised. “The Crown may nae agree.”
“The Crown is nae here,” Kenneth replied coolly.
He stepped away from the trees, glancing toward the narrow road winding through the forest.
“What matters is that Laird Drummond will agree.”
Kerr raised a brow. “The lass’ faither?”
“Aye.”
Kenneth’s tone carried quiet certainty. “He already despises Campbell fer stealing the match.”
Kerr still didn’t seem convinced, though he knew better than to say it out loud. “Ye believe Drummond will assist in abducting his own daughter?”
Kenneth laughed softly. “Assist?” He shook his head. “Drummond will insist upon it.”
The royal commissioner remained silent. Kenneth turned back toward him.
“We will need men,” he said calmly. “Quiet ones.”
“That can be arranged,” Kerr nodded.
“And routes through Campbell land.”
This was where Kerr’s lips thinned slightly. “That is more delicate.”
Kenneth’s gaze sharpened. “Ye have already betrayed the Crown’s confidence by meeting me here.”
Kerr held his stare. “I serve opportunity.”
“Then serve it well.”
The two men stood in silence for several moments.
Kenneth’s mind had already moved ahead. He could see the plan forming clearly.
It would not be a battle, nor another feud fought across open fields.
He needed something cleaner and faster. Campbell would expect confrontation. He would not expect theft.
“I have waited years,” he said quietly, “for Campbell tae feel the loss I felt. I got part of me revenge seven years ago. Now comes part two.”
The saddle creaked as he turned the horse toward the road. Somewhere beyond the hills Margaret Drummond slept beneath Campbell’s roof. Kenneth’s smile returned slowly. Now that he knew the marriage remained unfinished, he also knew that she was not truly Campbell’s.
And Kenneth MacGregor had never been a patient man when something belonged to him.