Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Lady Margaret Drummond had no business running through a royal palace, and certainly not dressed as a maid.
She slipped through Falkland’s torchlit corridors, forcing out shallow breaths beneath the borrowed mask. Stone walls closed around her and voices drifted.
Tonight, she was not meant to be seen, for discovery would not bring embarrassment, but her ruin. She had to rush to the meeting spot now, before they caught her.
Lost in her thoughts, Margaret turned a corner too quickly only to collide with something, or better yet, someone solid. The impact jolted the breath from her lungs. Her shoulder struck muscle, not stone, and she staggered back with a soft cry she immediately swallowed.
A chill slid through her as she looked up. She was not meant to be seen, not tonight of all nights.
“Oh, I beg yer pardon,” she said at once, lowering her head as she had been taught since childhood. “I wasnae looking where I went.”
Two men stood before her, both masked and both clearly not servants. One smelled of wine and polish, the other of damp wool and iron. Neither stepped aside.
Her pulse thudded painfully in her ears. Worry tightened into fear as she realized how exposed she was and kept her gaze down, her fingers playing with the beads of her bracelet, as she willed herself to become small and unnoticed.
“Nay injury done,” the first said pleasantly, though his gaze lingered in a way that made her skin tighten. “Though ye move as though ye’re being chased, lass.”
Margaret drew her hands together in front of her apron as she’d seen maids do. “I have duties tae attend tae, sir and I took the turn too quickly. Me apologies once again.”
“Duties,” the second repeated, while amusement colored his voice as he looked her over. “A shame, that.”
She shifted her weight, angling her body toward the corridor beyond them. “If ye would excuse me—”
“Ye ken,” the first continued, stepping closer, “ye are far too pretty tae be wasted as a maid.”
Her pulse quickened, though her expression did not change. “I assure ye that yer judgment is hasty, me laird,” she replied, swallowing heavily.
The men laughed, but they did not move. Instead, they closed the distance between them.
The torchlight flickered, allowing shadows to stretch long and thin along the walls.
Margaret became acutely aware of every sensation: the rough chill of stone at her back, the faint smoke in the air, and the sound of her own breath beneath the mask.
“We see enough,” the second man murmured. “Pretty mouth, slim wrists. Ye’d draw attention even without silk.”
The words struck too close. Margaret’s gaze lifted despite herself, fixing on the man who had spoken, and in that instant, something in his stance, along with the sharp impatience of his movements, tightened painfully into recognition.
God help me… ‘tis Laird Kenneth MacGregor.
The knowledge landed with a cold, dreadful clarity. She had seen him only twice before, both times at a distance and both times unwillingly.
He was meant to meet her tonight. Not her, precisely, but the daughter of House Drummond. He was meant to weigh her worth and then, to decide terms.
Her stomach hollowed.
She lowered her eyes at once, schooling her posture into meekness, into nothing at all. If he recognized her or if he heard her voice long enough to place it, there would be no retreat and no explanation that would not damn them.
“Please, leave me tae me business,” she said more softly now, carefully flattening her voice of any inflection.
Laird MacGregor stepped even closer. He smelled of wine and tobacco. She could feel the heat of him, the restless violence held barely in check.
“And if we dinnae?” he demanded. “Perhaps we’d like tae be certain of our assumptions.”
Her breath shortened.
Dinnae look up. Dinnae answer. Even if ye want tae put them both in their places.
His hand lifted, while his fingers angled toward the edge of her mask. A sharp edge of fear slipped past her control. Margaret’s pulse roared in her ears. If he removed it, everything would collapse into scandal and blood.
Then a third voice cut cleanly through the corridor.
“The lady daesnae seem interested.”
The hand stilled.
Margaret turned her head slightly. A man stood a few paces away, towering and broad-shouldered. His mask was darker than most, wrought in subdued silver. He did not sound amused nor angry… only certain.
“This daesnae concern ye,” laird MacGregor said sharply.
“It daes,” the stranger replied. “The lady is obviously nae feeling comfortable.”
“She is a maid,” the other man scoffed. “And a bold one.”
“Or,” the stranger corrected him, “she is a woman asking tae be left alone.”
Something in his tone shifted the balance of the space. Margaret felt it as one feels a change in weather, a pressure easing.
Laird MacGregor studied him for a moment, with his eyes assessing. “Ye would interfere on her behalf?”
“I already have.”
A pause followed, thick with danger.
At last, MacGregor laughed under his breath. “Very well. Nay sport in it if the lady needs tae be rescued.”
He stepped back, though his gaze lingered on Margaret a fraction too long. “Another time, perhaps.”
Then, the two men withdrew down the corridor, with their footsteps fading into the noise of the palace. Margaret remained where she was until she was certain they were gone.
“Are ye hurt?” the stranger asked.
She shook her head quickly. “Nay, I am well.” She dipped into a hurried curtsy, which was more reflex than courtesy. “Ye have me gratitude. I truly appreciate yer help. I dinnae ken what would have happened otherwise.”
He stepped closer and she caught the faint scent of clean leather from him. Though his face was half-hidden by the mask, there was no mistaking the strength of his jaw, the confident line of his lips or the way his dark eyes seemed to take in far more than they should.
He was handsome, and undeniably so, in a way that made her suddenly and painfully aware of herself.
He studied her, though not with the invasive scrutiny of the others. “Ye should be more careful,” he advised. “This is nae a forgiving place taenight.”
“I am aware,” she replied, feeling as if she were unable to take a deep breath because of the tightness in her chest.
“Then why wander it alone?” he pressed, with a gaze that was lingering on her, as though he meant to memorize her. “Who is it ye seek?”
The questions came too easily and they were dangerously close. Her heart began to race. She suddenly felt seen, stripped of the safety she had clung to moments before.
“I… I have tae go,” she stepped around him and hurried away.
As she did, her hand caught on something solid.
She assumed it was his arm or the strap of his glove, and there was a brief, unmistakable tug at her wrist. She did not stop, nor did she look back.
Her steps lengthened into a near run as she wove through the corridors, counting turns and steadying her breath.
Only when she reached the narrow passage that led to the disused service rooms did she slow, and only then did she glance down at her wrist.
Her bracelet was gone.
For a moment, panic flared hot and blinding. The bracelet was unmistakable. It was court-made. Worst of all, it was recognizable.
Margaret closed her fingers over the bare skin, forcing the fear down by sheer will.
Later. Ye will think of it later.
Eleonor was waiting. That mattered more than gold, more than reputation, more than anything she might have dropped along the way.
Margaret slipped through the narrow door and pressed it shut behind her with a careful hand. The room was scarcely more than a broom closet, stone walls close enough to steal the air and a single taper burning low on a crate.
Eleonor turned at once. “Ye’re late.”
“I ken.” Margaret crossed the space in two quick steps and caught her sister’s hands. They were cold. “We must hurry.”
Her sister was the softer of them, always had been.
Where Margaret’s beauty lay in control and restraint, Eleonor’s lived in openness.
Her hair, a lighter shade of chestnut, escaped its pins too easily, catching the candlelight in warm, errant strands.
Her eyes were wide and blue, expressive to a fault, betraying fear, hope, and longing with equal honesty.
There was a luminosity to her that no discipline had ever managed to dull.
Yet beneath the softness was courage of a different kind. It showed in the way she dared to love a man her father had never approved of. She was not weak, only unguarded.
Tonight, dressed in silk meant to barter her future, Eleonor looked heartbreakingly young.
“Ye’re shaking,” Eleonor whispered. “What happened?”
Margaret reached for the ties of her borrowed bodice. Her fingers were clumsy now that the danger had followed her inside.
“Help me,” she said, and then, because there was no time for gentleness, she had to explain. “I nearly ruined everything.”
Eleonor stilled. “Margaret…”
“I ran intae him, of all people,” she said, tugging the plain gown loose. “Nae ran intae… I was stopped and cornered.”
Eleanor went pale. “By Kenneth MacGregor?”
“Aye.” Margaret swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “He was close enough tae touch me. Close enough tae recognize me, if I had spoken a moment longer moment.”
“Oh God.” Eleonor’s hands tightened in Margaret’s sleeves. “Did he… did he see—”
“Nae me face.” Margaret exhaled shakily as Eleonor helped pull the gown over her head. “Another man intervened. A masked stranger. He sent them away.”
Eleonor pressed a hand to her mouth. “If Faither kent—”
“He cannae,” Margaret said sharply. “He must nae.”
They worked quickly now, trading garments in the cramped space, with Eleonor shedding silk and jewels, and Margaret stepping into them with practiced efficiency. Years at court had taught her how to dress without a maid, how to lace and fasten with speed and silence.