Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The chamber they found themselves waiting in was narrow and high-ceilinged, meant for privy council rather than comfort.
A single fire burned low in the hearth, throwing restless light against stone walls hung with faded royal tapestries.
The air smelled of wax, smoke, and damp wool, but also of secrets spoken too close to power.
Margaret stood beside the man, her gloved hands folded with deliberate calm. Her heart, however, was beating hard enough that she feared it must have been heard. The mask pressed warmly against her face, while the silk ribbon bit faintly behind her ears.
Across the room, a heavy table waited, with parchment already laid out and a seal warming near the fire.
She had no idea how long they had been waiting.
It could have been a minute, but it could have been an entire hour.
That was when the door opened without an annunciatory knock, and her father entered first. Laird Andrew Drummond’s boots struck the stone with the assurance of a man accustomed to obedience.
He wore no mask now, as royal summons dispensed with such niceties, and his sharp, assessing gaze swept the room before fixing, with sudden force, on her.
Me God, he will murder me right here in this room.
Her father had always seemed larger to Margaret than other men, now even more so. He was a man carved from rule and expectation, from cold corridors and measured bows. Even now, standing in a royal chamber rather than his own hall, he wore authority like a second skin.
He was broad-shouldered still, though age had begun to weigh upon him, the lines at his mouth cut deep by years of command rather than laughter.
His hair, once dark, was streaked with grey and carefully groomed, every strand in place as if disorder itself were a moral failing.
His clothes were rich but restrained, chosen not to dazzle but to reassure.
They symbolized loyalty stitched into every seam.
He looked exactly as he always had: controlled, dignified, unassailable.
And that was what unsettled her the most, for this was the version of her father she had known all her life: the man who spoke softly while arranging fates, who called sacrifice duty and obedience love.
Behind him came the royal commissioner, with his expression arranged into mild authority.
“I, Sir Laurence Kerr, order ye tae remove yer masks,” Kerr ordered smoothly. “By writ of the Crown, identities are now declared.”
Margaret’s fingers trembled as she reached up. For one fleeting instant, she considered delay by pretending confusion, clumsiness, anything, but there was no escape in hesitation. She untied the ribbon and let the mask fall. The cool air struck her face.
Her father stared. For a heartbeat, he did not seem to comprehend what he saw. His brows drew together, narrowing his gaze, as if it might sharpen the image of one daughter into another.
“Margaret?” His voice cut the room like a blade. “What jest is this?”
The man next to her removed his own mask then with unhurried precision. He did not look at Drummond, only at Kerr.
“There is nay jest,” he announced. “I am Domnhall Campbell, the Laird of Argyll. Yer daughter has been claimed.”
Margaret felt it before she fully understood it, as dawning transformed into a sharp, instinctive tightening low in her chest.
Campbell. Argyll. The Iron Lord of the Sea Lochs.
The words she had heard in half-whispered court conversations, spoken with a mixture of fear and grudging respect, rushed at her all at once.
She had known, of course, that he was powerful.
She had felt it in the way others yielded space to him without realizing they had done so, in the disciplined stillness with which he occupied a room.
But a name had weight. It had history. It also had a shadow.
This was a man whose authority the Crown relied upon and resented in equal measure. This was a man rumored to rule with iron restraint and unflinching violence, a man widowed by bloodshed. This was also the man she had just bound herself to.
For a single, treacherous instant, doubt flared inside of her. Had she misjudged him? Had she traded one form of captivity for another, colder and far less forgiving?
She forced herself to breathe, and then, her father moved.
“This is impossible,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Me younger daughter was the one offered. Eleonor. Ye have been deceived, me laird, fer this is nae the agreed—”
“There was nae name spoken at the Masquerade,” Kerr interrupted mildly. “Nor was any sworn betrothal declared prior tae the claim.”
Her father rounded on him. “Ye cannae be serious. She is… she wasnae meant fer this.”
Margaret lifted her chin. “I wasnae meant fer anything ye didnae choose,” she said, feeling steady despite the heat rushing to her face. “That daesnae make the claim unlawful.”
Her father’s gaze snapped back to her, with his fury blazing. “Ye will be silent.”
Domhnall shifted only half a step, but enough. His presence closed the space between them like an iron bar.
“Ye will speak tae her with respect.” His words were calm, and there was not even a single sign of anger. “Or ye will leave.”
Her father’s hands curled into fists. “Ye think tae threaten me in a royal chamber?”
“I think,” Domhnall replied, “that ye are forgetting who stands beside her.”
Kerr cleared his throat in a sound that sharpened the tension. “Laird Drummond, Lady Margaret is of age, unwed, and unpromised. The claim was made according tae Masquerade law and sealed before witnesses. The Crown finds the union… advantageous.”
Margaret felt the word settle over her like a weight.
Advantageous. Not just, not merciful, but also useful.
“This cannae stand,” her father said hoarsely. “She has been raised fer… other considerations. This marriage endangers me house.”
“The Crown has considered that,” Kerr replied. “And found the risk acceptable.”
A parchment was slid across the table.
“Sign,” Kerr said.
Her father stared at it as though it were a death warrant. “Ye would bind me daughter tae a man like this?” He gestured sharply at Domhnall. “A coastal warlord? A butcher with ships?”
Domhnall did not flinch. “Choose yer words carefully.”
Margaret spoke before her father could. “Faither, I choose this.”
The words rang louder than she expected. Her father turned on her, disbelief and rage warring in his eyes.
“Ye ken naething of choice,” he scoffed. “Ye are throwing yerself intae ruin.”
“Then it is me own ruin,” she answered softly. “Nae yers.”
Her words stunned him into speechlessness. Margaret felt something inside her still. There would be no undoing this, no clever turn of words and no retreat.
Domhnall had not expected this.
He had expected resistance, certainly. Also anger, negotiation, and the familiar grind of men attempting to claw back what law had already taken from them.
He had expected inconvenience, perhaps even threat.
But not this particular snare of blood and kin and wounded pride, coiled so tightly around a woman who stood far straighter than the men who sought to command her.
Yet, expectation no longer mattered.
Once the claim had been spoken, once his name had landed in the chamber and set every fault line groaning, there was no retreat to be had. He stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, listening as the mess settled around him like smoke after a blast.
“Very well,” Laird Drummond said coldly, addressing Domnhall now, turning away from his daughter. “If the Crown insists on this travesty, then let it choke on it. I willnae pretend approval.”
“Nay one has asked fer it,” Kerr replied, dipping the quill into ink. “Now, the Crown prefers clarity where tempers are involved.”
Drummond let out a sharp breath through his nose. “By all means. Strip it bare.”
Kerr glanced between the two lairds. “Titles are retained. Lady Margaret’s marriage daesnae alter succession within House Drummond.”
“As if I would allow it tae,” Drummond muttered.
Domhnall did not look at him. “Argyll makes nae claim upon Perthshire lands.”
“Good,” Drummond snapped. “Then at least one theft is avoided.”
Sir Laurence continued, unruffled. “Likewise, Clan Campbell’s holdings remain wholly unaffected. Nay redistribution of ports, tolls, or levies.”
Drummond’s mouth tightened. “Ye see? Nay alliance worth the name.”
Domhnall’s voice was even. “Ye mistake balance fer weakness.”
Drummond turned on him. “I mistake this fer a trap, Laird of Argyll. One laid without me knowledge.”
“And yet,” Domhnall replied calmly, “ye walked intae it all the same.”
Kerr cleared his throat pointedly. “Dowry,” he pointed out. “Deferred.”
Drummond’s head snapped back toward him. “Deferred?”
“Until such time as the marriage is solemnized,” Kerr explained. “And the Crown is satisfied that the union serves its intended purpose.”
Drummond gave a short, humorless laugh. “So I am tae pay later fer a bargain I never struck.”
“Ye are tae comply,” Kerr corrected.
“And the marriage?” Drummond demanded. “How swiftly dae ye intend tae rid Falkland of this embarrassment?”
“Within the fortnight,” Kerr instructed. “Witnessed and public.”
Domhnall inclined his head once. “That is acceptable.”
Drummond stared at him. “Of course, it is. Ye gain a wife and I gain naething.”
Domhnall turned then, finally meeting his gaze. “I gain responsibility,” he said. “And ye lose control. We both pay.”
Drummond’s jaw clenched. His eyes turned to Margaret. She was standing silent beside Domhnall. She neither pleaded nor protested. She did not even look at her father. That, Domhnall noticed, unsettled him more than any outburst could have.
Kerr dipped the quill. “Then we are agreed.”
Drummond’s voice was rough. “Agreed is a generous word.”
“Binding is sufficient,” Domhnall said.
The quill scratched across the parchment. Wax followed. The seal pressed down, hissing softly as it set.
“It is done,” Kerr declared. “By the authority vested in me, I bless this union on behalf of the Crown.”
No one spoke. Margaret remained still at Domhnall’s side, looking composed and contained, already bearing the weight of what had been decided around her. Domhnall glanced down at her only briefly, feeling curiosity sharpening beneath his composure.
She had been schemed over, bartered and finally, cornered. Yet she stood as if none of it had bent her.
And that, he realized, was far more dangerous and far more intriguing than tears ever would have been.