Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Margaret stood before the looking glass and scarcely knew the woman looking back at her.
The gown Annabel had brought was nothing like the borrowed garments she had shed only hours before.
It was deep green fabric, rich without ostentation, which fell in clean, elegant lines that spoke of quiet authority rather than ornament.
The bodice fit her as though it had been made with her in mind.
Her hair had been coaxed into order at last, drawn back in a style both refined and practical. Now, her soft curls were framing her face instead of hiding it. The last traces of damp had vanished, replaced by a faint sheen that caught the candlelight when she moved.
She barely recognized herself.
This woman looked composed. Powerful, even. She was not the daughter pulled aside in a corridor, not the rider flung into a river, not the girl who had been bargained over by men who believed they knew her worth.
Her bracelet lay cool against her wrist, newly reclaimed. She let her thumb brush its golden edge, steadying herself with the reminder that some things still belonged to her.
Annabel clapped her hands in delight, bringing her back to the present moment. “Ye look breathtaking, me lady,” she said with quiet conviction.
Margaret let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. “Dae I?”
Annabel nodded emphatically. “Aye. Ye look as though ye’ve always belonged here.”
The words struck deeper than any compliment. Margaret studied her reflection again, searching for some trace of the fear she still carried. It was there, if she looked closely, in the tightness of her mouth and the alertness in her eyes, but it no longer dominated the image.
She straightened her shoulders.
“Thank ye, Annabel,” she said softly.
The maid smiled with warmth and pride, as though she had played a part in something larger than pins and silk.
But the moment did not last, because a knock on the door interrupted them to remind her that the reality beyond it waited.
Margaret drew a steadying breath and followed as she was escorted from her chambers, with Annabel a respectful step behind her, and guards moving with quiet precision ahead and to either side.
The walk to the Great Hall felt longer than it was.
Every archway echoed. Every turn carried the weight of what she was about to face.
By the time the doors were pushed open, Margaret had forced her expression into serenity, though her heart was beating hard enough that she feared it might betray her.
The hall was full. It was not crowded, but it was still deliberately assembled.
The Council sat along the High Table in a row of men hardened by war and governance alike.
They were sitting alongside senior household figures whose faces revealed careful curiosity rather than welcome.
And at the head of the table sat Domhnall.
He rose the moment she entered. The simple act drew every eye to him and then to her.
“Me lairds,” he announced, “this is Lady Margaret Drummond of Perthshire.”
The words settled over the hall with quiet authority. He took her hand and brought her closer to himself.
“Ye have heard the news already, and ye ken the manner in which it came about.”
A few heads inclined. No one interrupted.
“The Masquerade binds by law and by Crown,” he continued.
“I was named. I made me claim. It was sealed before witnesses and blessed in the King’s name.
” She heard him pause here, but there was no uncertainty in his voice.
“She enters this hall under me protection and me word. She will be me wife, and as such, she is tae be afforded the respect due tae that place.”
His gaze swept the table.
“Judge her by her conduct,” he went on, “nae by rumor. By her strength, nae by assumption. Any slight offered tae her is offered tae me.”
Silence held, taut and deliberate. Domhnall inclined his head once, the speech concluded as cleanly as it had begun. He pulled out her chair himself, a simple gesture that carried far more weight than ceremony and waited until she was seated before taking his place beside her.
The hall exhaled.
Margaret felt the impact of his words settle around her not as a shield that diminished her, but as a foundation beneath her feet.
She adjusted in her seat with measured grace, allowing her hands to rest lightly before her.
She watched as platters were brought out in orderly succession: roasted fowl glazed with herbs, trenchers of bread still warm, bowls of stewed roots and greens.
Wine followed, poured carefully, the soft sound of it marking the beginning of what was meant to be a civil evening.
She felt the eyes on her still, though less openly now, as conversation began to flow around the table. At first, they spoke only to Domhnall.
“Me laird,” one of the councilors said, lifting his cup, “Perthshire’s ties at Court will change the balance somewhat.”
“And Drummond isnae kent fer subtlety,” another added. “How dae ye expect him tae respond once the Crown’s patience wears thin?”
Margaret lowered her gaze to her plate, her instinct urging silence. This was familiar ground, men speaking around her, as though she were not present.
Domhnall cut a slice of meat, unhurried. “That,” he said calmly, “is a question Lady Margaret understands better than I dae.”
Several heads turned. Margaret looked up, startled. Domhnall met her gaze in an inviting gesture.
She swallowed and straightened. “Me faither values leverage,” she told them. “Nae speed. He will protest loudly at first, but he will wait tae see which way the wind turns before he moves in earnest.”
A murmur followed, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not hear disapproval.
“And the Crown?” a steward asked, his eyes still fixed on Domhnall.
“He will nae openly defy it, of course,” Margaret continued before Domhnall could answer. “Nae unless he believes he can dae so without consequence. He prefers influence tae rebellion.”
Domhnall inclined his head slightly, as though her answer merely confirmed what he already knew.
Another councilor leaned forward. “Ye have spent time at Court, me lady?”
“I have,” she replied. “Long enough tae learn that silence is often mistaken fer ignorance. They arenae the same thing.”
That earned a few faint smiles.
“And Laird MacGregor?” someone asked cautiously. “He willnae be so restrained.”
Margaret hesitated, then chose honesty. “Nay,” she answered. “He will feel wronged, whether he truly is or nae. Men like Kenneth MacGregor mistake possession fer promise.”
The table stilled for a fraction too long.
Domhnall’s voice cut in smoothly. “Which is why we prepare fer action rather than outrage.” He looked at her again. “Ye agree?”
“Aye,” she said more confidently now. “Public presence will matter. Visibility. If this marriage is seen as supported, nae isolated, fewer will dare challenge it openly.”
A captain nodded. “She speaks sense.”
The agreement had scarcely settled when another voice cut across it, a voice that was older, rougher and edged with doubt.
“Sense, perhaps,” said Bruce Graham, one of the western lairds. His gaze was focused not on Margaret but on Domhnall. “But this isnae the right path fer this clan. Alliances forged in haste seldom serve in the long run. Time will show that.”
The words landed like a stone dropped deliberately at her feet.
Margaret felt the heat rise to her face. She drew breath to answer, already shaping the reply, but then she heard Domhnall speak first.
“Nay,” he said.
The single word was quiet, but absolute. He set his cup down with deliberate care and turned fully toward Graham.
“Time has already shown what comes of waiting,” Domhnall continued. “Waiting didnae save me family before. It didnae preserve peace on these coasts. And it willnae protect this clan now.”
Graham stiffened. “Me laird—”
“Ye may question strategy,” Domhnall went on, “but ye willnae question her place here. That is settled.”
Margaret’s breath caught. She had not expected such swiftness, nor such certainty.
“She isnae a diversion from our path,” Domhnall concluded. “She is part of it.”
Silence fell, heavier than before.
Graham inclined his head in a stiff and reluctant gesture. “As ye say, me laird.”
The conversation resumed, cautiously at first, then with renewed focus, but the shift remained. Margaret could feel it in the way she was regarded now as a presence defended.
As the minutes passed, she lifted her cup occasionally and took a measured sip of wine, letting the warmth settle in her chest. It was richer than she expected, heady and dark, and after the long night and day it went quickly to her cheeks.
She could feel the faint flush there, a pleasant lightness loosening the tight coil she had carried since Falkland.
She was halfway through setting the cup down when she felt his attention shift.
“Ye are enjoying the wine,” he said quietly.
She raised a brow. “Am I so obvious?”
“Yer cheeks have betrayed ye,” he replied.
She touched her face at once. “That is hardly fair. I have endured a betrothal, a river and a Council in the same day.”
“Aye,” he said amusedly. “And yet the wine survives ye.”
She laughed softly, surprised by the sound of it. “Perhaps the wine should be concerned.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I suspect it already is.”
She tilted her head, meeting his gaze. “Ye seem quite content tae observe me shortcomings this evening.”
“Nae shortcomings,” he corrected. “Developments.”
Her lips pressed together as she fought another smile. “Ye make it sound ominous.”
“It is,” he murmured, lowering his voice. “Ye are becoming comfortable, me lady.”
She glanced around the table, while the men were speaking, but also listening and watching. Then, her gaze returned to him. “Is that dangerous?”
“Fer ye?” he asked.
“And fer ye,” she countered.
He studied her for a moment, as though weighing the answer. “Fer me,” he said at last, “it may be.”
The admission startled her more than she expected. The banter lingered between them, light but charged, and Margaret felt the warmth of the wine give way to an awareness of him that was no longer simply gratitude or admiration.
She lifted her cup again, her eyes never leaving his. “Then perhaps ye should stop teasing me.”
He leaned a fraction closer. “And deprive meself of the pleasure?”
She shook her head, laughing quietly. “Ye are truly incorrigible.”
He inclined his head, looking like an unapologetically mischievous boy. “I have been called worse.”
Shortly after, dinner ended with the quiet ritual of chairs being pushed back and cups set aside, the Council dispersing in low-voiced pairs. Margaret rose with the others, feeling how fatigue pressed in at the edges now that the strain of being watched had eased.
Domhnall did not let her walk alone. He offered his arm and guided her from the great hall into the dimmer corridors beyond. Torchlight flickered against stone as they walked, while their footsteps echoed in a rhythm that felt suddenly intimate after the noise of the hall.
Neither of them spoke at first.
She became aware of how close he was again, of the steady warmth of him at her side. And that warmth had nothing to do with the wine. When they reached the landing outside her chamber, she noticed another door directly beside it.
She looked at it, then back at him. “Ye’re sleeping there.”
“Aye,” he said. “Fer now.”
“Fer safety,” she guessed.
“Fer many things,” he replied.
They stopped before her door. The quiet there was deeper as the world narrowed to stone, shadow, and the two of them standing far closer than propriety strictly required.
She hesitated, then spoke, the question slipping out before she could reconsider. “Ye spoke earlier of a… white marriage.”
He did not look away. “I did.”
“Is that what ye want?” she asked, then hastily clarified. “In general, I mean… in life.”
Domhnall considered her for a long moment. “I want what causes the least harm tae ye, tae me and tae the people who would pay fer it if we pretended this was something it isnae.”
“And what dae ye think this is?” she asked softly.
“A partnership,” he explained. “One that will already invite enough danger. A marriage without expectation will be easier fer us both.”
She searched his face, trying to read what lay beneath the careful words. There was no coldness there, and no indifference. If anything, there was restraint held too tightly.
“I see,” she said, though she was not certain she did.
He lifted his hand then, slow enough that she could have stepped back if she wished. She did not. His fingers brushed her cheek, warm and calloused. It sent a quiet shiver through her, in an awareness sharp enough to steal her breath.
“Rest,” he urged tenderly. “Ye’ve earned it. We will discuss this another time.”
Before she could answer, he let his hand fall and stepped back. The distance reasserted itself with practiced ease. He inclined his head once, then turned and disappeared through the door beside hers.
Margaret stood there a moment longer, with her heart unsettled in a way she could not yet name. Then, slowly, she turned, slipped into her chamber, and closed the door behind her with a care that felt almost reverent.