Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was several days later, and the afternoon carried a different kind of quiet. The castle had resumed its rhythm, though altered slightly, as though it, too, remembered the smoke and ruin beyond its walls.
Margaret was sitting by the tall window of the library, with a book open across her lap, though she had not turned the page in several minutes. Her fingers rested lightly against the parchment, tracing the faded ink as her thoughts moved elsewhere.
Then, with quiet resolve, she refocused.
If she were to stand beside him not merely as his wife in name, nor even in affection, but in truth, then she would not do so idly.
Domhnall did not rule through charm or appearance.
He ruled through knowledge, precision, and control. And she would not be found lacking.
The book before her was not one she would have chosen a fortnight ago.
Maritime Levies and Coastal Trade Routes of the Western Isles.
It was dense, practical and entirely devoid of the elegance she had once associated with reading.
And yet, she found herself drawn into it.
Her gaze moved over the diagrams first: the mapping of sea lochs, the narrow passages where currents shifted treacherously, the markings denoting toll points and anchorage control.
Notes had been added in the margins, which were sharp and unmistakably written by a man who did not waste ink on idle thought.
Domhnall’s hand, she smiled softly to herself.
This was his world, not the courtly intrigue she had been raised to navigate.
“If ships are rerouted through the inner channel…” she murmured softly to herself, her eyes narrowing slightly as she followed the line of ink across the page, “then the levy must be adjusted, else—”
“Ye intend tae revise me tariffs without consultation?”
Margaret did not start. She had grown accustomed enough to him now that his presence no longer startled her.
She lifted her gaze slowly, only to see Domhnall standing just inside the doorway, with one shoulder braced lightly against the frame and his arms crossed.
There was something unmistakably amused in the set of his mouth.
Margaret tilted her head slightly.
“I was under the impression,” she said evenly, “that a laird benefited from a well-informed wife.”
His brow lifted. “Aye. If she is well-informed.”
Margaret’s lips curved faintly. She closed the book and rose to her feet.
“And ye believe I am nae?”
He pushed away from the doorway then, crossing the room at an unhurried pace.
“I believe,” he said, his gaze dropping briefly to the book in her hands, “that ye are reading about maritime levies and trade routes in an effort tae stand on me good side.”
Margaret considered him for a moment. “I thought I already was.”
The words were light, but the meaning beneath them was not. Domhnall seemed even more amused now.
“A bold assumption,” he grinned.
Margaret stepped closer, closing the distance between them without hesitation.
“I have never been anything else.”
He watched her now not as one might watch a challenge, as one might study something unexpectedly… compelling.
“And what,” he asked playfully, “dae ye intend tae dae with this knowledge, should I grant that ye possess it?”
Margaret held his gaze. “I intend tae make meself useful.”
The answer was simple and honest, without being sharpened into defiance or softened into submission.
“Ye already are that,” he told her, catching her off guard.
Margaret stilled. In truth, she did not know what to do with the words. They did not come wrapped in challenge, nor edged with command. There was no expectation beneath them, no demand to prove herself further. Just like her own words, his were the truth plainly spoken, as he did all things.
And it unsettled her more than any argument might have.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the book, though her gaze remained on him.
“Ye are easily satisfied, then,” she said lightly, though something softer threaded beneath the words.
“Nay,” he said, refusing to allow her to diminish the worth of the words that were just exchanged. “I am nae.”
The quiet certainty of it lingered between them. Margaret felt it settle somewhere deep, steadying rather than unbalancing her this time. Before she could answer, however, his gaze flicked once more to the book in her hands, and something of that earlier amusement returned.
“And while I would greatly enjoy testing ye,” he went on, “asking questions from that tome tae see whether ye have truly been paying attention…”
Margaret arched a brow.
“I would nae fail,” she said.
“I dinnae doubt that,” he replied, entirely untroubled. Which, annoyingly, robbed her of the satisfaction of proving him wrong. “But,” he continued, reaching into the inner fold of his coat, “I believe this reading material would make ye happier.”
Margaret blinked, as the shift in subject caught her unprepared.
He withdrew two folded letters. Her attention sharpened instantly.
He extended one toward her and Margaret took it without hesitation.
The moment her fingers brushed the paper, something in her chest tightened and then, just as quickly, leapt.
She knew that hand, even before she saw the name.
“Eleonor…” The word left her in a breath that was half-laughter and half-relief.
All composure abandoned her at once. She broke the seal with none of her usual care, unfolding the letter quickly, but she could not bring herself to mind it. Her eyes moved across the page, devouring each line as though it might vanish if she lingered.
Me dear Margaret,
Receiving yer letter has made me so happy. I was reading it while seated in front of the fire of our little place, with me cat Tom by me feet.
Margaret smiled, warmth flooding her so suddenly it nearly overwhelmed her. She could see it: her sister, bright-eyed and breathless with happiness, finding joy in something simple and entirely her own.
We have waited, as ye asked, and we hope, if it is safe, that ye might come tae us. Both of ye. There is much I wish tae tell ye, and even more I wish tae hear.
I miss ye more than I can put tae paper.
Yer ever loving sister,
Eleonor
Margaret lowered the letter slowly. For a moment, she simply held it there, her gaze lingering on the familiar strokes of her sister’s hand as though committing them to memory all over again.
“She wants us to visit,” she told him, as though the thought itself still felt unreal. “Both of us.”
There was no hesitation in her tone when she said it, and no question of whether he would go, only hope. She stepped closer without thinking, the letter still clutched in her hand.
“May we?” she asked, though it was not quite a plea, more a shared anticipation.
Domhnall’s gaze held hers. There was no resistance there.
He considered it for a single moment. “Aye.”
Margaret’s smile broke fully then, the kind she had not allowed herself in longer than she cared to admit.
“Thank ye,” she told him tenderly.
Domhnall’s expression did not change much. It rarely did. But his hand moved, then closed around hers, with the letter still caught between them.
“Ye need nae thank me for that,” he urged.
Margaret did not draw her hand away. Still, before she could answer, he shifted slightly, and his grip loosened just enough to free his other hand. There, he held the second letter, the one she had barely noticed in her eagerness.
“There is another,” he said.
Margaret’s gaze dropped to it at once, with curiosity sharpening through the warmth still lingering from her sister’s words.
“For me?” she asked.
“For us,” he corrected.
That alone was enough to make her look up again.
Margaret tilted her head slightly. “And ye have nae yet told me what it contains.”
A faint flicker of amusement touched his mouth.
“I thought tae see whether ye would ask.”
She huffed softly. “Ye are impossible.”
“Aye,” he said, entirely unrepentant.
Her eyes narrowed just a fraction, though the corners of her lips betrayed her.
“Well?” she pressed. “Am I tae guess, or will ye tell me?”
He extended the letter toward her, though he did not release it immediately.
“The fishing village,” he said.
Margaret’s attention sharpened at once.
“What of it?”
“They have organized a gathering,” he continued, watching her now as closely as she watched him. “In our honor.”
Margaret blinked. She simply stared at him, as though the words had not quite settled into meaning.
“A gathering?” she repeated.
“Aye.”
She took the letter from him then, more slowly this time, unfolding it with care, but her eyes barely skimmed the contents before she looked back up again.
“They wish tae thank us,” she said, though it was clear she did not need the letter to confirm it.
Domhnall inclined his head slightly. “So it would seem.”
Margaret felt a sudden, unexpected swell of emotion, different from before, lighter, but no less strong.
“They didnae have tae,” she said softly.
“Nay,” he agreed. “They did nae.”
Which, perhaps, made it matter more.
Her gaze drifted briefly to the window, as though she could already see the village again, with the repaired boats, the fires burning steady and the people beginning to reclaim what had been nearly taken from them. Then she looked back at him.
“We shall go,” she said at once.
There was no hesitation in her and no weighing of propriety or obligation. There was no question whether they should go.
“Ye would attend?” he asked.
Margaret’s brows lifted slightly, surprised he would even question it.
“Of course I would. They asked us,” she continued, her voice softening, though her conviction did not. “And they are… ours, are they nae? Our people.” The words came more naturally now than they once would have, not as something she had been taught to say, but something she believed.
“Aye,” he said.
Margaret smiled. “I would like to see them again, nae in ruin.”
He said nothing to that, but she knew that her wanting it mattered to him. Margaret folded the letter carefully, more composed now, though the warmth had not left her.
A gathering.
She was thinking of it as something to look forward to. The realization made her pause, but then, she glanced at him again.
“And ye?” she asked lightly. “Will ye endure being thanked so publicly?”
“I have endured worse,” he grinned.
Margaret’s lips curved. “I am certain ye have.”
Her hand, still lightly caught in his from before, moved just slightly, but enough that her fingers brushed more deliberately against his. She did not pull away. Neither did he.
And in that small, unspoken closeness, Margaret felt it again, that sense of something building.