Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The road to the village lay quiet beneath the falling light, while the last of the day stretched long across the hills in muted gold and shadow.
Domhnall was riding at an easy pace. The air carried the scent of salt and peat, softened now by distance from the shore, and the faint sweetness of heather crushed beneath hooves.
Margaret rode beside him. He did not look at her at once. He had learned, in recent days, that watching her too often led to distraction and distraction was a habit he did not permit himself lightly.
Still, he was aware of her. She did not belong to this land by birth, but she did not resist it either. That, more than anything, held his attention.
“They will be expecting us,” she said after a time, and her voice flowed easily in the open air.
“Aye.”
The sound reached him before the sight of it. The fiddles were sharp and lively, and there was the steady pulse of feet striking earth in rhythm. Laughter wove through it, rising and falling like the tide itself.
Domhnall slowed his horse as they came upon the rise.
Below them, the village stood not as it had a week before, broken, scorched and silent, but lit with lanterns strung between beams still new from repair.
Tables had been set across the square, rough-hewn but abundant, laden with what they could spare.
Figures moved everywhere, dancing, speaking, living.
It struck him how quickly they had rebuilt, not because they were told they had to, but simply because they could. He had always known his people were resilient. But this came as a surprise even to him.
“What a lovely celebration, look,” Margaret chirped by his side.
His gaze moved across the square, counting without appearing to and noting who stood, who moved, who had returned to work rather than grief. The boats still bore marks of damage, the structures were not yet whole, but the people were.
They rode into the square together. The music faltered only slightly as they were noticed. Heads turned, voices shifted, and then the space seemed to open for them without anyone commanding it so.
“Me laird. Me lady.”
The words came not in polished sequence, but in earnest fragments, carried by those who stepped forward first. A fisherman, a woman with flour on her hands, as though she had not thought to clean them before approaching.
Domhnall dismounted. He felt Margaret beside him, the movement of her skirt as she stepped down, unassisted. They stood as one. That, more than anything, did not go unnoticed.
The man approached first. He was older, and though his shoulders were bent slightly with years and work, his gaze was clear and aware.
“Me laird,” he said, and there was no trembling in it. “What ye gave us…”
Domhnall lifted a hand, not sharply, but enough.
“What was needed,” he said.
The man’ nodded. “Aye. And ye gave it.”
It was not praise. It was acknowledgment, which Domhnall accepted with a single incline of his head.
Others followed. Words were offered. People faltered, their words cutting off, as if they weren’t able to express themselves properly.
The speeches were not rehearsed and they were far from refined, but they were more real than anything Domhnall had heard in a long time.
It was not mere gratitude, it was loyalty.
Beside him, Margaret moved among them with ease. She did not linger behind him, nor did she press forward as though to prove herself. She stood where she was needed: listening, answering, remembering.
A child caught her hand. She did not pull away. Instead, she bent slightly, speaking to him as though he were not a child at all, but something equally worthy of her attention.
Domhnall watched. He found himself doing so more often now. This was not the woman he had expected to take into his home, not the one he had bargained for. This was someone else who had grown with him, by his side.
She belonged to the moment as though she had always been meant to stand there with him. The realization did not come as surprise.
He had spent years ensuring his people endured, ensuring they were protected, provisioned and controlled. Here, he was witnessing a real connection, and she had stepped into it as though she had been born to it.
A woman approached Margaret then, pressing something into her hands. It was a small bundle, wrapped in cloth. Margaret protested softly, but the woman insisted. Margaret relented. Of course she did. She always chose to meet them where they stood.
Domhnall watched her fingers close around the offering.
He watched the way she inclined her head not as a lady accepting tribute, but as one receiving something shared.
It was a small thing. A bundle of cloth, likely no more than bread or dried fish, given from hands that could ill afford to spare it.
And yet, she took it as though it were worth its weight in gold.
He had seen noblewomen accept gifts before, with distance and expectation, but most importantly with the quiet assurance that such things were owed. Margaret did not. She thanked the woman and spoke a few words that made the older woman’s shoulders ease, while her face lit up.
This was how loyalty was forged. It was not demanded or given easily. It was earned.
The music rose again, louder now, as though the moment of formality had passed and the village claimed the night fully for itself. Fiddles cut sharp through the air, quick and bright, while boots once again struck earth in a steady rhythm.
Margaret turned at the sound. He saw the curiosity in her smile. And a moment later, she was drawn into the circle of dancers. A woman caught her hand, and Margaret didn’t resist. She allowed herself to be led toward the others.
Domhnall watched. He didn’t move to follow.
She did not dance as they did. Her steps were too measured, shaped by halls and polished floors, by expectation rather than instinct.
But the women around her corrected her gently and with smiles.
Their hands were guiding her, while their voices were calling the rhythm and Margaret adapted surprisingly quickly.
Her feet found the pattern easily, and although she still faltered, it only caused her to break into a melodious chuckle. She didn’t retreat from her mistakes. She learned, as she always did. And in learning, she became part of it.
The children circled her, delighted by her attempts. A young boy darted too close, nearly colliding with her, and she caught him instinctively, steadying him before sending him back into the chaos with a quiet word that made him grin.
“Me laird!” he suddenly heard a voice call out to him.
He turned only to see Cameron and a few of his guards having arrived prior to him and Margaret, in an effort to secure the area. Now, they were standing before him, without that weight of command.
It was a strange sight. The sharp edges of vigilance had softened into something more familiar.
Cameron’s stance, though still upright, lacked its usual tension.
The guards behind him were no longer fixed to their posts, but part of the gathering, their attention divided between duty and the pull of the evening.
They had done their work, and now, they allowed themselves some fun.
“Ye’ve kept them waiting,” Cameron added with a hint of delighted amusement.
Domhnall’s eyes moved briefly past him to the square, to the forming lines of men already setting themselves for the next reel. Behind Cameron, one of the men stepped forward, grinning in a way that would have been unthinkable within the walls of the castle.
“Me laird,” he said, already reaching as though to seize him by the arm, “ye cannae stand aside this time.”
Domhnall did not move. He was aware of Margaret somewhere behind him, of the sound of her laughter and the life that had settled into the square. This was an invitation.
He did not often accept such things. He considered refusal, as he always did and remaining on the sidelines, making sure that everyone was safe. That was what he always did.
Then Cameron’s voice came again. “Go on,” he urged. “They’ve earned it, and so have ye.”
The distinction did not escape Domhnall.
He exhaled once, realizing he was right. “Aye.”
The men did not wait. They pulled him forward at once, with laughter rising as he was drawn into the forming line. The circle tightening around him, while boots struck the ground in quick succession, because the rhythm was already building even before the music caught it.
The fiddles lifted and they were unforgiving in their pace. Domhnall set his stance. It had been years.
Too many tae count.
But somehow, the body remembered what the mind had long set aside. The first steps came measured and controlled, as all things were with him, but the pattern took hold quickly. Turn, step, strike, shift and the movement started unfolding not as performance, but as something ingrained.
The men around him matched him without hesitation. They did not falter, nor did they temper themselves for him. They met him as they would any other. That, more than anything, kept him there.
The rhythm deepened, and their boots were striking harder now, while the ground was echoing beneath them.
Arms clasped and released, and bodies were turning in sequence, the reel tightening and breaking, reforming again with sharp precision.
Voices rose around them calling the steps and urging the pace, with laughter cutting through the music like sparks.
He moved with them, not above or apart, but among them. A hand struck his shoulder as the line broke, and another man took his place in the turn. Domhnall pivoted, stepping into the next pattern without pause, feeling the rhythm pulling him forward again before he could consider stepping away.
Across the square, he locked eyes with Margaret. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. Then the reel drew him back again, the pattern reclaiming his attention, the music rising sharper as the tempo increased.
The men pushed harder now. So did he. It wasn’t to prove anything, but simply because they did, and he would not be found wanting among his own.
When at last the reel broke, it did so in a burst of laughter and shallow breaths. The circle loosened, while men were clapping shoulders and stepping back.
Cameron approached him again with a cup already in hand, offering it without ceremony.
“Nae bad,” he grinned.
Domhnall took it. “Nay,” he replied, returning the smile.
He drank once, feeling the ale rough and grounding, then lowered the cup. The music continued. The night continued as well, and Domhnall allowed himself to remain within it as a man among his own.