Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The evening had softened into something almost dreamlike.
Lantern lights flickered gently against newly mended beams, while music wove through the square in lilting patterns. The very air itself was warmed by laughter and the quiet satisfaction of survival turned, however briefly, into celebration.
Margaret had not known such a gathering before, one that was so free of pretense and so untouched by the careful performance of court.
Here, gratitude was not arranged. It was felt.
She had been speaking with one of the older women, accepting yet another offering she felt she had no right to refuse, when she felt a light tug at her sleeve.
“Me lady?”
Margaret turned. A small girl was standing beside her, no more than six or seven. She had her hair loosely braided, and her cheeks were still flushed from the evening air. There was a seriousness to her expression that seemed almost at odds with her age.
“Aye, little one?” Margaret said gently, lowering herself slightly so they stood nearer to equal height.
“There’s a gentleman,” the child revealed in a tone that was meant to be solely for her. “He asked if I might bring ye tae him. He wishes tae thank ye properly.”
Margaret’s brows lifted slightly.
“A gentleman?” she repeated.
The girl nodded at once, as though the matter were entirely straightforward.
“Aye. He said he didnae wish tae disturb ye before the others.”
Margaret hesitated. It was not fear that gave her pause, but habit. In court, such a request would have been weighed for implication and for motive. Here, among those people, it seemed far less likely to carry hidden intent.
Still, she glanced instinctively toward where Domhnall had been. He was no longer where she had last seen him. She assumed he was no doubt drawn back into conversation or movement, as he had been all evening.
The girl waited, watching her with open expectation.
Margaret smiled softly.
“Very well,” she said. “Ye may show me.”
The child brightened at once, turning with small, eager steps toward the edge of the square. Margaret followed and as she walked, her gaze turned once more toward the gathering before she allowed herself to be led away from it.
The music softened behind them as they moved further from the square, replaced by the quieter sounds of the evening. The wind was shifting lightly through the structures, while the faint rhythm of the sea beyond filled the air around her.
They passed the last of the lanterns, where the light grew dimmer.
“Just there, me lady,” the girl said, pointing ahead toward a narrow space between two buildings, which was partially sheltered and shadowed, removed from the rest.
Margaret slowed slightly.
“Thank ye,” she said, placing a gentle hand upon the child’s shoulder. “Ye may return.”
The girl nodded, already turning back toward the warmth and noise of the square, her small figure quickly swallowed by light and movement. Margaret remained where she was for a moment longer. Then, she stepped forward.
The space beyond was quiet. There were no voices, and neither could she see any movement. There was only shadow and the faint creak of wood shifting with the wind. Margaret’s gaze swept the area, searching for any sign of the gentleman she had been sent to meet. But there was none.
She took another step.
“Sir?” she called calmly, and her voice traveled just beyond the immediate darkness.
Still, no answer came. The quietness pressed closer now, no longer gentle, but watchful. Margaret’s fingers curled slightly at her sides.
Something was not right.
She turned, instinctively and her gaze moved back toward the square, but the light felt further away now and the sound dimmer, as though she had stepped beyond the reach of it without quite realizing when.
A faint unease settled low in her chest.
She wondered, for one brief moment, if she had been mistaken, if the gentleman had thought better of his request or if the child had misunderstood completely.
“Is anyone there?” she called again, sharper this time.
Silence answered her again, and in that silence, she felt the unmistakable awareness of not being alone.
She then turned slightly, intending to retrace her steps, but then, a hand closed over her shoulder.
It made her breath catch. She didn’t need to see him to know who he was.
“Dinnae scream,” came the low growl at her ear, controlled and familiar in a way that chilled more than any stranger’s threat might have done. “Unless ye wish the wee lass tae pay for it.”
Her blood ran cold.
“Aye, Faither,” she addressed him, and the word left her in a breath, though her body had already gone rigid beneath his touch.
Her father did not loosen his grip.
“Good,” he murmured. “I’m happy tae see that ye have nae forgotten how tae listen.”
Margaret focused herself to remain still. Her mind moved quickly, even faster than her fear. She thought of the girl, of everyone gathered in the square, and of Domhnall.
“Ye will nae harm her,” she told him, fighting the tremor in her voice. “She has done naething.”
“That depends,” her father replied in a tone that was almost conversational, “entirely upon ye.”
Margaret’s fingers curled at her sides.
“Ye should nae be here,” she said. “If ye are seen—”
“I am nae concerned with being seen,” he cut in smoothly. “I am concerned with being obeyed.”
The words struck with the same force they had carried all her life. She felt the old instinct rise. She felt the trained response that threatened to break her into compliance.
She buried it.
“Ye have nay authority here,” she reminded him, turning her head just enough that her voice would carry back to him. “And nay authority over me.”
His grip tightened. “Dinnae mistake yer situation, Margaret.”
Strangely enough, there was no anger in his tone, which was what she expected. He was perfectly calm, as if she were back home and he had caught her misbehaving.
“Ye may play at being a laird’s wife,” he continued, “but ye remain me daughter. And I willnae be defied by ye again.”
Margaret’s heart was beating harder now. She could feel that old fear chaining her, but there was also the effort of holding her ground before the man who had controlled her for her entire life.
“Ye have already been defied,” she snarled silently.
What followed was a pause that was as sharp as it was dangerous. She felt it more than heard it.
“Ye will come back tae me house,” her father ordered, and that initial calm sharpened into rage now. “One week from this night. The old road beyond the eastern ridge.”
Margaret’s breath stilled.
“Aye,” she said slowly. “I ken it.”
“Good.” His hand shifted slightly on her shoulder, and his fingers dug into her flesh. It was not enough to hurt, just to remind her that it might. “Ye will come alone.”
“I willnae.”
The refusal left her before she could temper it.
“Ye will,” he growled. “Or I will see tae it that yer sister’s… happiness… is very short-lived.”
Margaret went still as if she had been struck by lightning.
“What… have ye done tae her?” she demanded, but she knew that he was holding all the cards now.
“Naething,” he replied. “Yet. But I ken where she is. I ken that she lives with her husband. I ken the house with the broken roof on the west side. I ken the flowers that she waters every morn. And I ken the cat that sleeps at her feet.”
Everything until the cat could have been mere coincidence. But once he mentioned Tom, Margaret knew. This was not a threat without substance. He gave her the location, the place where Eleonor and her husband had made their home.
Margaret felt the world narrow.
He kens.
“Now,” her father continued, almost mildly, “ye understand the necessity of yer cooperation.”
Margaret swallowed, though her throat felt tight.
“Ye… would harm her?” she asked, although she already knew the answer to that question.
He didn’t need to think about his response. “I would correct what ye have both endangered.”
The words struck harder than any blow.
“Come tae me,” he ordered again, “as I have instructed, or I will ensure she is found. And what follows willnae be gentle.”
Margaret’s hands trembled. She forced them still.
“And if I dae?” she asked. “If I come?”
“Then we may yet resolve this matter without further damage.”
There was no promise in it, only further implication.
Margaret drew in a breath, steadying herself.
“I willnae allow ye tae touch her,” she warned him.
He almost laughed, but instead, he suffocated the sound into a mocking snort.
“Ye will dae as ye are told,” he replied.
And then, his hand stilled, without releasing her.
“Margaret?”
Both she and her father tensed at the sound of Domhnall’s voice. He was still far enough not to notice them
Margaret turned sharply. The coward that was her father had retreated, without an attempt to confront Domhnall.
He slipped past the edge of the passage and into the movement of the crowd beyond, swallowed by lantern light and bodies before Margaret could take a step toward him.
Just like that, he was gone, as if he had never existed at all and as if she had imagined this nightmare.
“Wait—” She did not finish.
He was gone. Domhnall reached her a heartbeat later. His presence was reassuring, now claiming the space her father had occupied moments prior.
“Margaret, is everything all right?”
She turned to him.
The threat, the knowledge, the suddenness of it all pressed against her, seeking to fracture the composure she had held. She did not allow it.
“Aye,” she said, though her voice was quieter than usual.
Domhnall’s gaze moved over her, assessing not her words, but her state.
Margaret’s fingers tightened at her sides. She could still hear her father’s voice. She could still feel his hand and see the certainty with which he had spoken.
“Ye look troubled,” he told her, standing in front of her.
She smiled through the apprehension. “I’m just tired. I needed a moment tae meself, but I am ready to go back to the celebration.”
In an effort to prevent him from asking any more questions, she grabbed him by the hand and dragged him back to the square. She pretended not to see the concern in his eyes.