Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The ride back to the castle was quieter than the one that had brought them to the village.
The night had deepened and the air cooled with each passing mile. The sound of hooves against the road fell into a steady rhythm as Domhnall rode next to Margaret. He did not press her about the tension he sensed in her. But, now, within the walls of Inveraray, the quiet followed them still.
Their chambers had been prepared ahead of their return. A fire burned low, casting a steady glow across stone and wood. The remnants of the evening clung faintly to them in the form of smoke, salt and the press of shared air and bodies.
Margaret moved first. She crossed the room without speaking, setting aside the cloak she had worn. Domhnall closed the door behind them. The sound settled with finality. He watched her.
There was something in her stillness, but it was not fear, for she didn’t move like one afraid. It was something she held close to her heart, something restrained in its secrecy.
He stepped toward her. “Margaret.”
She did not turn at once. His gaze moved over her back, noticing the tension in her shoulders and the set of her spine, then the way her hands had stilled at her sides, as though she had forgotten what she meant to do next.
“Are ye certain that everything is all right?” he asked.
Margaret turned then. There was a crack beneath her composure, and it did not voice itself in speech, but rather in movement. She crossed the little space that was left between them. There was not a modicum of hesitation in her.
Her hand caught at his coat, her fingers closing with sudden force as she pulled him toward her. And then her mouth was on his in a kiss that was fierce and demanding. She didn’t wait for permission, nor did her touch soften. She claimed him with power and certainty.
It made him still for just a single breath. Surprise gripped him as fiercely as she did, but his hand came to her at once, firm at her waist, drawing her closer still as he answered her with equal force. The restraint he carried so easily in all things fractured in that instant.
She tasted of the night, of smoke, of salt, of something wholly her own. There was no distance between them now. Only heat, only want.
Her fingers tightened in the fabric of his coat as though anchoring herself there, and he felt it. There was no disguising his sheer need for her, and the moment he felt her hand fumble with the belt of his plaid, he lost all restraint.
“Margaret…” he murmured, breaking the kiss. “Ye dinnae ken what ye’re daein’ tae me.”
She was turning him into an animal, but the way she smiled at him in the darkness only proved to him that she wanted it as much as he did. A moment later, his kilt slid to the floor, no longer held up by the belt.
All he could do was grab her by the waist, and as if sensing his intention, she locked her legs around him.
He slammed them against the wall, unable to break the kiss.
He knew that what he felt for that woman was more complex than he could ever describe, even to himself.
That was why, instead of speaking, he endeavored to show her.
With her tongue plundering his mouth, he moved his body away from her just enough for her delicate fingers to find his throbbing manhood and adjust it between her legs.
He looked at her once, for confirmation, and then, the moment he slid into her velvet heat, his ability to think was completely obliterated.
The only thing he could think about at that moment was the wet warmth of her being, enveloping him into herself.
There was not a shred of decency left in him. He was all animal, as he devoured her with kisses, nipping at her lower lip only to soothe it with his tongue the next moment. She moaned against the kiss, her nails digging into his flesh, which only seemed to drive him even more wild with desire.
His manhood slid inside of her again and again, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She had no idea what she was doing to him, and how desperately he wanted to make her his. No one had ever made him come to his knees the way she did.
She slid her fingers through his hair, gripping a handful only to keep his mouth on hers.
His tongue danced with hers, while he kept pumping his hips deeper and deeper.
The feeling was pure bliss. He wanted it to last for as long as possible, but every time he nestled inside of her, he was almost pushed from the edge of the abyss into an explosion of ecstasy.
He couldn’t stop, and neither could she.
“I love ye, Domhnall,” she moaned against his lips, and that was when his entire body became powerless to control himself any longer.
His orgasm came like thunderstorm, fast and furious, as he slammed into her, pressing her against the wall.
He bucked against her, kissing her neck, breathing in the fragrance was all her.
He could feel her own pleasure tightening around him, draining him, keeping him inside of her and refusing to let go.
They were both still breathing heavily when he lifted his gaze. Her eyes were sparkling and her lips were slightly parted, as if she still had something to say, but she changed her mind at the last minute.
He smiled, because he had already heard the most important thing being said.
Domhnall woke to the sound of the castle already alive beyond their chamber doors. It was the muted rhythm of a place that did not wait for its laird to rise before it began its day.
He lay still for a moment and only then did he notice that Margaret was already awake. He felt the absence of sleep’s softness in her breathing. When he opened his eyes, she was already standing near the hearth, with her back to him, fastening the ties of her gown with practiced precision.
Domhnall pushed himself up slowly, with his gaze fixed on her.
“Good morning,” he called out.
“Good morning,” she replied without turning around.
The fire was burning low, casting a subdued light across the room, enough to reveal the details he never missed. The absence of ease still marred her every movement.
Something assured him that she knew he watched. And still, she did not turn.
He rose and dressed: shirt, belt, plaid drawn and secured without wasted motion.
“The kitchens have already begun preparations for the midday meal,” he heard her say as though continuing a conversation they had not yet had. “Annabel mentioned there is a shortage of barley from the lower stores. It may need to be addressed before the next delivery.”
Domhnall said nothing. He watched her. She moved to the table, gathering something that did not need gathering, her hands occupied with small, unnecessary tasks.
Avoidance.
He knew it. He had seen men do the same before battle, before confession, before truth.
“Ye have a Council this morning,” she continued, still not looking at him. “Cameron will be expecting—”
“Margaret.”
Her name was enough. She stilled and very slowly, she turned. Her expression was composed. He crossed the space between them, and he stopped close enough that there was no mistaking his intent. Her gaze met his.
He could have demanded the truth. He had done so before with others, with enemies, with men who owed him loyalty. But she was not one of them. And this was not something to be taken.
“I will nae press ye fer answers or explanations,” he told her softly. “But I want ye tae be aware of the fact that I ken when something is wrong.”
Her eyes widened.
“I will be patient,” he continued, his voice lowering slightly, though it did not lose its weight. “Until ye are ready tae share it, whatever it is, with me.”
Silence followed. Margaret’s breath hitched and her gaze dropped not as a sign of submission, but thought. Then she lifted it again. And this time, there was no deflection.
“Me faither was there,” she revealed.
Domhnall felt as if something had broken inside of him. It was hard not to move and to just sand there, listening.
“He found me,” she continued. “After a little lass led me away.”
His jaw tightened.
“She was nae harmed,” Margaret added quickly, as though she had anticipated the direction of his thought. “He used her only tae reach me.”
Only.
The word settled poorly. Domhnall said nothing. He let her continue.
“He told me I am tae meet him,” she divulged the demand. “In a week, alone.”
“And if ye dinnae?”
Her gaze did not waver. “He will go after Eleonor.”
That struck. Domhnall felt it like a blade drawn across bone.
“He kens where she is,” Margaret went on. “He told me. The exact place. There is nay doubt he has found them.”
Domhnall could feel his fury rising, chilling everything in its path, controlled by the sheer power of his will.
“If I dinnae go tae him, he will ensure that what follows will nae be… survivable.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A father was threatening a daughter with the death of another daughter. He had seen monsters in his lifetime, but that… that was beyond anything he could have imagined.
He moved once across the room, then stopped with his hands braced briefly against the table as though grounding himself.
Fury was easy. Fury was instinct. But this required more.
He exhaled once, then turned back to her.
“Where?”
“By the abandoned coastal ruins in the west,” she told him.
It was the place where land gave way to the sea.
Few went there willingly. Fewer returned with ease, because the ruins stood upon a low cliff, their stones darkened by years of salt and wind.
What had once been a watchtower or perhaps a small stronghold had been reduced to fragments: one wall still standing in defiance, another half-collapsed, its stones scattered down the slope like the bones of something long dead.
It was a place forgotten or rather, a place meant to be forgotten.
No village lay near it. No road passed cleanly by.
It offered no comfort, no safety, no reason for presence beyond necessity, which made it perfect for meetings that were not meant to be witnessed, where a man might come to speak of threats and bargains, knowing that no one would stumble upon him by chance.
“He willnae touch Eleanor,” Domhnall said. “And he willnae take ye from me.”