She did not allow herself to look for Domhnall immediately.
It would have been too easy to defer, to let his presence and his command dictate her place. But that was not why she had come. It was not why she had insisted on riding out, despite the danger and despite his reluctance.
She moved instead among the villagers, directing where she had to and listening where she could. She learned names quickly. She found out who had lost a home, who had lost a father, who had nothing left but what they carried on their backs. Each story settled somewhere within her, not as burden, but as purpose that drove her forward.
“Here,” she said to a young girl clutching a bundle too large for her arms. “Let me take that.”
The girl shook her head fiercely. “It’s me brither’s.”
Margaret softened her tone. “Then we shall carry it together.”
The child hesitated, then nodded. Between them, they set the bundle beside one of the intact huts, where others had begun to gather.
The guards remained at the perimeter, posted in quiet vigilance. Their presence was not oppressive, but it was still a constant reminder that this devastation had not come by chance, and might yet return. Margaret felt their watchfulness as keenly as she felt the eyes of the villagers upon her.
A laird’s wife.
The title still sat strangely upon her, as though it belonged to someone else. And yet, here, amid smoke and salt and sorrow, it seemed to settle into something earned, rather than assigned.
“Me lady.” She turned to find Domhnall beside her.
She had not heard him approach, though that did not surprise her. His presence was always felt rather than declared.
“The eastern huts are cleared,” he said. “We can use them for shelter by nightfall.”
Margaret inclined her head. “Then we should move the families there before the tide turns colder.”
He considered her suggestion, then he nodded. “Aye.”
And that was all. There was no argument and no redirection. They had simply agreed, and in that agreement, he had shown her that her judgment was sound. Her heart warmed at the thought.
They worked side by side thereafter, though not always together. Domhnall oversaw the heavier labor, which was directing men to right boats, reinforcing structures and salvaging what could be saved. He moved among them not as a distant laird, but as one of them, his hands as occupied as any laborer’s.
Margaret saw the way they watched him. She expected everyone to look upon him with fear. But she didn’t see it in anyone’s eyes.Instead, what she saw was trust and the certainty that he would not leave them to rebuild alone.
She found herself wondering, not for the first time, how much of him the world misunderstood.
“Me lady?”
She turned to face an older man, his hands roughened and trembling slightly as he gestured toward the shoreline. “Me nets… they’re ruined. I’ve naething left tae fish with.”
Margaret followed his gaze, noting the tangled remains caught against the rocks.
“We will have them repaired,” she assured him, though she knew the work would take time. “And until then, provisions will be supplied from the castle stores.”
The man blinked incredulously. “Ye would dae that?”
“It is nae charity,” she replied, meeting his eyes steadily. “It is duty.”
He bowed his head, and emotion revealed itself in his features. “Then we are in yer debt, me lady.”
Margaret shook her head gently. “Nay. Ye are only in our care.”
The hours passed without her noticing. The sun dipped lower, casting the village in shades of gold and shadow, and finally softening the harsh lines of destruction. By then, the worst of the chaos had been ordered. Shelters were assigned, fires were lit and food was distributed with some measure of fairness rather than desperation.
It was not whole, but it was no longer broken beyond hope.
Margaret stepped away at last, not far, but enough that the noise dimmed and she could hear the sea again. It moved as it always had, steady and indifferent to the human condition, washing against the shore as though it had not witnessed what men had done upon it.
