Domhnall inclined his head once.
“Keep yer words,” he said. “And use what I have given ye tae ensure I dinnae need tae hear them again under worse circumstances.”
There was no offense taken. The two men understood each other perfectly.
Everything moved quickly thereafter. Supplies were gathered with what little could be spared from the croft: bundles wrapped, essentials taken, the rest left behind without regret. Horses were readied, reins were checked and saddlebags were secured.
There was no time for sentiment. Margaret stood apart for a moment, watching as it unfolded. This was what it meant to act, not to hope or to wait, but to ensure.
Eleonor came to her again as the final preparations were made.
“This is nae how I wished tae leave ye,” she said softly.
Margaret smiled, though it did not reach her eyes.
“Ye will come tae me,” she assured her, “when this is done.”
Eleanor held her gaze. “I will.”
There was no doubt in it. They embraced once more, briefly this time, but no less fiercely for its brevity.
“Go,” Margaret said quietly, her voice on the verge of tears.
Eleonor nodded. She did not look back as she mounted. Neither did Stephen. It was better so.
Within the hour, they were gone. The escort rode with them, not close enough to draw attention, but near enough that they would not be unprotected. Their path turned north, then further still, until they were no longer visible against the land.
Margaret stood where she was long after they had vanished from sight. Only when Domhnall stepped beside her did she draw breath again.
“They will be safe,” he promised.
Margaret did not look at him. She watched the empty road, the quiet left in their wake.
“Aye,” she whispered. “They will.”
And this time, she believed it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
They rode hard for Inveraray.
Domhnall did not press the pace beyond reason, but neither did he permit delay. The road was known to him, every turn and rise marked not in memory alone but in instinct, and he measured their progress without needing to look. The matter behind them, which was Eleonor and her husband safely set upon her path, had been resolved as far as it could be. What remained lay ahead.
Margaret hadn’t spoken much since they had parted from her sister. He did not expect her to. There was a quiet in her now, not empty, but settled, like ground after storm, still bearing the marks of what had passed. He did not disturb it.
By the time the castle came into view, the light had begun to fade. Torches burned along the walls, steady against the wind, and the gates stood open to admit them without question.
That was when Domhnall realized that a man awaited them in the courtyard. It was Kerr, Domhnall recognized him at once.
Margaret dismounted beside him, and her attention was already drawn to him, though she said nothing.
Domhnall did not keep them waiting. He crossed the courtyard at once.
The man inclined his head in greeting, neither overly deferential nor presumptuous. His face was composed, his expression arranged in that careful neutrality Domhnall had come to associate with those who lived too long within halls of law rather than upon ground that could not be reasoned with.
“Me laird,” he said.
Domhnall returned the nod. “Sir Laurence Kerr. Ye were expected,” he told him.
