Margaret stood beside the man, her gloved hands folded with deliberate calm. Her heart, however, was beating hard enough that she feared it must have been heard. The mask pressed warmly against her face, while the silk ribbon bit faintly behind her ears.
Across the room, a heavy table waited, with parchment already laid out and a seal warming near the fire.
She had no idea how long they had been waiting. It could have been a minute, but it could have been an entire hour. That was when the door opened without an annunciatory knock, and her father entered first. Laird Andrew Drummond’s boots struck thestone with the assurance of a man accustomed to obedience. He wore no mask now, as royal summons dispensed with such niceties, and his sharp, assessing gaze swept the room before fixing, with sudden force, on her.
Me God, he will murder me right here in this room.
Her father had always seemed larger to Margaret than other men, now even more so. He was a man carved from rule and expectation, from cold corridors and measured bows. Even now, standing in a royal chamber rather than his own hall, he wore authority like a second skin.
He was broad-shouldered still, though age had begun to weigh upon him, the lines at his mouth cut deep by years of command rather than laughter. His hair, once dark, was streaked with grey and carefully groomed, every strand in place as if disorder itself were a moral failing. His clothes were rich but restrained, chosen not to dazzle but to reassure. They symbolized loyalty stitched into every seam. He looked exactly as he always had: controlled, dignified, unassailable.
And that was what unsettled her the most, for this was the version of her father she had known all her life: the man who spoke softly while arranging fates, who called sacrifice duty and obedience love.
Behind him came the royal commissioner, with his expression arranged into mild authority.
“I, Sir Laurence Kerr, order ye tae remove yer masks,” Kerr ordered smoothly. “By writ of the Crown, identities are now declared.”
Margaret’s fingers trembled as she reached up. For one fleeting instant, she considered delay by pretending confusion, clumsiness,anything, but there was no escape in hesitation. She untied the ribbon and let the mask fall. The cool air struck her face.
Her father stared. For a heartbeat, he did not seem to comprehend what he saw. His brows drew together, narrowing his gaze, as if it might sharpen the image of one daughter into another.
“Margaret?” His voice cut the room like a blade. “What jest is this?”
The man next to her removed his own mask then with unhurried precision. He did not look at Drummond, only at Kerr.
“There is nay jest,” he announced. “I am Domnhall Campbell, the Laird of Argyll. Yer daughter has been claimed.”
Margaret felt it before she fully understood it, as dawning transformed into a sharp, instinctive tightening low in her chest.
Campbell. Argyll. The Iron Lord of the Sea Lochs.
The words she had heard in half-whispered court conversations, spoken with a mixture of fear and grudging respect, rushed at her all at once. She had known, of course, that he was powerful. She had felt it in the way others yielded space to him without realizing they had done so, in the disciplined stillness with which he occupied a room. But a name had weight. It had history. It also had a shadow.
This was a man whose authority the Crown relied upon and resented in equal measure. This was a man rumored to rule with iron restraint and unflinching violence, a man widowed by bloodshed. This was also the man she had just bound herself to.
For a single, treacherous instant, doubt flared inside of her. Had she misjudged him? Had she traded one form of captivity for another, colder and far less forgiving?
She forced herself to breathe, and then, her father moved.
“This is impossible,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Me younger daughter was the one offered.Eleonor. Ye have been deceived, me laird, fer this is nae the agreed?—”
“There was nae name spoken at the Masquerade,” Kerr interrupted mildly. “Nor was any sworn betrothal declared prior tae the claim.”
Her father rounded on him. “Ye cannae be serious. She is… she wasnae meant fer this.”
Margaret lifted her chin. “I wasnae meant fer anything ye didnae choose,” she said, feeling steady despite the heat rushing to her face. “That daesnae make the claim unlawful.”
Her father’s gaze snapped back to her, with his fury blazing. “Ye will be silent.”
Domhnall shifted only half a step, but enough. His presence closed the space between them like an iron bar.
“Ye will speak tae her with respect.” His words were calm, and there was not even a single sign of anger. “Or ye will leave.”
Her father’s hands curled into fists. “Ye think tae threaten me in a royal chamber?”
“I think,” Domhnall replied, “that ye are forgetting who stands besideher.”
Kerr cleared his throat in a sound that sharpened the tension. “Laird Drummond, Lady Margaret is of age, unwed, and unpromised. The claim was made according tae Masquerade law and sealed before witnesses. The Crown finds the union… advantageous.”
