Ruaridh snorted softly. “A wedding with four lairds present will send a clearer message than any royal writ.”
“It tells the Crown the union holds,” Niall added. “And it tells yer enemies that touching her means touching all of us.”
Colin’s gaze flicked briefly to Domhnall. “Public solidarity leaves little room for quiet challenge.”
“Good,” Domhnall said. “I have nay interest in quiet.”
Ruaridh pushed away from the window. “Name the day. I’ll be there.”
“So will I,” Niall added. “With enough men tae make the roads polite.”
Colin gave a single, decisive nod. “I will attend.”
The promise settled between them, forged from shared blood and mutual survival rather than ceremony. Together, the four lairds controlled land, men, and influence the Crown could not afford to lose. And while they were very respected, they also needed to appease the Crown if they want to be left alone.
Domhnall felt the weight ease slightly from his chest.
“Thank ye,” he said simply.
Ruaridh clapped a heavy hand once against the table. “Get her out before dawn.”
“I intend tae,” Domhnall replied.
As they turned to depart, Domhnall was already counting hours, routes and tides.
Two weeks.
That was enough time for enemies to sharpen their knives. And also, enough time for a message to be delivered clearly, publicly, and without retreat.
CHAPTER FIVE
The palace did not sleep.
Margaret sensed it in the restless echoes of boots, in the muted clatter of tack and steel filtering up through the corridors, in the way servants moved with hurried purpose and lowered voices. Falkland Palace, so carefully composed only hours earlier, had slipped into a state of quiet alarm.
She stood near a narrow window, watching torchlight bloom and vanish in the courtyard below as horses were brought out and lines of men assembled. Cloaks were pulled on. Saddlebags were checked and rechecked. Orders were passed hand to hand with silent efficiency.
They were leaving. The certainty of it settled in her chest with equal parts relief and dread.
Domhnall entered without ceremony. He did not soften his stride or his expression, but his attention went immediately to her, as though to confirm she was still there.
“We ride before dawn,” he informed her.
“I ken,” Margaret replied. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. “Most people are.”
“A messenger has already been sent to Argyll,” he continued. “The betrothal is announced. The castle will be prepared.”
The wordbetrothalstill felt unreal, heavy with implication. She inclined her head, accepting it as she had accepted everything else this night.
“How long?” she asked.
“At first light,” he answered. “We cannae risk delay.”
She glanced once more toward the courtyard, toward the men gathering below. “Ye expect pursuit.”
“I expect resentment,” he corrected. “Pursuit will depend on how quickly they decide tae ignore the law.”
That did not reassure her, but she nodded all the same. When she descended to the courtyard, the air was cold and damp, while the scent of horses and oil was thick and grounding.Domhnall’s men stood ready. They were warriors broad-shouldered and scarred, sailors hardened by wind and salt. They looked at her with open curiosity, but not insolence. In some eyes, she saw respect, even.
