Orders went out quietly that night. Patrols doubled, then staggered, then doubled again, but never in the same pattern twice. Routes were changed. Fires were moved. Guards were rotated through unfamiliar posts so no man could be tracked by habit alone. Messengers were sent to loyal lairds with careful wording:remain alert,report irregularities,dinnae engage unless forced.
Inveraray drew inward, bristling without announcing it.
Inside the castle, Domhnall convened captains rather than the Council, strategy rather than politics. Steel was sharpened. Signals were reviewed. Old plans pulled from shelves that had not been opened in years.
All the while, a single name burned at the back of his mind: MacGregor. He had struck just close enough to be felt. It was a reminder that the marriage had not ended the game. It had only changed its terms.
As night fell, Domhnall stood alone at the window overlooking the loch, the water dark and unreadable beneath the moon. He could not name the threat aloud. He could not answer it openly.
But he could be ready.
The following morning, Domhnall was sitting at his writing table with reports spread before him, though he had read each one twice already. Ink dried where his pen had paused and not moved on. Outside the narrow window, the loch lay smooth and indifferent, reflecting a sky that gave nothing away.
Every path led back to the same place. MacGregor attacked without proof. Men were dead without banners. A castle was tightened like a fist around what it protected.
He rubbed a hand over his face and forced his attention back to the parchment. He had to take care of supplies, rotations and messages waiting to be sent at first light. It was enough to occupy any laird’s mind, yet his thoughts kept straying where he did not want them to go. And that was to the woodland, to trembling fingers pressed to his skin, to a bluebell tucked among herbs.
At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.
He looked up sharply. “Enter.”
The door opened, and Margaret stepped inside.
She paused just within the threshold, as though gauging his temper before committing herself. She looked tired, there wasno disguising that. But her eyes were bright with purpose rather than worry.
“Me laird,” she said. “I thought ye would wish tae ken about the healer.”
He stood at once. “The healer?”
She nodded. “The fever has broken. He’s awake, lucid, and already complaining about the taste of his broth.”
He had a desire to smile, but his body refused the urge.
“At last some good news,” he said quietly.
“Aye,” she agreed. “At last.”
He gestured for her to enter, closing the distance between them without quite meaning to. “Ye did this,” he told her. “Yer work.”
“I helped,” she replied. “He’ll recover on his own strength now.”
Domhnall inclined his head, a deeper acknowledgment than words alone. “Ye have me thanks for this victory.”
Margaret smiled at him. “Let us hope it is nae the last.”
She did not look away when she said it. If anything, she seemed on the verge of adding something more. He noticed that herlips were parted, and she appeared as though she were bracing herself to speak plainly.
But then, another knock at the door cracked through the moment like a blade on stone. His shoulders tightened at once, while irritation flashed in his eyes. He did not bother to soften his voice.
“Enter.”
The door opened quickly. A messenger stepped inside. He had travel-dust still clinging to his boots. He crossed the room and bowed, extending a sealed letter without preamble.
“Fer ye, me laird. It just arrived.”
Domhnall took it at once. He waited just a moment for the messenger to bow and hastily clear the room. Then, Domhnall glanced down at the envelope in his hand. He knew the seal before his fingers even closed around it.
It was the Drummond crest, pressed deeply. The wax was unbroken.
