She would be safe by his side, Domhnall thought. She had to be.
The thought was simple, and yet it felt like the only certainty he had left. He had fought every instinct that urged him to keep her hidden away from the world, away from the risks that seemed to follow her at every turn. He had demanded answers. He had made her promise that she would stay within the castle, and for the most part, she had obeyed.
But today, she would stand before him, and he would hold her there, close, and nothing would threaten her.
Cameron’s voice broke through his thoughts. “She’s nearly here.”
Domhnall nodded without a word. He turned his attention back to the doors. He could feel it now, the tension creeping back into the space between them, between the promises made and the unspoken fears. He was supposed to be focused on the lairds and on the other alliances that hung heavy over the future of Argyll.
But all he could think about washer.
The door finally creaked open. The moment stretched, and Domhnall’s heart stilled as a wave of quiet reverence passed through the room. Margaret stepped into the light.
The room held its breath.
She moved toward him with slow, steady grace, her presence commanding despite the quiet. The gown she wore, pale and simple, was beautiful in its restraint. The wreath of wildflowers rested in her hair, and the glow of her expression made Domhnall’s chest tighten.
She was perfect. She washerself.
And for the first time since this all began, Domhnall realized that his place was not in the world of power he had built, but beside her.
He waited at the altar, watching her approach. Each step she took felt like it was tethered to something deep inside him, pulling him forward, even as he stood still.
The lairds were watching. The guests were watching. Everyone was waiting for the union that would bind them all together.
But all Domhnall wanted was to feel her safe by his side, to have her there, where no one could take her from him.
Everything else could wait.
As she reached him, he offered her his hand without a word, and she took it, her fingers slipping into his with familiar warmth. The touch grounded him, and for the first time that day, he let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
Margaret was there. She was safe.
That was when the minister stepped forward and the murmurs in the church fell away into reverent silence. Sunlight floated in through the high windows, gilding the moment with a quiet solemnity.
“We are gathered here,” the minister began, “in the sight of God and before these witnesses, tae join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, according tae the laws of this realm and the custom of our kirk.”
Domhnall felt Margaret’s fingers tighten briefly around his. He did not look away from the minister, but his thumb shifted, grounding her as much as himself.
The questions came as expected. Names were given. Intent was declared. There was no florid poetry to it and no indulgence of any kind. The Church of Scotland favored plainness and honesty. After all, vows were promises, not performances.
“Dae ye, Domhnall Campbell, Laird of Argyll, take this woman…”
“I dae,” he said without hesitation, as his voice echoed through the church.
“And dae ye, Margaret Drummond…”
“I dae,” she replied, just as firmly.
A faint stirring moved through the pews at the sound of her name spoken so publicly, so irrevocably bound now to his.
The minister nodded and gestured for the hands to be joined properly. A length of tartan was brought forward, symbolizing the Argyll green and blue, draped carefully over their clasped hands, binding them together in the old way. Domhnall felt the weight of it, symbolic and real, settling across their joined wrists.
“By the pledging of hands,” the minister intoned, “and by the vows ye have spoken?—”
The doors at the back of the church opened. The sound was not loud, but it was enough to make the minister halt. Every head turned. Domhnall did not move, only his eyes shifted.
A small procession entered the church, looking unmistakably formal. At its head walked Sir Laurence Kerr, the royal commissioner and legal representative of the Crown, who had been present during the negotiations at the Masquerade.He was followed by two others dressed in the sober restraint of royal observers. Their presence cut through the sanctity of the moment like a blade through cloth.
