“Ye will have nay sheets,” he continued. “Nay humiliation dressed as tradition. If the Crown doubts me word, it may bring that doubt tae me openly and answer for it.”
No one dared to say anything to that. This was no longer merely about custom or proof. This was Domhnall drawing a line before power itself and daring it to cross. Kerr hesitated, glancing toward his companions. Whatever he saw there made him reconsider.
“Very well,” Kerr said stiffly. “The Crown notes yer refusal.”
“Let it,” Domhnall replied.
The men withdrew, and the tension followed them like a wake. Only then did Margaret realize her hands were trembling. Domhnall felt it at once. His thumb brushed the back of her knuckles. She looked up at him. He met her gaze without apology.
In that moment, with the church still buzzing and the stakes suddenly higher than they had ever been, Margaret understood something with startling clarity. He had not refused for pride. He had not refused for politics. He had refused forher. And hehad done it before the Crown, before allies and before a hall full of witnesses. He had defended her dignity when it would have been easier and much safer to simply surrender it.
The celebration continued because it had to.
The bells were ringing. Blessings and congratulations were spoken. Cups were raised and toasts were made with careful smiles and voices pitched just loud enough to sound convincing. The great hall filled with movement and color, with music that tried, and unfortunately failed to smooth over the tension that lingered like a held breath.
Margaret moved through it all as though in a dream.
She smiled when she was meant to. She accepted congratulations with grace she did not quite feel steady enough to claim. Her hand remained in Domhnall’s, or at least close enough to feel his presence anchoring her when the noise and attention threatened to overwhelm.
She felt the strain beneath the formality everywhere.
Lairds spoke more carefully than before. Some watched Domhnall with something like admiration. Others did so with calculation. A few with open concern, already weighing what his refusal might cost them all.
Margaret was acutely aware of how many gazes lingered on her now. She was not a simple bride. She was a symbol, a womanwhose marriage had been questioned aloud and whose dignity had been defended in public defiance of royal custom.
And yet, beneath it all, there was still a quiet warmth she could not banish.
Each time she glanced at Domhnall, she saw the same unyielding calm he had worn at the altar. He did not look troubled. He did not look uncertain. He spoke with his allies in low, controlled tones, and all the while, he seemed relaxed, as though he had already accounted for the consequences and accepted them.
When he looked back at her, there was no question in his eyes.
They danced when it was expected of them. The first dance belonged to them, and then, they danced again. The music enshrouded them into a familiar melody that seemed to take a little bit of the edge she felt they were dancing on. But most importantly, Domhnall’s hand at her waist was steady, respectful, and protective. She followed his lead easily, and his presence helped her body to remember the rhythm even when her thoughts seemed to stray a million miles away.
“Are ye all right?” he murmured at one point, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
“Aye,” she answered truthfully. “Because of ye.”
His gaze flickered to hers. There was so much she wanted to tell him, things that could not be expressed in mere words. Her gratitude for what he had done in front of everyone was measureless, and yet, she knew that no amount of simple thank yous could do him justice.
As he guided her into the next turn, his smile brought her back to the present moment. The afternoon wore on slowly but surely, somehow making the sharpest edge of the tension dull, possibly because it was worn down by repetition and necessity. Laughter came more freely. Conversation loosened, partly because of the wine. The hall began, slowly, to breathe again.
But Margaret knew better than to mistake that for resolution.
What happened in the church would not be easily forgotten. On the contrary, it would be discussed in other halls, weighed in other councils and carried on roads far beyond Inveraray.
Still, as she stood beside her husband at the High Table, accepting the last of the formal toasts, she felt that same thrill from the morning, when she was readying herself for the wedding. She was on the right path, and she wasn’t alone. They had crossed a threshold together.
And whatever storms followed, she would not face them diminished, hidden, or silent. She would face them as she stood now, his wife, openly claimed, fiercely defended, and very much awake to the power of what that meant.
The chamber prepared for them was far too grand for comfort. Margaret stood near the hearth, though the fire did little to steady the chill in her hands. The door had closed behind them with a finality that seemed louder than the wedding bells that had rung only an hour earlier.
The marriage chamber.
Candles burned everywhere, along the mantel, beside the bed, on small tables arranged with ceremonial care. The great bed itself dominated the room, draped in heavy green hangings embroidered with Campbell stags. Someone had scattered herbs and lavender across the sheets, as if sweetness could soften the expectation that hovered in the air.
Margaret did not move toward it. Domhnall did.
He removed his sword first. The sound of the belt sliding free seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He placed it on the table with deliberate calm, as though they were merely ending an ordinary evening rather than beginning a marriage.
