Domhnall closed his eyes briefly, as though mastering himself.
“Me laird?” A voice from the other side of the door.
Margaret felt his chest rise beneath her hands as he drew in a slow breath.
Then he called out, his voice rougher than usual. “I’ll be right out!”
Silence returned to the chamber. For a moment, they simply looked at one another. Margaret could still feel the warmth of his mouth lingering on her lips. He lifted one hand slowly, and his fingers brushed his lower lip, where she had bitten him.
He smiled in a way she had never seen him smile before. And that very smile made her heart stumble painfully in her chest because in that moment, she knew, without hesitation and without any doubt, that she was completely, madly and utterly in love with him.
The realization left her momentarily stunned. Domhnall rose slowly, helping her to her feet as he stood. His hand lingered lightly at her waist, then he stepped back.
“Rest,” he said quietly.
Margaret nodded, though she was not entirely certain she possessed the ability to do so. He crossed the room toward the door. Before opening it, he glanced back once. His eyes softened again when they met hers. Then he stepped outside, closing the door gently behind him. The latch clicked softly.
She touched her lips lightly with her fingertips. Her heart was still racing and her hands were still trembling. And though she tried to calm herself, the warmth of his kiss lingered far too vividly for that to succeed.
Night wrapped the western hills in thick silence. The loch lay black beneath the moon, its surface smooth as polished stone. Far away from the castle lights of Inveraray, where the path narrowed between ancient pines, a horse waited in the shadows.
Laird Kenneth MacGregor stood beside it.
He had chosen the place carefully, far enough from the roads that no curious traveler might wander upon them, yet close enough that a man could reach the castle walls before dawn.
He preferred such meetings in darkness. Truth was easier to hear when the world was quiet and enshrouded in darkness.
At that moment, bootsteps approached on the path. Kenneth did not turn. He already knew the sound of the man’s stride.
“Laird MacGregor,” came the quiet voice.
Kenneth smiled faintly. “Sir Laurence.”
Kerr emerged from the shadows of the trees, brushing pine needles from the sleeve of his coat as though he had merely stepped from a pleasant evening stroll rather than a secret meeting with a Highland warlord.
The royal commissioner carried himself with practiced composure. Kenneth had always despised men like him, men who spilled blood with parchment instead of blades.
“Ye are late,” Kenneth pointed out.
“Discretion requires patience.”
Kenneth gave a quiet laugh. “At least we understand each other.”
The wind stirred faintly through the trees. Then, Kenneth exhaled.
“Well?”
Kerr clasped his hands behind his back. “I have confirmed what ye suspected.”
Kenneth’s attention sharpened instantly.
“Nay consummation sheet was produced.”
The words settled between them like a blade sliding from its sheath, and Kenneth’s smile widened slowly.
“Nay sheet,” he echoed.
“Nay proof,” Kerr nodded.
