The Laird’s Masked Desire (Preview)
Chapter One
September 1592, Falkland Palace
Lady Margaret Drummond had no business running through a royal palace, and certainly not dressed as a maid.
She slipped through Falkland’s torchlit corridors, forcing out shallow breaths beneath the borrowed mask. Stone walls closed around her and voices drifted.
Tonight, she was not meant to be seen, for discovery would not bring embarrassment, but her ruin. She had to rush to the meeting spot now, before they caught her.
Lost in her thoughts, Margaret turned a corner too quickly only to collide with something, or better yet, someone solid. The impact jolted the breath from her lungs. Her shoulder struck muscle, not stone, and she staggered back with a soft cry she immediately swallowed.
A chill slid through her as she looked up. She was not meant to be seen, not tonight of all nights.
“Oh, I beg yer pardon,” she said at once, lowering her head as she had been taught since childhood. “I wasnae looking where I went.”
Two men stood before her, both masked and both clearly not servants. One smelled of wine and polish, the other of damp wool and iron. Neither stepped aside.
Her pulse thudded painfully in her ears. Worry tightened into fear as she realized how exposed she was and kept her gaze down, her fingers playing with the beads of her bracelet, as she willed herself to become small and unnoticed.
“Nay injury done,” the first said pleasantly, though his gaze lingered in a way that made her skin tighten. “Though ye move as though ye’re being chased, lass.”
Margaret drew her hands together in front of her apron as she’d seen maids do. “I have duties tae attend tae, sir and I took the turn too quickly. Me apologies once again.”
“Duties,” the second repeated, while amusement colored his voice as he looked her over. “A shame, that.”
She shifted her weight, angling her body toward the corridor beyond them. “If ye would excuse me—”
“Ye ken,” the first continued, stepping closer, “ye are far too pretty tae be wasted as a maid.”
Her pulse quickened, though her expression did not change. “I assure ye that yer judgment is hasty, me laird,” she replied, swallowing heavily.
The men laughed, but they did not move. Instead, they closed the distance between them. The torchlight flickered, allowing shadows to stretch long and thin along the walls. Margaret became acutely aware of every sensation: the rough chill of stone at her back, the faint smoke in the air, and the sound of her own breath beneath the mask.
“We see enough,” the second man murmured. “Pretty mouth, slim wrists. Ye’d draw attention even without silk.”
The words struck too close. Margaret’s gaze lifted despite herself, fixing on the man who had spoken, and in that instant, something in his stance, along with the sharp impatience of his movements, tightened painfully into recognition.
God help me… ‘tis Laird Kenneth MacGregor.
The knowledge landed with a cold, dreadful clarity. She had seen him only twice before, both times at a distance and both times unwillingly.
He was meant to meet her tonight. Not her, precisely, but the daughter of House Drummond. He was meant to weigh her worth and then, to decide terms.
Her stomach hollowed.
She lowered her eyes at once, schooling her posture into meekness, into nothing at all. If he recognized her or if he heard her voice long enough to place it, there would be no retreat and no explanation that would not damn them.
“Please, leave me tae me business,” she said more softly now, carefully flattening her voice of any inflection.
Laird MacGregor stepped even closer. He smelled of wine and tobacco. She could feel the heat of him, the restless violence held barely in check.
“And if we dinnae?” he demanded. “Perhaps we’d like tae be certain of our assumptions.”
Her breath shortened.
Dinnae look up. Dinnae answer. Even if ye want tae put them both in their places.
His hand lifted, while his fingers angled toward the edge of her mask. A sharp edge of fear slipped past her control. Margaret’s pulse roared in her ears. If he removed it, everything would collapse into scandal and blood.
Then a third voice cut cleanly through the corridor.
“The lady daesnae seem interested.”
The hand stilled.
Margaret turned her head slightly. A man stood a few paces away, towering and broad-shouldered. His mask was darker than most, wrought in subdued silver. He did not sound amused nor angry… only certain.
“This daesnae concern ye,” laird MacGregor said sharply.
“It daes,” the stranger replied. “The lady is obviously nae feeling comfortable.”
“She is a maid,” the other man scoffed. “And a bold one.”
“Or,” the stranger corrected him, “she is a woman asking tae be left alone.”
Something in his tone shifted the balance of the space. Margaret felt it as one feels a change in weather, a pressure easing.
Laird MacGregor studied him for a moment, with his eyes assessing. “Ye would interfere on her behalf?”
“I already have.”
A pause followed, thick with danger.
At last, MacGregor laughed under his breath. “Very well. Nay sport in it if the lady needs tae be rescued.”
He stepped back, though his gaze lingered on Margaret a fraction too long. “Another time, perhaps.”
Then, the two men withdrew down the corridor, with their footsteps fading into the noise of the palace. Margaret remained where she was until she was certain they were gone.
“Are ye hurt?” the stranger asked.
She shook her head quickly. “Nay, I am well.” She dipped into a hurried curtsy, which was more reflex than courtesy. “Ye have me gratitude. I truly appreciate yer help. I dinnae ken what would have happened otherwise.”
He stepped closer and she caught the faint scent of clean leather from him. Though his face was half-hidden by the mask, there was no mistaking the strength of his jaw, the confident line of his lips or the way his dark eyes seemed to take in far more than they should.
He was handsome, and undeniably so, in a way that made her suddenly and painfully aware of herself.
He studied her, though not with the invasive scrutiny of the others. “Ye should be more careful,” he advised. “This is nae a forgiving place taenight.”
“I am aware,” she replied, feeling as if she were unable to take a deep breath because of the tightness in her chest.
“Then why wander it alone?” he pressed, with a gaze that was lingering on her, as though he meant to memorize her. “Who is it ye seek?”
The questions came too easily and they were dangerously close. Her heart began to race. She suddenly felt seen, stripped of the safety she had clung to moments before.
“I… I have tae go,” she stepped around him and hurried away.
As she did, her hand caught on something solid. She assumed it was his arm or the strap of his glove, and there was a brief, unmistakable tug at her wrist. She did not stop, nor did she look back. Her steps lengthened into a near run as she wove through the corridors, counting turns and steadying her breath. Only when she reached the narrow passage that led to the disused service rooms did she slow, and only then did she glance down at her wrist.
Her bracelet was gone.
For a moment, panic flared hot and blinding. The bracelet was unmistakable. It was court-made. Worst of all, it was recognizable.
Margaret closed her fingers over the bare skin, forcing the fear down by sheer will.
Later. Ye will think of it later.
Eleonor was waiting. That mattered more than gold, more than reputation, more than anything she might have dropped along the way.
Margaret slipped through the narrow door and pressed it shut behind her with a careful hand. The room was scarcely more than a broom closet, stone walls close enough to steal the air and a single taper burning low on a crate.
Eleonor turned at once. “Ye’re late.”
“I ken.” Margaret crossed the space in two quick steps and caught her sister’s hands. They were cold. “We must hurry.”
Her sister was the softer of them, always had been. Where Margaret’s beauty lay in control and restraint, Eleonor’s lived in openness. Her hair, a lighter shade of chestnut, escaped its pins too easily, catching the candlelight in warm, errant strands. Her eyes were wide and blue, expressive to a fault, betraying fear, hope, and longing with equal honesty. There was a luminosity to her that no discipline had ever managed to dull.
Yet beneath the softness was courage of a different kind. It showed in the way she dared to love a man her father had never approved of. She was not weak, only unguarded.
Tonight, dressed in silk meant to barter her future, Eleonor looked heartbreakingly young.
“Ye’re shaking,” Eleonor whispered. “What happened?”
Margaret reached for the ties of her borrowed bodice. Her fingers were clumsy now that the danger had followed her inside.
“Help me,” she said, and then, because there was no time for gentleness, she had to explain. “I nearly ruined everything.”
Eleonor stilled. “Margaret…”
“I ran intae him, of all people,” she said, tugging the plain gown loose. “Nae ran intae… I was stopped and cornered.”
Eleanor went pale. “By Kenneth MacGregor?”
“Aye.” Margaret swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “He was close enough tae touch me. Close enough tae recognize me, if I had spoken a moment longer moment.”
“Oh God.” Eleonor’s hands tightened in Margaret’s sleeves. “Did he… did he see—”
“Nae me face.” Margaret exhaled shakily as Eleonor helped pull the gown over her head. “Another man intervened. A masked stranger. He sent them away.”
Eleonor pressed a hand to her mouth. “If Faither kent—”
“He cannae,” Margaret said sharply. “He must nae.”
They worked quickly now, trading garments in the cramped space, with Eleonor shedding silk and jewels, and Margaret stepping into them with practiced efficiency. Years at court had taught her how to dress without a maid, how to lace and fasten with speed and silence.
Eleonor’s eyes shone in the candlelight. “I never wanted this,” she whispered. “Ye ken that.”
“I ken,” Margaret said softly. “Which is why we are daeing it this way.”
Eleonor hesitated. “He will never fergive ye.”
Margaret gave a short, humorless breath that had to serve instead of a laugh. “Faither’s forgiveness is a currency he never spends freely.”
She fastened the necklace at her throat, then met Eleonor’s gaze. “Ye remember the letter.”
Eleonor nodded. “The one with nay seal.”
“Aye, nay seal and nay signature,” Margaret echoed. “But clear enough all the same. It names nay crime, only reminds Faither that treason and treasonous correspondence, real or whispered, are words the Crown daesnae use lightly.” Her fingers curled briefly at her side. “They promised silence and protection, an end tae the rumors. In return, House Drummond was tae offer a daughter tae the Masquerade. Attendance was nae a request.”
The Masquerade.
It was an event that took place once a year for lairds and ladies of marriageable age. There, lairds could express interest and arrange and very quick marriage beneficial for both sides. The participants wore masks and no names were uttered or revealed until a union was being officially discussed.
The Crown did not host the Masquerade but allowed it because it understood it was a way to settle dangerous conflicts without open war, trials, or scandal. The King occasionally forced lairds to claim a bride when it considered beneficial for the country and clans, it was whispered.
The event could be attended only with a special invitation, to ensures absolute secrecy. If a laird received such an invitation from the Crown itself, he had to attend. Refusal would mean confiscated lands, revoked charters, declared rebellion. So he came knowing he would be forced to claim a wife that night.
“And faither chose me,” Eleonor said, as bitterness threaded through her voice. “Because I am younger, easier tae bend.”
“He chose what he could afford tae lose,” Margaret replied. “And I wouldnae allow it.”
Eleonor’s eyes filled with tears. “Stephen is waiting fer me. If this fails—”
“It willnae,” Margaret corrected her firmly. “Ye will leave taenight, before the claims are made and before names are spoken.”
“And ye?” Eleonor asked. “What if someone notices ye? What if—”
“Dinnae worry, sister. I will stay in the shadows,” Margaret interrupted again. “I will dance little and speak even less. I will be forgotten and Faither will understand everything when we go home and ye’ll be far away by then.”
Eleonor shook her head faintly. “Ye are never forgotten.”
Margaret allowed herself a small, tight smile. “Taenight, I intend tae be.”
“When ye reach the gate,” Margaret continued, knowing that every second was precious, “ye go straight tae Stephen. Ye dinnae look back. In a week, we will meet where we agreed.”
“And if ye are discovered?” Eleonor asked. Her eyes showed what her words could not say.
Margaret met her gaze without flinching. “Then at least ye will be free.”
For a moment, the room was too small to hold them both. Eleonor surged forward and wrapped her arms around Margaret.
“I dinnae deserve ye,” Eleanor whispered into Margaret’s hair.
“Ye deserve happiness,” Margaret replied, holding her tightly. “That is all.”
They parted reluctantly, with their foreheads nearly touching, as though memorizing one another by feel rather than sight. Margaret drew back first, because hesitation would undo them both.
“In a week,” she promised quietly. “We will meet far enough from here that they willnae find ye. Ye remember where.”
Eleonor nodded. “At dawn.”
“At dawn,” Margaret confirmed. “If ye are safe, ye will be there. If nae…” She swallowed. “If nae, leave naething. I will ken.”
Eleonor’s fingers tightened around hers. “And after?”
“After,” Margaret said, forcing steadiness into her voice, “ye will go farther north, far enough that Faither’s reach will fail him. Dinnae write. Dinnae send word unless ye must.”
Eleonor blinked hard. “I will come back fer ye.”
Margaret shook her head. “Nay. Ye will live yer life, happy.”
That, at least, made Eleonor smile. Margaret adjusted Eleonor’s mask on her own face, which was fine silver and unmistakably noble. It felt heavy, as if the weight of it was pressing against her skin like a promise she was not meant to keep. Then, she took the plain maid’s mask and pressed it into her sister’s hands.
“Ye must look the part until ye are beyond the gates.”
Eleanor nodded, fastening the maid’s linen over her own face. Then, she reached for the door.
Margaret’s hand shot out, catching her wrist. “Go quickly,” she whispered. “Dinnae stop for anyone.”
“I willnae,” Eleonor promised.
She opened the door, but instead of seeing an empty corridor, Margaret’s eyes fell upon a man who stood right in front of them, filling the narrow passage as though the palace itself had shaped him for that very purpose.
It was him.
He looked at her, not at Eleonor and not at the door, but her, as though he had been expecting that exact moment.
“I should have kent ye liked danger, lass. What ye have just done,” he said calmly, “could send ye both tae the King’s dungeons.”
Chapter Two
His words struck like a blade laid flat against her throat. They were cold, precise, and meant to be felt. Still, Margaret didn’t flinch.
“Only if ye tell the King,” she replied in a tone that tried to suffocate the loud beating of her own traitorous heart. “And I see nay reason why ye should, me laird.”
Eleonor made a small, frightened sound beside her.
Margaret shifted at once, angling her body to block her sister from view.
“Go,” she said softly, without turning. “Now.”
Eleonor caught her hand. “I willnae leave ye.”
“Ye must,” Margaret insisted more sharply now. “This was always the plan. Leave.”
The man watched them, but his expression was utterly unreadable behind the mask. He had helped her before, but that was before he knew she was doing something so perilous for anyone involved.
“Ye are playing a dangerous game,” he warned. “The Masquerade is nae kind tae those who think themselves cleverer than it.”
Margaret’s stomach tightened.
He will call the guards.
She lifted her chin. “Then perhaps ye should look elsewhere,” she snarled. “We are finished here.”
“We arenae,” he replied. “If ye are discovered, there will be consequences. Nae only fer ye, but fer yer families.”
Her fear sharpened into a deadlier weapon.
“And what pleasure dae ye take in delivering us tae them?” she demanded. “Is it duty or curiosity?”
For a moment, he did not answer. The pause stretched, heavy with intent. Margaret did not wait for it to end. She moved without warning. Her foot drove up and forward with every ounce of strength she possessed, striking him squarely where no man, armored or not, was invulnerable. He grunted sharply, with his breath driven from him.
“E––” Margaret bit her lip before she could reveal her sister’s identity. “Leave, now.”
Her sister hesitated only a heartbeat. Then, choking back a sob, she turned and fled down the corridor. Margaret turned to follow, but she was hauled back with brutal speed.
The man had recovered far too quickly. His hand closed around her arm, iron-strong, and in the space of a breath she was slammed against the stone wall. The impact jarred her teeth, while the chill of the stone seeped through silk and skin alike.
“What dae ye think ye are daeing?” he demanded, and she could hear danger in every syllable.
She met his gaze without apology. “Protecting a loved one.”
“Ye have just assaulted me,” he growled.
“Ye threatened her,” Margaret shot back. “I would dae worse.”
His grip tightened. “Are ye a maid,” he asked, “or a noblewoman playing at one?”
“That,” she said, ignoring the ache in her shoulder, “is none of yer business.”
His eyes searched her face, as though weighing her worth in a manner she did not care to invite. That was when she became aware of him, of how close he was standing, how his forearm braced beside her head and how his body was a solid barrier she could neither slip past nor ignore. Heat radiated from him, stark against the chill of the wall, caging her in.
Worse still was his scent. Leather and salt, smoke and something clean beneath it, wind or water. It was not the perfumed sweetness of court, nor the sour tang of wine she had endured before. It was him, undeniably so, and it caught her breath in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
She hated herself for noticing.
Her body betrayed her in small, treacherous ways: the warmth curling low in her stomach, the sudden awareness of where she ended and he began, or the way her breath shortened as if her lungs had forgotten their proper rhythm.
She clenched her jaw, furious at her own disobedient senses.
“Ye speak like a lady,” he said, still too close.
“And ye speak like a gentleman,” Margaret replied. “Yet here we are.”
The silence between them pulsed.
“Answer me,” he demanded. “Which are ye?”
Margaret lifted her chin, every inch of her refusing to bend. “I willnae.”
For a deadly heartbeat, she thought he might press harder, that he might demand obedience as so many men before him had done. Instead, his grip eased, though he did not step away.
“Very well,” he acquiesced. “Keep yer secrets.”
His hand shifted, no longer restraining but reaching instead into the fold of his cloak. Margaret watched the movement warily. When he opened his palm, recognition struck like a spark. Her bracelet lay there, the delicate gold unmistakable even in the low light. Her breath caught despite herself.
“Ye dropped this,” he said. “In the corridor. I followed ye tae return it.”
“Ye…” She stopped, considering his words and their implied meaning. “Ye followed me.”
“I did,” he admitted unperturbed. “It seemed wiser than letting it be found by someone… less discreet.”
She took the bracelet, and her fingers brushed his skin despite her intent to avoid it. The contact sent an unwelcome shiver up her arm. She closed her hand around the gold as though it might anchor her.
“Thank ye,” she said stiffly. “And now that yer errand is complete, ye may forget everything ye have seen.”
His mouth curved, and he seemed faintly amused. That only seemed to make him even more attractive.
Damn it!
“That is nae how forgetting works.”
Margaret huffed a breath. “Then consider it a request.”
“A request?” he echoed. “From a woman who refuses tae answer a simple question?”
“From a woman,” she returned, “who has naething tae gain from yer attention and everything tae lose from yer interference.”
He seemed to ponder her words. “Ye are very certain of yerself.”
“I have tae be,” she explained, but only made that explanation even more convoluted. “Especially taenight.”
That was when footsteps echoed at the far end of the corridor. A few voices were laughing. Margaret stiffened.
“People are coming,” she said under her breath. “If ye intend tae ruin us both, now would be the moment.”
“I dinnae,” he replied, much to her surprise.
“Then stay silent,” she urged sharply. “Please. Say naething of what ye saw tae anyone.”
“And what would ye offer me in return?” he asked mildly.
Margaret shot him a look. “Is me gratitude insufficient?”
“Entirely.”
She exhaled, feeling irritation flaring. “Name it, then.”
His gaze flicked toward the approaching figures, then back to her. “Anything?”
The word lodged unpleasantly in her chest. She hesitated and it was enough.
“Anything within reason,” she amended.
He smiled then, properly this time, and the expression unsettled her more than his severity had. “We will discuss it later.”
Before she could protest, voices rounded the corner. They were close now.
“Come,” he said quietly, taking her hand.
She stiffened at the contact, but he did not give her time to object. His grip was firm, unyielding, and he drew her forward into the flow of bodies moving toward the main hall. Margaret forced her steps to match his, schooling her expression into calm as torchlight brightened and the murmur of the Masquerade swelled around them.
As they crossed the threshold into the great room, she leaned closer. “Ye are playing a dangerous game.”
“So are ye,” he replied, releasing her hand at last. “The difference is that I ken it.”
The music swelled around them, with violins cutting clean through the murmur of voices. Margaret felt suddenly exposed, as though the light itself might betray her. She turned to go.
“Wait,” he said.
She paused despite herself.
“Who are ye?” he asked, falling into step beside her as though they were merely acquaintances drifting through the crowd. “And dinnae insult me by pretending the question is idle.”
Margaret kept her gaze fixed ahead. “Ye ken the rules of this evening,” she reminded him. “Names arenae spoken.”
“I didnae ask fer yer name,” he countered. “I asked who ye are.”
She glanced at him then, one eyebrow lifting beneath the mask.
“Persistent,” she observed. “Is that a habit, or am I a special case?”
His mouth twitched. “Both.”
“I willnae answer, me laird,” she said. “It would be against the rules.”
“Very well. Then answer this instead.” He slowed, forcing her to slow with him. “Are ye a laird’s daughter or a maid helping a noble girl escape?”
The question landed with surgical precision.
Margaret smiled sweetly. “If I were the latter, would ye turn me in?”
“And if ye were the former?”
“Would ye bow?”
He eyed her, then gave a quiet laugh. “Ye evade like a seasoned courtier.”
“I had excellent teachers,” she replied. “Most of them men who believed they were cleverer than I was.”
The music shifted into an invitation and the floor opened as couples formed with practiced ease. She was surprised to see he offered her his hand as well.
Margaret looked at it as though it were a challenge laid bare. “Ye presume much.”
“I have a proposition,” he divulged. “And for that, I require proximity.”
She considered refusing. She considered causing a scene. Against her better judgment, she placed her hand in his. The contact sent a sharp awareness through her, which was immediate and unwelcome. He drew her into the dance with effortless authority, his hand settling at her waist, as if it somehow belonged there.
“Careful,” she murmured. “Someone might think ye are enjoying yerself.”
“Someone already daes,” he replied.
She shot him a look. “Ye are insufferable.”
“And ye,” he said, guiding her smoothly through the turn, “are very much nae a maid.”
“Because I can count steps?” she asked, refusing to show him how amused she was. “Or because I dinnae avert me eyes?”
“Because ye act like a noble woman,” he clarified. “Although ye kicked me like a farmer’s daughter.”
She smiled then, but it was as sharp as a blade. “Ye deserved it.”
The dance tightened, the space between them narrowing with every movement. She was acutely aware of his hand at her back and of the way his attention never drifted, never softened.
“Ye still have nae answered me,” he looked at her then and she felt a tidal wave of warmth wash over her. “Noble or nae?”
Margaret leaned closer, her voice pitched just for him. “If I were a laird’s daughter, would ye treat me differently?”
“Aye.”
“And if I were a maid?”
His gaze held hers. “Also, aye.”
She laughed softly. “Then it seems me answer changes naething.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “It changes everything.”
She arched a brow. “Ye speak in riddles.”
“I speak in offers,” he corrected. “And before this night is done, ye will hear mine. But before I make it, I need tae ken yer position in society.”
Margaret turned beneath his hand, meeting his eyes through the mask. She could feel her pulse quickening from the challenge he had just posed.
“Then ye had best choose yer words carefully,” she urged. “I am nae easily persuaded.”
His grip tightened, just enough to be felt. “Neither am I.”
They completed the turn, their bodies aligned by the dictates of the dance. For a moment, Margaret said nothing. Despite everything, or perhaps exactly because of everything, she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. His control astounded her, and the way he watched her as though she were not merely a puzzle, but a decision.
“Fine,” she said, forming a decision of her own. “I am noble.”
The admission cost her more than she expected. It was not fear that followed, but strangely, fleeting relief.
He smiled. It was the first time she had seen it, and it unsettled her more than his severity had done. The expression did not soften him.
“I thought so,” he said quietly.
“And yet ye pressed,” she replied. “A discourtesy.”
“A necessity,” he countered. “I wished tae ken how far ye would go tae protect yer loved ones.”
She stiffened. “Ye ken naething of me motives and who I am protecting.”
“I ken enough,” he assured her. “Which is why I will make ye an offer.”
The music slowed down, drawing them closer. His hand at her back did not move, but she felt the question in it.
“I will keep yer secret,” he continued. “I will tell nay one what I witnessed taenight. Nae the King, nae his men and nae the lairds who fancy themselves judges.”
Her heart thudded. “And in return?”
“If,” he said, carefully choosing each word, “I am commanded by the King tae take a wife and be forced intae a union… I will choose ye.”
The words struck with such force that she nearly missed the rest.
“Ye will come without protest,” he went on. “There will be nay scene and nay attempts at delay. It will be a white marriage. Ye will ask nay questions of me household, me past, or me rule. And ye willnae interfere with the governance of me clan.”
Margaret’s breath caught.
Marriage. Claimed… bound by royal writ and his choosing.
“And if I refuse?” she asked.
“Then I speak,” he said simply.
She searched his face through the mask, looking for cruelty. She found none. There was only resolve in his eyes.
“This is extortion.”
“This,” he replied, “is me offer. Take it or leave it.”
The dance ended. Applause rippled through the hall, a tide that carried them apart by inches, not enough to escape the moment. Margaret closed her eyes for half a breath.
I would dae anything fer her.
She opened them. “Very well.”
His brows lifted a fraction. “Ye agree.”
“I dae,” she said, sealing her fate.
Before she could speak again, a man approached, wearing a mask that was plain but well-made.
“Me laird,” he said quietly, but close enough that only they might hear. “The King has spoken.”
The stranger did not turn. “Go on.”
“Five lairds are commanded tae leave the Masquerade with a bride,” the man continued. “Their presence is requested in the council chamber. Yers included.”
The hall seemed to tilt.
The stranger looked at Margaret. “It appears that I am forced tae take a bride after all.”
Her pulse roared. “Ye cannae mean—”
“I dae,” he cut her off. “And ye have already agreed.”
He offered his hand neither gently nor tenderly, but in a manner one might offer terms that could not be renegotiated. “Let us see how well ye keep yer promises, me lady.”
Then she placed her palm in his. And the Masquerade closed around them like a door.
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