Cameron waited near the mounts, his solid gaze sweeping constantly across the perimeter. Margaret mounted the given horse, adjusting her skirts for the ride. The moment she settled into the saddle, she felt the unspoken acknowledgment that she rode under Domhnall Campbell’s protection.
And then he was there. Domhnall swung onto his horse with practiced ease. He gave a short order, and the courtyard moved as one, with men falling into formation without hesitation or debate. They rode out while the sky was still ink-dark, Falkland Palace receding behind them in torchlit fragments. Margaret did not look back.
The road west opened before them, narrow at first, then widening as they left the Lowlands behind. She rode among men who bore arms as naturally as breath and watched how they responded to Domhnall without question.
He turned his head slightly, as his grey eyes cut to the left.
“Close the flank.”
The man riding there shifted at once, angling his horse without breaking stride. Two others followed instinctively, tightening the line as if they had been waiting for the order all along.
A few minutes later, Domhnall lifted his hand. It was no more than a subtle motion of his fingers.
“Slow the pace.”
The escort eased back in perfect unison, with the hooves finding a quieter rhythm on the road. No one questioned the change. No one asked why.
Cameron rode a little ahead. Domhnall nodded once.
“Scouts farther out,” he said quietly.
Cameron inclined his head and signaled with two fingers. Riders peeled off smoothly, disappearing into the grey edge of the road without a word spoken between them.
Margaret watched it all from her place among them. She focused on the economy of motion and the certainty. Commands passed softly, almost casually, yet carried the weight of inevitability. Men responded before the words had fully settled, trust and discipline moving faster than sound. Nothing was repeated. Nothing was debated.
Domhnall looked ahead again, as though the road itself answered to him.
The land began to change, with rolling hills giving way to harsher ground, and the air carrying the promise of sea and rain. Margaret wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and lookedahead. The road stretched open before them as the last shadows of night thinned into grey. Margaret felt the hours in her bones now, the constant rhythm of the saddle pressing against muscles unaccustomed to such distance.
Domhnall drew his horse closer to hers, his gaze flicking briefly to the way she shifted her weight.
“If the ride grows too hard,” he said evenly, “there is a litter among the supplies.”
The words struck like a slap.
Margaret turned to him at once. “Absolutely nae.”
His brow lifted a fraction. “It was an offer.”
“It was an assumption,” she corrected. “And a poor one.”
Cameron, riding just ahead, very deliberately did not turn around.
Margaret straightened in her saddle, lifting her chin despite the ache in her thighs.
“I ride well,” she said. “I always have.”
Domhnall studied her for a moment, as though reassessing terrain rather than pride. Then something like amusement lit up his eyes.
“Have ye?” he inquired.
She bristled. “Aye.”
He looked ahead, then pointed with his chin toward a solitary oak standing apart from the others, its dark shape stark against the paling sky.
“Then race me tae that tree.”
Margaret’s pulse jumped. “Ye are joking.”
