“He will nae openly defy it, of course,” Margaret continued before Domhnall could answer. “Nae unless he believes he can dae so without consequence. He prefers influence tae rebellion.”
Domhnall inclined his head slightly, as though her answer merely confirmed what he already knew.
Another councilor leaned forward. “Ye have spent time at Court, me lady?”
“I have,” she replied. “Long enough tae learn that silence is often mistaken fer ignorance. They arenae the same thing.”
That earned a few faint smiles.
“And Laird MacGregor?” someone asked cautiously. “He willnae be so restrained.”
Margaret hesitated, then chose honesty. “Nay,” she answered. “He will feel wronged, whether he truly is or nae. Men like Kenneth MacGregor mistake possession fer promise.”
The table stilled for a fraction too long.
Domhnall’s voice cut in smoothly. “Which is why we prepare fer action rather than outrage.” He looked at her again. “Ye agree?”
“Aye,” she said more confidently now. “Public presence will matter.Visibility. If this marriage is seen as supported, nae isolated, fewer will dare challenge it openly.”
A captain nodded. “She speaks sense.”
The agreement had scarcely settled when another voice cut across it, a voice that was older, rougher and edged with doubt.
“Sense, perhaps,” said Bruce Graham, one of the western lairds. His gaze was focused not on Margaret but on Domhnall. “But this isnae the right path fer this clan. Alliances forged in haste seldom serve in the long run. Time will show that.”
The words landed like a stone dropped deliberately at her feet.
Margaret felt the heat rise to her face. She drew breath to answer, already shaping the reply, but then she heard Domhnall speak first.
“Nay,” he said.
The single word was quiet, but absolute. He set his cup down with deliberate care and turned fully toward Graham.
“Time has already shown what comes of waiting,” Domhnall continued. “Waiting didnae save me family before. It didnae preserve peace on these coasts. And it willnae protect this clan now.”
Graham stiffened. “Me laird?—”
“Ye may question strategy,” Domhnall went on, “but ye willnae question her place here. That is settled.”
Margaret’s breath caught. She had not expected such swiftness, nor such certainty.
“She isnae a diversion from our path,” Domhnall concluded. “She is part of it.”
Silence fell, heavier than before.
Graham inclined his head in a stiff and reluctant gesture. “As ye say, me laird.”
The conversation resumed, cautiously at first, then with renewed focus, but the shift remained. Margaret could feel it in the way she was regarded now as a presence defended.
As the minutes passed, she lifted her cup occasionally and took a measured sip of wine, letting the warmth settle in her chest. It was richer than she expected, heady and dark, and after the long night and day it went quickly to her cheeks. She could feel the faint flush there, a pleasant lightness loosening the tight coil she had carried since Falkland.
She was halfway through setting the cup down when she felt his attention shift.
“Ye are enjoying the wine,” he said quietly.
She raised a brow. “Am I so obvious?”
“Yer cheeks have betrayed ye,” he replied.
