Robert's Dark Consideration
That evening, Robert Sinclair lingered long over his wine. The fire in the private chamber threw sharp shadows across his face, deepening the lines carved there by years of deals, lawsuits, and betrayals. He was a man who prided himself on control, yet his daughter slipped through his grasp like smoke.
He thought of Margaret as a child—bright-eyed, quick-witted, a creature of charm and will. He had nurtured that will, sharpened it into a blade for the family's advantage. Yet now, that same blade turned against him, cutting the very hand that wielded it.
Keith's warning echoed: Control your daughter. Else I will.
Robert swirled the wine, watching it cling red to the glass. He knew Keith's kind—hard, practical, without patience for vanity. If Margaret's meddling endangered the campaign, Keith would not hesitate to remove her. And Robert could not allow that. Not for love—he felt little of that left—but because she was his heir, his legacy. The Sinclair name had to endure.
Still, a thought slithered in: Would it be easier if she were gone?
He banished it quickly, but it lingered like a stain.
Margaret's Secret Meeting
Margaret, meanwhile, was not idle. That night she slipped from the inn wrapped in a dark cloak, pearls hidden, her breath clouding in the cold. She met with Bain and Rory in a stable on the edge of town.
Bain leaned against a post, flipping his knife, smirking. "Your father's got Keith's temper up. Best mind yourself, my lady."
Margaret's eyes flashed. "Keith commands steel, but he cannot command men's hearts. That's where silver speaks—and I have more of it than he'll ever see."
She drew another purse from beneath her cloak and pressed it into Rory's trembling hands. The boy's eyes widened.
"Listen well," she whispered. "When the next fight comes, you will aim not at the Gunn, but at the Craik woman. She is the heart. Strike her, and all else crumbles. Do this, and there will be more silver, enough to buy you a farm of your own."
Rory nodded, pale but eager.
Bain chuckled. "You're bold, my lady. Bold enough to make Keith slit your throat if he hears."
Margaret stepped close, her voice low and venomous. "Keith is a brute. He'll bleed Gunn, aye, but he will not see the true prize. I will. And when the Gunn's whore lies dead, it will be my name whispered in every hall from here to Aberdeen."
Bain shrugged, pocketing his share. "Then here's to your vengeance."
She left them there, heart pounding not with fear, but with exhilaration. Every move drew her closer to the moment she craved: Agnes Craik's ruin.
Robert and Keith in Council
The next day, Robert sought Keith in private. They met in a draughty chamber of the inn, the sea's roar faint through the shutters.
"I know of Margaret's… actions," Robert admitted. His voice was clipped, his pride begrudging. "She has bribed some of your men. I will deal with it."
Keith's expression was stone. "Deal with it soon, Sinclair. I'll not have my men's loyalty split between your purse and her pride."
Robert inclined his head, but his thoughts churned. He needed Keith's steel, but he could not allow Keith to dominate. It was a delicate balance, and Margaret threatened to upset it with every rash step.
"Margaret is headstrong," Robert said carefully. "But she is still Sinclair. She will not betray the family."
Keith snorted. "Betrayal comes easier than breath when silver's involved."
Robert stiffened. "You will not harm her."
Keith's eyes narrowed. "Then leash her, Sinclair. Or she'll hang herself, and she'll take you with her."
Margaret Overhears
Unbeknownst to both men, Margaret had lingered near the stairwell, the door ajar. She heard their words—her father's attempt at defence, Keith's contempt, the threat of a leash.
Her cheeks burned. They thought her reckless, a child to be disciplined. They would learn.
When she returned to her chamber, she pulled the pins from her hair and let it fall loose. She stood before the mirror, her breath fast, eyes blazing.
"They speak of leashing me," she whispered to her reflection. "But no leash can hold fire. I will burn through them both, and when the ashes settle, it will be Margaret Sinclair who stands."
Her laughter, low and cold, echoed in the chamber.
And across the moors, Seumas Gunn and Agnes Craik slept entwined by their own fire, unaware of how close the poison now crept.
Robert's Quiet Plot
That night, after the council with Keith, Robert lingered long over his ledger, but his pen did not move. The numbers blurred on the page. For once, he was not thinking of profit or writs, but of Margaret.
She had become a liability—rash, uncontrollable, dangerously visible. Keith was right: her pride would cost them everything.
A chilling thought came unbidden: What if she were gone?
It sickened him at first. She was his daughter, the last of his bloodline. Yet the thought persisted. Without her, he could deal with Keith unencumbered. Without her, there would be no reckless bribes, no foolish vendettas. His legacy might endure, clean of scandal.
He closed his eyes, hand tightening on the quill. He could not kill her. But perhaps… perhaps she could be removed. Sent back south under some pretence. Locked away, if need be. For her safety, of course. The words already wrote themselves in his mind.
But even as he planned, he knew it would fail. Margaret would not be leashed. Not by him. Not by Keith. Not by anyone.
Margaret's Counterplot
Margaret, meanwhile, sat at her own table, parchment spread before her. She dipped her quill, her hand steady. She wrote not to her father's allies, but to her own: a merchant's wife in Aberdeen who owed her favours, a cousin in Edinburgh with connections to soldiers, even an old suitor who had once sworn he would kill for her.
Each letter carried the same message, veiled in polite words: Send men. Send blades. Send help. The Gunn must die, and his whore with him. I will pay.
She sealed them with wax, pressed with her signet, and smiled as the wax hardened.
Her father thought her reckless. Keith thought her vain. But she would outplay them both.
Robert and Keith: Uneasy Allies
The next morning, Robert approached Keith again. They stood outside the inn, the wind tearing at their cloaks, snow crunching underfoot.
"She must be controlled," Robert admitted at last. "If she cannot be leashed, then perhaps… removed from the field."
Keith raised a brow. "Removed? She's your daughter."
Robert's mouth tightened. "She is Sinclair. That is both blessing and curse. If she destroys herself, she destroys me."
Keith studied him a long moment. "You ask me to deal with her."
Robert hesitated, then shook his head. "Not yet. But if her meddling grows worse—then perhaps."
Keith's gaze was flinty. "I'll not raise steel against a woman. But if she endangers my men again, I'll not stop them doing what wolves do to weak flesh."
Robert said nothing. The silence between them was answer enough.
Margaret Overhears Again
Margaret had followed. She stood at the corner of the stable, listening as the wind carried their words. Her father—her own father—had spoken of removing her.
Her breath quickened, but not with fear. With fury.
She returned to her chamber, hands trembling as she poured wine. "Remove me?" she whispered to the empty room. "Leash me like a dog?"
She laughed, low and bitter. "No. It is you, Father, who will be removed. You, and Keith with you. And when you are gone, it will be Margaret Sinclair who commands, who decides, who takes the Gunn's life and the Craik's blood."
Her eyes blazed in the firelight. She had thought herself merely seeking vengeance, but now she knew the truth: she was seeking power. And she would have it, no matter who stood in her way.
The alliance of coin and steel was rotting from within, its foundations crumbling. Yet none of them could see that the more they tore at one another, the stronger the Craiks would stand.