Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The world returned to Margaret in fragments.
She felt the cold, bone-deep and merciless. Then the sound of water rushing past, loud and unrelenting, and the ache in her chest as air burned its way back into her lungs. She coughed, as her body folded in on itself. She dragged in breath after breath, each one sharp and trembling.
She was on the riverbank and she was not alone.
Domhnall’s arms were still around her, one braced behind her shoulders, and the other firm at her waist as though he had not yet trusted the ground to hold her. His breath was rough against her hair, while his chest was rising and falling hard beneath her cheek.
He had jumped in after her, without hesitation, without a second’s pause. The realization struck deeper than the cold.
Margaret lay there, soaked through and shaking, shock still wrapping her mind in cotton, and stared at the dark line of his jaw above her. No one had ever done something like that for her. Not in anger, not in duty, not even in love as it was spoken of at court.
She was not certain even her own father would have. The truth of it hollowed her and filled her at once.
“Look at me,” Domhnall said quietly.
His voice cut through the rush of water and pounding blood.
She obeyed without thinking. His hands moved with unexpected care, brushing wet hair from her face.
His fingers were gentle as he tilted her chin, searching her eyes.
There was no fury there now, no iron severity of his reputation, only focus as if nothing else existed.
“Can ye breathe?” he asked.
She nodded, feeling her throat tight. “Aye.”
“Are ye hurting anywhere?” His hands were already moving, checking her arms, and her shoulders. His touch was quick but careful, as though he feared causing her pain.
She flinched once without meaning to.
His hands stilled at once. “There?”
“Nay,” she said quickly. “Just… cold.”
He exhaled, though she felt the tension beneath it. Then, he shifted, helping her sit up more securely, keeping one arm behind her back until she found her balance. When he was satisfied she could remain upright, he straightened and turned sharply toward the gathered men.
“Secure the perimeter,” he ordered. “Two men upstream. Two down. Bring dry cloaks. Blankets. Fire if ye can manage it.”
“Aye, me laird,” came the immediate replies.
The escort scattered at once, their movement efficient despite the alarm still etched on their faces. Cameron appeared at Domhnall’s side. His eyes traversed the distance from Margaret to the river and back again.
“She fell hard,” Cameron said.
“I ken,” Domhnall replied.
He turned back to Margaret and offered his hand. She took it without hesitation, allowing him to help her to her feet. The world swayed briefly, but he steadied her at once. She could feel his grip firm at her elbow until her legs obeyed again.
She stood there dripping and shivering, while the river rushed on as though nothing had happened. Margaret looked at Domhnall then, but she didn’t look at the Iron Laird of the Sea Lochs, but at the man who had thrown himself into freezing water without a thought for rank or consequence.
“Thank ye,” she said quietly.
He shook his head at once. “It is naething.”
Her words came sharp and insistent. “It is very much something. Ye didnae hesitate.”
His gaze held hers. “I did what was required.”
“That is nae the same,” Margaret replied. Her voice trembled, whether from cold or feeling she could not tell. “Nay one has ever—”
She stopped herself, feeling her breath catching.
Domhnall did not press her to finish. When he spoke, it was with calm and absolute certainty. “Those who ken the difference between right and wrong dinnae pause tae weigh it.”
The simplicity of it left her momentarily without reply. Only then did his eyes narrow, and his attention shift focus. He took in the way her shoulders shook despite the cloak, and then the bluish cast creeping into her fingers.
“Ye’re freezing,” he pointed out.
“I am all right,” she lied.
“Nay” he said, already turning toward the horses. “Ye are nae.”
He reached his saddle packs and unfastened one swiftly. “I have spare garments,” he continued over his shoulder. “Dry. They will be large on ye, but warm.”
Margaret watched him with her body still trembling and her heart still racing. The cold was biting deep, but deeper down, her heart was unable to conform his reputation to his actions, for this was care, offered without condition.
“Thank ye,” she said. “But I need privacy tae change.”
Domhnall’s gaze swept the riverbank again before returning to her. “Nae far,” he said. “This ground isnae safe, nae after a fall like that.”
“I am nae proposing tae vanish intae the hills,” she replied. “Only tae spare us both impropriety.”
His mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile, though he did not grant her the satisfaction of seeing it fully.
“Ye may change,” he told her, gesturing with his head, “over there.”
“There?” She glanced pointedly at the open bank and the men moving at a distance but not nearly far enough to suit her sensibilities.
“I will turn away,” he promised.
Margaret narrowed her eyes. “That is nae enough.”
“Perhaps nae,” he agreed calmly. “But it is what ye will have.”
She should have argued further. Instead, she accepted the bundle of garments he handed her and moved a few paces aside, half-shielded by a low rise and the curve of a boulder. He stepped back, turning his shoulders away from her… mostly.
She could feel him there. The awareness was maddening.
As she struggled out of her soaked gown, the cold bit sharply, but it was the warmth of the garments in her hands that caught her attention.
They smelled of leather and clean wool, but also of salt and smoke and him.
The scent settled against her skin as she pulled on the shirt, which was far too large, and the sleeves swallowed her hands.
Her breath caught despite herself.
“Ye may turn farther away,” she told him.
“I am turned away,” Domhnall replied.
She glanced up. He stood with his back to her, still just mostly. One shoulder was angled just enough that she could see the sharp line of his jaw, and the way his gaze dipped for a heartbeat before snapping back to the horizon.
Margaret smiled despite the cold. “Ye are terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Pretending.”
“I am nae pretending.”
She tugged the shirt straight and tilted her head. “Then tell me, what color was me ribbon?”
He answered without thinking. “Green.”
She froze. Then she laughed with utter delight. “See? Ye were looking.”
His head turned at once. “I was nae.”
“Ye could nae possibly ken that otherwise.”
“I saw it earlier.”
“Earlier?” she repeated. “When I was thrown from a horse and half-drowned?”
His mouth tightened. “Ye are insufferable.”
“And ye,” she said lightly, stepping closer as she adjusted the borrowed trousers, “are observant in a manner that contradicts yer own testimony.”
He faced away again with exaggerated restraint. “Finish changing.”
“I have,” she said.
He paused. “Ye havenae tied the belt.”
She blinked. “How would ye—” She stopped, then laughed again. “Oh, that is quite enough. Ye were absolutely looking.”
Domhnall exhaled in a low sound that might have been a sigh or something closer to amusement. “I was ensuring ye didnae fall.”
“While facing the wrong direction.”
“Ye were unsteady.”
“And now?”
His voice was quieter when he answered. “Now ye are standing.”
She finished tying the belt, as the fabric sat awkwardly on her. Then, she stepped fully into his view. His eyes flicked to her before he could stop them, taking in the way his clothes hung on her, the damp curl of hair at her temples and the color still high in her cheeks.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Well?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Ye are… dry.”
“That wasnae the question.”
His gaze held hers, steady and unapologetic now. “This is… better.”
He nodded once, satisfied, and remained exactly where he was: close enough to shield her, far enough to pretend propriety still ruled them both. Margaret realized then that neither of them truly wanted to be alone.
And that knowledge warmed her far more than the dry clothes ever could.
Domhnall watched her from the edge of his vision as she finished tying the belt of his trousers. Even when wearing a man’s clothes, her femininity shone through the fabric, demanding attention that no amount of oversized garments could deny.
When she handed him her sodden gown and cloak, bundled together and dripping, their fingers brushed. She did not pull away at once. Neither did he.
“For the servants,” she said.
He nodded and passed the bundle to a nearby servant. “Dry them. We move as soon as we can.”
Orders rippled outward. Men remounted and packs were secured. The brief stillness by the river was now dissolving into practiced motion. The delay had cost them time they could not spare.
Domhnall turned back to Margaret just as Cameron spoke low at his shoulder.
“Her horse willnae hold the road. Stone struck the fetlock clean.”
Domhnall’s jaw tightened. He looked to where the injured animal stood, favoring its leg while keeping its head low. Then, he looked back at her.
“Ye’ll ride with me,” he said.
Her eyes widened at the suggestion.
“I willnae,” she said at once, looking outraged.
He lifted a brow. “Dinnae be unreasonable, yer horse is injured.”
“I can see that perfectly well,” she replied. “It daes nae follow that I must remedy it by creating an entirely new scandal which I shall add to the list of already existing ones.”
Domhnall almost chuckled, but he kept his composure. Cameron looked between them, and then very deliberately took a step back.
Domhnall folded his arms. “Ye dinnae want the litter, and I am nae carrying ye around like a sack of grain.”
Her chin lifted furiously, and her lips pouted. “I never suggested ye should.”
“Then what exactly, dae ye suggest?” he asked, trying to stay focused on the fact that he was supposed to be annoyed at her, not attracted to her.
She gestured vaguely toward the escort. “One of yer men could ride behind me, on his horse.”
“Nay.”
Her eyes flashed. “Why nae?”
“Me men are nae accustomed tae following ladies. Nor dae I trust them tae dae so without distraction.”
“I am nae a distraction,” she snapped.
His mouth curved, suppressing a grin. “That is where ye are gravely mistaken.”
She walked right up to him, and he couldn’t help but notice how the hem of his borrowed garments brushed her ankles, far too long and unmistakably his.
“This… is improper.”
All he could do was agree. “Aye.”
“Indecent.” She crossed her arms.
“Likely.”
“And entirely unnecessary.”
He looked at her eyes, fighting the urge to look at her lips. “Margaret, the road ahead narrows. If we delay further, night will take us before we clear the forest. And ye ken that puts us all in danger.”
That landed. He could see how she tried to weight anger against sense. She certainly hated that he was right. He could see it in the way her lips pouted even more.
“Ye are enjoying this,” he heard her say and for a moment, he wondered if she could read his mind.
“I am nae,” he replied calmly. “But I willnae apologize fer keeping ye alive.”
Her nostrils flared, but all she did was to step past him toward his horse, stopping only long enough to throw a few words over her shoulders. “If ye so much as adjust yer seat—”
“I willnae.”
“Or breathe improperly—”
“Margaret.”
She locked eyes with him, refusing to look away. He held her gaze without flinching.
“Trust me or dinnae. But get on the horse.”
For a moment, he thought she might strike him. Then, with visible restraint, she placed her foot where Domhnall indicated and allowed his hands to lift her on the saddle. He followed a moment later, feeling her back fitted instinctively against his chest.
She was too close.
The escort shifted at once, reforming around them with deliberate discretion, keeping their eyes forward and their expressions studiously neutral.
Domhnall gathered the reins and set them moving at a slower pace, guiding his horse into the narrowing forest path that led west. Branches closed overhead, filtering the light.
Little by little, the river mist was replaced by the scent of pine and damp earth.
Margaret adjusted slightly in the saddle, finding her balance. Every small movement registered: her shoulder brushing his chest, the way her breath changed when the path dipped, the warmth of her body seeping through layers of wool and linen.
He was acutely aware of her. He kept his hands firm on the reins, careful not to let them wander, though the temptation was immediate and unwelcome. His body responded despite himself, heat stirring where discipline demanded stillness.
This was foolish… necessary, but still foolish.
Margaret shifted again, with a small sound leaving her before she stilled. He felt it through his chest and through the length of him pressed close behind her.
“Ye all right?” he asked quietly.
“Aye,” she replied, just as softly. “I’m fine.”
He huffed a breath that might almost have been a laugh. “After all the commotion ye’ve created, I’m relieved tae hear it.”
She tilted her head slightly, just enough to glance back at him. The movement brought her face closer… too close. Her lips were still pink from cold and exertion, parted as though she might say something else.
For a treacherous heartbeat, his mind betrayed him.
The thought of kissing her rose unbidden, vivid and dangerous, an image he had no right to entertain. He crushed it at once, fixing his gaze past her to the path ahead, tightening his hold on the reins as though discipline alone might drive the notion out.
“Dae ye mean tae imply,” she said lightly, the lilt of her voice unmistakably amused, “that I jumped intae the water on purpose tae have ye rescue me?”
He snorted before he could stop himself. “Nay. I mean ye staged a charade at the Masquerade finer than the Masquerade itself.”
She laughed in a sound that was soft and bright, and that very sound warmed him more than it should have. “That is an outrageous accusation.”
“Ye caused a scandal, enraged two lairds, and nearly drowned before breakfast,” he listed. “That takes effort.”
“I call it dedication,” she replied.
He shook his head, feeling a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “I call it trouble.”
“Well,” she said, settling back against him, entirely too comfortable, “ye kent that when ye chose me.”
A dangerous silence followed, filled with hoofbeats and forest shadows and everything he refused to say aloud.
“Aye,” he said at last. “I did.”
And that, he suspected grimly, was the most unsettling truth of all.