Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Domhnall noticed the motion at once. He noticed everything from the careful turn of her head and the way her fingers lingered longer than necessary upon the fabric, to the small, nearly invisible tremor that ran through her hands.
She was frightened.
But that fear was not of him, not exactly. Domhnall had spent enough years reading men across battlefields and council tables to understand the difference. This was not fear of violence.
It was fear of what the marriage meant, fear that the night might demand something she was not prepared to give.
His gaze softened slightly. She had walked into this union with courage, far more than most would have shown, but courage did not banish uncertainty. And despite the sharpness of her tongue and the proud lift of her chin, she was trembling. He could see it clearly now.
The realization struck him with an uncomfortable force, because a part of him, the part that was inconvenient and deeply human, would have liked very much to take her into his arms, to feel the warmth of her body against his, to bury his face in the soft curve of her neck and discover whether her composure would melt beneath his hands the way he suspected it might.
The thought arrived uninvited and lingered far longer than it should have.
Domhnall forced it away with practiced discipline. Control had been his shield for years. It would remain so now.
Margaret had agreed to the marriage under conditions. He would not break them on the very first night, not when the tremor in her hands told him exactly what she feared.
He exhaled slowly. “I can sleep on the floor.”
Margaret’s head snapped up. Her eyes widened as though he had suggested throwing himself from the battlements.
“Nay, nay, that will nae be necessary.”
The speed of her answer almost made him smile. He tilted his head slightly, not taking his eyes off of her.
“What dae ye propose?”
Margaret hesitated. Then she pointed toward the bed. The gesture was firm, though the color in her cheeks had deepened.
“It is large enough fer the both of us,” she pointed out something he knew himself.
Domhnall followed the direction of her finger. The bed was indeed enormous, clearly designed for ceremony and display as much as comfort. He glanced back at her.
“Just keep yer distance,” she told him.
His mouth twitched faintly. “And?”
“And ye will sleep above the sheets.”
For a moment, he simply looked at her. The command was delivered with such confidence that one might have believed she had been issuing orders to Highland lairds her entire life. Domhnall crossed his arms slowly.
“Above the sheets.”
“Aye.”
“Like a properly behaved guest.”
“Precisely.”
“And if I move?” He refused to admit even to himself that he was having more fun than he had expected to.
“Then I will remind ye of the agreement.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “How?”
She glanced toward the hearth, where the poker rested in its iron stand. Domhnall followed her gaze and let out a quiet huff of amusement.
“I see.”
Margaret clasped her hands together, attempting to look very composed.
“It is a perfectly reasonable arrangement.”
He considered her words for another moment, but it was her presence that he could not ignore, and the determination to appear untroubled despite the nervous energy radiating from her.
She was brave, he would grant her that. Brave and entirely unprepared for the effect she had on him, which made it all the more necessary that he maintain control.
“Very well,” he said at last.
Margaret’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. He approached the bed and sat down on the edge. The bed dipped slightly beneath his weight.
Margaret watched him with cautious attention.
“Ye may turn around,” she urged.
He raised a brow. “Why?”
“So I may remove me gown.”
“Ah.”
Domhnall rose immediately and turned his back to her without comment. Behind him he heard the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft sounds of hurried movement as she freed herself from the layers of ceremony and expectation that had accompanied the wedding feast.
He was staring at the fire and firmly refused to imagine what she looked like behind him. It required more discipline than he cared to admit.
When her voice finally came again, slightly breathless, it carried a note of reluctant satisfaction.
“Ye may turn back now.”
Domhnall did. Margaret was already beneath the covers, wrapped securely in the blankets like a fortress. He studied the arrangement. She had taken the far side of the bed and pulled the sheets nearly to her chin. Only her eyes and the faint spill of chestnut hair across the pillow were visible.
He climbed onto the mattress and stretched out carefully above the blankets, exactly as she had commanded. There remained nearly an arm’s length between them. Domhnall had measured it deliberately. He suspected Margaret had measured it twice.
The bed creaked softly as she shifted. Then again. Then once more.
He opened one eye. She was staring very intently at the canopy above them as if studying its embroidery might reveal state secrets.
“Margaret.”
“Aye?”
“Are ye attempting tae dig a tunnel through the mattress?”
He could see the corner of her lip dancing into a smile, but she was suppressing it. “I am adjusting.”
“Ye have adjusted six times.”
“It is a very complicated mattress.”
“Aye, I can see that.”
She shifted again. The mattress dipped slightly toward him. Margaret froze. Domhnall did not move. Then, as he was lying uncomfortably, he scooted just an inch toward her side. The mattress dipped the opposite direction.
Margaret cleared her throat. “It slopes.”
“It daes nae,” he almost chuckled.
“It daes.”
“It is a bed, Margaret, nae a hillside.”
“Well, something is pulling me toward ye.”
“Aye, that would be a wee thing called yer imagination.”
She turned her head slightly to look at him.
The mattress creaked again, and Margaret froze a second time.
Domhnall finally turned his head fully toward her.
She shifted again, and this time the mattress dipped sharply.
Margaret’s eyes widened as she slid half an inch toward him before catching herself on the blankets.
Domhnall watched the maneuver with growing amusement.
“That was nae intentional,” she pouted.
“Of course nae.”
She was watching him with eyes that seemed to be on fire, and he was loving every moment of it.
“Ye are enjoying this,” she accused him of the perfect crime.
“A wee bit.”
“Well, ye should nae.”
She shoved her pillow slightly. The motion caused the mattress to tilt again. Margaret slid another inch. Now they were considerably closer than before. She went utterly still.
Domhnall raised a brow. “Ye are invading me territory.”
“This is nae territory,” she huffed.
“It is now.”
She tried to inch backward again, but the mattress protested loudly. Both of them froze as the bedframe gave a long complaining creak. They waited and the silence stretched.
Then Margaret whispered, “If that thing breaks, I shall die of humiliation.”
“It will nae break,” he assured her, but he could already imagine the rumors that would spread if the servants had to fix a broken bed.
“Ye sound very certain,” she pointed out.
Another tiny shift was followed by another creak. Margaret groaned softly and covered her face with one hand.
“This bed is a menace.”
Domhnall’s shoulders began to shake, because he was barely restraining himself from bursting into laughter.
“Are ye laughing?” he heard her ask.
He barely managed to respond. “Nay.”
“Ye are.”
“I am breathing,” he offered amusedly.
Margaret peeked at him from behind her hand only to glare at him. The candlelight softened the sharp determination in her expression. She looked far less like a formidable negotiator and far more like a woman losing a battle with furniture. The sight made his chest unexpectedly warm.
Then, with great dignity, she shoved her pillow directly between them like a barricade.
“There,” she huffed.
Domhnall looked down at the pillow, then back at her. “What is that?”
“A barrier,” she explained almost proudly.
“I see,” he replied, folding his hands behind his head as he did so. “But ye ken if that pillow moves even slightly, ye will slide directly intae me.”
Her eyes widened again. She clutched the pillow.
“Then we shall both pray fer its stability.”
Domhnall closed his eyes again, fighting the grin threatening to appear.
Because the truth was simple. The real danger was not the bed.
It was the very determined woman trying, with increasingly poor success, to stay as far away from him as possible.