“I dinnae joke,” he replied.
Before she could reconsider, he leaned forward and gave his horse its head. Margaret swore under her breath and followed. They rode hard across uneven ground, with the horses’ hooves pounding as the road dissolved into rough earth and scattered stone. The wind tore at her cloak, while her breath burned in her chest as she urged her horse on, leaning low. Every lesson she had ever learned rose instinctively to meet the challenge.
She refused to look at him. She refused to yield.
The land pitched beneath them, with ruts and hidden stones testing horse and rider alike. Margaret focused on balance, on rhythm, on the tree growing steadily nearer. She was gaining. She could feel it.
A fierce, exhilarated laugh tore from her before she could stop it. For one wild moment, she forgot the Crown, her father, the sealed parchment waiting behind them.
There was only the ride, and she had every intention of winning.
Domhnall had not expected her to keep pace.
He had started first, given his horse its head without hesitation, confident the challenge would end as most did, which was with distance established and pride satisfied. The ground was rough, the path uneven, and he knew every trick of riding hard across land that did not wish to be crossed.
Yet when he risked a glance to his side, she was there, not floundering and not struggling, butriding.
Her posture was low and sure, while her hands were steady on the reins. Her horse responded to every command. She had closed the distance he had taken with ease, matching his speed stride for stride. For a brief, incredulous moment, Domhnall felt something dangerously close to admiration cut through him.
Damnation.
He pushed harder, urging his mount forward, but the ground betrayed them both. He heard it before he saw it: the sharp crack of stone beneath iron. Her horse struck a hidden rock at full speed. The animal lurched violently. Domhnall turned just in time to see her thrown forward, the world tilting as she vanished from the saddle.
“Margaret!”
She hit the slope hard, tumbling end over end. Her cloak tore free as she slid toward the river below. The incline offered no mercy. Loose earth and wet grass carried her faster than she could stop herself.
Then she was gone. The river swallowed her with a violent splash.
The escort erupted in shouts. Horses screamed as reins were hauled back, men fighting to stop their mounts on treacherous ground.
Domhnall did not slow. He wheeled his horse sharply, already dismounting before the animal had fully stopped. He ran to the edge of the slope. He could feel his heart hammering as he caught sight of her below. Her dark hair was slicked to her face, and her body was dragged sideways by the current as the river seized her without pause.
She tried to surface. The water pulled her under again.
Cold clarity sliced through him. There was no time to think.
Domhnall tore off his cloak and plunged after her into a shock of ice and violence. He hit the water hard, his breath tearing from his chest as the current seized him at once, wrenching him sideways and spinning him before he could find his bearings.
Cold slammed into his limbs, numbing and brutal, stealing his strength even as he fought for it. The roar of the river filled his ears, drowning out the shouts from above. He forced his eyes open. Margaret was ahead of him, but she was too far and she was moving too fast.
Her head broke the surface for a breathless instant, as her mouth opened in a gasp before the water dragged her under again. Panic flared sharp and blinding in his chest.
Nay.
Domhnall drove himself forward, feeling his muscles burning as he cut through the current. Every stroke was a battle of its own. The river did not yield easily. It clawed at him, pulled at his legs, tried to spin him away from her. His lungs burned. His arms screamed with effort.
He had faced men in battle without fear. He had faced blades, blood and fire. But this helpless fury was worse.
“Hold,” he snarled through clenched teeth, though he did not know if she could hear him. “Hold on!”
Her hand surfaced again, her long fingers clawing at nothing, her body twisting as the current tried to roll her onto her back and carry her farther downstream. The sight tore something raw open inside him.
He surged the last distance and caught her. His hand closed around her arm. She struck against him with the force of the water, and a startled cry was torn from her as she sucked in air. She clutched at him instinctively, her fingers digging into his shoulder, his neck, anything she could find.
“I have ye,” he said hoarsely in a ragged breath, feeling as if the words were ripped from his chest rather than spoken. “I have ye.”
The river fought them both now, dragging at her skirts, at his boots, trying to pull her free of his grasp. Domhnall wrapped one arm around her middle, locking her to him, and turned his body sideways to the current, angling them toward the bank inch by brutal inch.
