Every movement cost him. The cold bit deep, seeping into bone and muscle. His vision narrowed, the edges darkening as he forced himself not to let go, not to lose ground, not to loseher.
Margaret coughed violently against his shoulder, but she stayed upright, clinging to him as though he were the only solid thing left in the world. He reached the shallower edge with a stumble,and his feet finally felt the scraping of stone. He dug his boots into the riverbed, hauling them forward as the current tore at their legs in furious protest. One final surge, then his knee struck ground.
Hands reached for them. Shouts broke through the roar of water. Domhnall dragged her up onto the bank, half-carrying, half-falling with her as they collapsed onto wet earth and stone.
For a moment, he could do nothing but kneel there, with his arm locked around her as though the river might rise again and steal her back.
She was alive.
The realization hit him harder than the cold. His hand shook as he tightened his grip, his forehead dropping briefly to her temple.
She was alive, and he had had never been so afraid of losing anything in his life.
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.
