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…tooclose. 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.
