“Iambreathing.”
“Barely.”
“I assure ye I possess full command of me lungs.”
“Yer knuckles are white.”
She glanced down. Her fingers were indeed clenched tightly around the folds of her skirts. Margaret released them with dignified care.
“I was merely considering,” she admitted softly.
“Considering what?”
“What precisely happens now.”
Domhnall regarded her quietly for a moment. Then he crossed the room. Margaret’s heart immediately began behaving in a thoroughly unreasonable manner. He was close enough now that she could see the pale scar near his temple, and the subtle crease that appeared between his brows when he studied something carefully.
She had not realized how tall he truly was until that moment.
“Margaret,” he said softly.
She lifted her chin. “Aye?”
Then, he reached out. Margaret froze. His hand did not grasp her arm or pull her closer as some men might have done. Instead, his fingers brushed lightly beneath her chin, guiding herface upward. Before she could decide whether to protest, he bent his head and pressed a brief, warm kiss to her cheek.
It was the lightest of touches. It was soft and careful, gone almost before she could fully register it.
Margaret blinked. Domhnall straightened immediately, releasing her as though he had merely adjusted a ribbon.
“I will nae forget our agreement,” he promised. His voice was quiet but certain. “The white marriage.”
Margaret forced her mind to catch up with the moment.
“Ye need nae be afraid of me,” he whispered. “Ever.”
Relief came swiftly. It was sharp enough to loosen the tightness in her chest.
Of course.
This was what she had wanted. This was the promise they had made, which provided her with the safety of distance. And yet, a small, unexpected sting followed the relief, settling somewhere beneath her ribs.
She told herself it was absurd. She had been standing across the room only moments ago, refusing even to approach the bed. And now she felt…disappointed?
It made no sense at all.
She turned her face slightly away, pretending to adjust the sleeve of her gown.
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 tongueand the proud lift of her chin, she was trembling. He could see it clearly now.
