“Ye see?” she said, lifting her chin. “Perfectly unharmed.”
Domhnall did not answer. Instead, he stepped closer. Margaret faltered slightly under the intensity of his gaze. He took her wrist. Her pulse still raced beneath his fingers.
“Domhnall,” she said cautiously.
He turned her hand over, examining her palm. A thin splinter scratched across the skin. He frowned.
“It is naething,” she said quickly.
He ignored her. His hands moved to her other wrist, then her arms, checking for bruises. Margaret sat very still beneath his inspection. His hands paused briefly at her shoulders.
“Daes anything hurt?”
“Nay.”
“Yer head?”
“Nay.”
“Yer ribs?”
“Nay.”
“Yer pride?”
She smiled faintly. “Possibly.”
Domhnall exhaled slowly, then rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“Ye are impossible.”
Margaret smiled again, softer this time. “And yet, ye caught me.”
He looked at her then, at the loose strands of hair escaping her braid, at the faint flush still lingering in her cheeks, and at the stubborn brightness in her eyes.
His voice dropped slightly as he spoke. “Aye.”
And I always will.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Margaret was still trembling, but not from the fall. That shock, she realized distantly, had passed the moment his arms caught her. It had faded quickly enough, leaving only a strange lightness in her chest.
But the trembling remained.
He stood before her for another moment after declaring that he would judge her injuries himself, studying her with that intense, assessing gaze that made it impossible to feign indifference.
Then Domhnall turned abruptly and crossed the chamber.
Margaret let out a slow breath she had not realized she was holding.
He moved toward the small cupboard in the corner, opening it with a familiarity that suggested he had used it often enough. Inside sat several small jars, folded cloths, and the practicalremedies of a man accustomed to injuries. He selected a small jar.
Margaret watched him the entire time. Her pulse had not slowed since he had carried her across the courtyard.
If anything, it had worsened.
He returned to her without a word and knelt before the bed. The motion startled her more than the fall had. Domhnall Campbell, Laird of Argyll, feared across half the Highlands, knelt before her as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
