Margaret smiled despite the cold. “Ye are terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Pretending.”
“I am nae pretending.”
She tugged the shirt straight and tilted her head. “Then tell me, what color was me ribbon?”
He answered without thinking. “Green.”
She froze. Then she laughed with utter delight. “See? Yewerelooking.”
His head turned at once. “I was nae.”
“Ye could nae possibly ken that otherwise.”
“I saw it earlier.”
“Earlier?” she repeated. “When I was thrown from a horse and half-drowned?”
His mouth tightened. “Ye are insufferable.”
“And ye,” she said lightly, stepping closer as she adjusted the borrowed trousers, “are observant in a manner that contradicts yer own testimony.”
He faced away again with exaggerated restraint. “Finish changing.”
“I have,” she said.
He paused. “Ye havenae tied the belt.”
She blinked. “How would ye—” She stopped, then laughed again. “Oh, that is quite enough. Ye were absolutely looking.”
Domhnall exhaled in a low sound that might have been a sigh or something closer to amusement. “I was ensuring ye didnae fall.”
“While facing the wrong direction.”
“Ye were unsteady.”
“And now?”
His voice was quieter when he answered. “Now ye are standing.”
She finished tying the belt, as the fabric sat awkwardly on her. Then, she stepped fully into his view. His eyes flicked to herbefore he could stop them, taking in the way his clothes hung on her, the damp curl of hair at her temples and the color still high in her cheeks.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Well?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Ye are… dry.”
“That wasnae the question.”
His gaze held hers, steady and unapologetic now. “This is… better.”
He nodded once, satisfied, and remained exactly where he was: close enough to shield her, far enough to pretend propriety still ruled them both. Margaret realized then that neither of them truly wanted to be alone.
And that knowledge warmed her far more than the dry clothes ever could.
