Isobel released her. Stepped back. Became, again, the composed Lady of the keep, though her eyes were slightly too bright.
"Go to bed," she said. "It's a long road north."
* * *
The carriage smelled of old leather and the dampness of a vehicle that had sat unused through a Highland winter.
Margaret settled into the worn seat and listened to Dunalasdair passing by the small window, stone by stone, until it was gone.
She did not look back.
She could hear him riding alongside. She had known he would, he was not a man for carriages, for the helplessness of being conveyed somewhere by something other than his own will.
She noted it and filed it beside everything else she had observed about him, adding it to the careful inventory she had been keeping since their wedding night. She knew more than he thought she did. She also knew, in the few times she had seen his face unguarded, that he was afraid of something. She did not yet know what it was. She planned to find out.
She thought about the baby. Margaret turned it over and felt the ache of it, not pity, which was the least useful thing she had to offer a child.
She was not going to make the mistake of deciding what he was before she had seen it for herself. She had done that before, in the Lowlands, building a man from nothing but hope and second-hand stories. She would not do it again. She would watch. She would pay attention.
The carriage hit a rut. Her shoulder caught the door. She righted herself, looked out the small window at the darkening hills, and straightened her spine against the worn leather seat.
She was not afraid.
That was not entirely true, and she knew it. But she was going anyway, which was the only thing that had ever mattered.
Chapter Four
"There is a bird," Margaret said, "that has been followin' us for the past mile and a half. Just above yer left shoulder. I think it's judgin' ye."
Fergus said nothing.
"It has that look about it. Very severe. Very Highland." A pause, punctuated by the creak of the carriage wheels finding another rut. "I think it may be an ancestor of yers."
"Margaret."
"I'm only observin'."
"Observe quietly."
"I've been in this carriage for four hours with nothin' but the sound of yer horse breathin' and the occasional rock tryin' to remove the wheel. I have a great deal of observation stored up."
The road ahead was a long, gray ribbon of mud and ambition. Fergus kept his eyes on it. He had told himself, in the careful, tactical way he prepared for most things, that the journey north would be manageable. Two days. Three at most. She would sit in the carriage. He would ride. They would stop for the night at suitable intervals and arrive at MacKenzie Castle having covered the necessary ground without incident.
He had not factored in the window.
She had pushed it open somewhere past the first hour and had not closed it since. Her voice came through it with complete clarity, regardless of what he did with his posture, his gaze, or the precise angle of his jaw.
"The road is worse than I expected," she said. "Is it always like this north of the border, or is this a special occasion?"
"It's a road."
"It's a series of holes held together by mud and bad intentions. That is nae the same thing as a road, Fergus."
"Ye're nae walkin' it."
"I'm feelin' every stone of it through the seat. I think I've lost a tooth."
He glanced sideways at the carriage window before he could stop himself. She was framed in it, her hair starting to curl at the edges from the damp air, her expression one of elaborate suffering that he suspected she was at least somewhat enjoying.
