She pursed her lips, tamping down the urge to roll her eyes—a most unladylike response. “I had not realized you suffered fromso delicate a constitution,” she replied, a hint of sweetness in her words that did not quite disguise the barb.
“Accidents happen, Margaret,” he said, one brow lifting as though her reaction were entirely unwarranted. “Best be wise and let us eat in peace,” he added, returning to his meal with maddening calm.
“Well, I do not wish to choke on the suffocating silence,” she countered, her tone sharper than she intended. She set her own fork down, the sound sharper than she intended against her plate.
Morgan didn’t flinch at her words, but his movements slowed as he reached for his wine. He took a deliberate sip, his gaze now fixed on her. The weight of his scrutiny was oppressive, and Peggy found herself fidgeting, her fingers brushing against the edge of her napkin. Her spine stiffened as she willed herself to meet his gaze, refusing to look away first.
He regarded her with his usual inscrutable expression, but the prolonged silence began to erode her confidence. Her pulse quickened, her cheeks warmed, and she had to resist the urge to shift uncomfortably in her seat. She felt exposed, as though he could see through her carefully crafted exterior.
“I suggest that you become accustomed to it,” he said finally, his voice low but unyielding.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, her tone betraying the confusion that bubbled to the surface.
“Thissuffocationyou speak of,” he clarified, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “I suggest you get used to it. Because that is the man you married.”
The room seemed to shrink at his words, the air suddenly heavier. Peggy blinked, her hands resting on the table as though to steady herself. “You speak of yourself as though you were some manner of beast,” she said, a faint snort of disbelief escaping her lips.
“A beast seems a decent way to put it,” he replied, his mouth curving into something between a smirk and a grimace. The sound that followed—a low, humorless chuckle—sent a chill down her spine.
“Morgan,” Peggy gasped, leaning forward slightly as if proximity might soften the blow of his self-condemnation. “One should never think so low of themselves,” she said firmly, her brow furrowing.
“It is not a matter of conceit , but of reality,” he countered, his tone cool as his gaze bore into hers. “This is the man you married, Margaret. This is who I am. And the sooner you snap out of this fantastical image you seem to have conjured to feed your delusions, the easier you will find your new life here.”
His words struck her like a blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. She sat back, momentarily stunned, her hands falling to her lap. The sting of his bluntness left a lump in her throat, but it wasn’t the insult that stung the most. It was the loathing inhis voice—so directed inward, so sharp—that her heart ached for him despite herself.
He despised himself. The realization was as jarring as it was painful. What manner of man carried so much darkness within him?
The remainder of their meal passed in silence, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Peggy’s appetite had long since vanished, but she remained seated, stubbornly picking at her food. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her retreat.
When at last the meal ended, Peggy withdrew to her chambers, her mind spinning with the memory of his words. She changed for bed in a daze, her limbs moving mechanically. As she slid beneath the covers, the silence of the room pressed upon her, yet it did nothing to calm the storm in her chest.
Her fingers clutched the edge of the blankets as she stared at the canopy above. Giving up was not an option. She would not allow him to wither beneath the weight of his own despair. She would draw him out, soften the edges of his bitterness, and perhaps—just perhaps—help him see himself anew.
After all, as his wife, she was the only family he had left. Surely, it was her duty to save him, even if it meant saving him from himself.
“Tomorrow is another day,” she whispered, pulling the covers over her head. Another battle. If her gallant knight did not exist, she would fight for herself.
CHAPTER 12
Margaret.
For the first time in his life, Morgan found himself too distracted to work. Her name wove itself through his thoughts, impossible to banish. No matter how he attempted to refocus on the ledgers before him, her face—bright, stubborn, and perpetually cheerful—lingered in his mind like a persistent melody.
How does she manage it?he wondered, leaning back in his chair, one hand rubbing at his temple.How does one woman carry so much cheerfulness in her? It’s exhausting simply to observe.
As if summoned by his musings, a knock sounded at the door, and before he could respond, the door opened to reveal her. Margaret.
“Oh, I hope I am not interrupting something,” she said sweetly, though her actions proved otherwise as she stepped inside without hesitation.
Of course, she didn’t wait for an invitation. He watched as she crossed the room with easy confidence, skirts swishing softly as she made her way to the sofa near the fireplace. She carried a book in her hand, which she opened with an air of determination before settling herself comfortably.
Morgan waited, expecting her to speak, perhaps to launch into one of her persistent observations or requests. Yet she remained silent, her eyes ostensibly on the page before her.
“What are you doing?” he asked finally, breaking the silence that hung between them.
Margaret glanced up briefly, her expression entirely untroubled. “Why, I do not see the need to heat the entire castle just for two people,” she replied, her voice light and matter-of-fact. “I only require a space to read. Carry on with your work. I shan’t be a distraction.”
He nearly laughed at the audacity of her statement.Her very presence is a distraction,he thought, suppressing a sigh.Even her absence is a distraction.
