He used a pitcher from the water basin and poured water over her tresses.

She’d closed her eyes, and dark lashes fanned out against skin that had turned pink and freckled in the sun during this journey.

“Do you think Roger has enough to eat?” she asked as she idly trailed her fingers across the surface of the water.

“Roger?”

“My pony,” she clarified.

“You’ve named him, have you?”

“Of course! I’ve been so intimate with only one other being in my life, so it seemed proper that I at least know his name.” She opened one eye and smiled up at him.

Arran began to lather her hair. “And what, then, does Roger call you?”

“Heavy.” She laughed at her jest. “Do you know what I wish, Arran? I wish I had learned to ride astride before now. There is something quite freeing about it, riding without a lot of rules and expectations about how one should sit, or how long one should ride, or what one should wear. I’ve never had that sort of freedom in England. But in Scotland, it seems as if no one is the least bit scandalized by a woman doing as she pleases. All that coming and going from Balhaire—do you know that no one ever tried to stop me? I thought it was because they reviled me and didn’t care if I was set upon by thieves. But now I think it is that everyone is...free.”

Arran pondered that. “They might have reviled you a wee bit.”

Margot laughed and playfully splashed water on him.

“Sit up now.”

Margot did as he asked, hugging her knees to her chest as he poured warm water over her head, rinsing the last bit of soap from her hair.

“Now you,” she said. “I’ll shave you if you like.”

Arran was happy to join her. He arranged the razor and strop next to the tub, then stripped off his clothes and crowded into the tub with her, splashing water over the sides as he tried to fit his much larger frame in the small bath with her. Margot had to settle on top of him to allow room; he held her hips in his hands.

She hummed as she lathered his face, and then leaned in to scrape the beard from his face. “Do you remember when I first tried to help you shave your whiskers?” she asked.

“How could I forget it, then? You came quite close to slitting my throat.”

“You fidgeted so! You’d not sit still for a moment.”

“That’s because you were so timid, Margot. You’d no’ employ the razor as it needed.” He mimicked her technique.

Margot giggled, and when she did, the razor slipped a little. “That was an accident,” she said solemnly, then giggled again.

He watched his wife, with her lips pursed and her brow furrowed in concentration, shave the beard from his face.