Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Margaret turned her face slightly, desperate for a breath of cool air.
It was a massive mistake.
Fergus's mouth found the exposed line of her jaw immediately, his lips hot and wet. A sharp bolt of liquid heat shot straight through her spine.
"Christ," he muttered roughly against her skin, his breath burning.
The raw sound of his voice nearly melted her bones.
Margaret's fingers dug harder into the muscle of his shoulders, her head resting back against his arm. "Ye are absolutely... terrible at restraint, Laird MacKenzie."
"Aye," he growled against the column of her throat, his teeth brushing her skin. "I'm becomin' acutely aware of that fact tonight."
His mouth brushed the highly sensitive place just beneath her ear, inhaling her scent. Her breath broke into a ragged sob. Some distant, surviving piece of her Lowland dignity whispered that she should regain complete control of this situation immediately before it was too late.
Unfortunately, that piece of her was losing the battle completely.
Fergus lifted his head suddenly, his breathing ragged. His dark eyes met hers.
Margaret forgot entirely what she had intended to say to him. The orange firelight turned his gaze dark, molten, and dangerous. His mouth was swollen from the force of kissing her. One long curl of her hair remained tangled tightly around his thick fingers.
Neither of them moved a single inch. The air between them felt remarkably thin. Dangerously thin.
Then, Fergus looked down once toward the movement of her mouth. And stopped himself.
Margaret watched the exact, agonizing moment his discipline attempted to return to his face. His heavy jaw clenched so tightly it ached, the bone jutting out.
He stepped back once. Only a single pace.
But the sudden loss of his body heat hit her like a splash of well-water.
Fergus dragged both of his large hands fiercely through his dark hair, turning his back to her as he faced the dying fire with a savage curse muttered under his breath.
Margaret remained frozen against the chair, staring at the broad expanse of his back, trying entirely unsuccessfully to remember how the mechanics of breathing worked.
She stood up and walked towards the bed. The stone room remained painfully silent now, save for the steady, soft crackle of the hearth peat.
Finally, Fergus spoke without turning around to look at her.
"This," he said, his voice incredibly rough and raw, "is precisely why separate chambers were a good idea from the start."
Despite the trembling in her limbs, Margaret laughed softly. It was a breathless, shaken sound.
"And here I thought ye were the most disciplined soldier in the entire Highlands."
He looked over his massive shoulder then, his dark brow furrowed. The intense expression remaining on his face sent another dangerous wave of heat straight through her veins.
"Margaret," he said quietly, his voice dropping into a dangerous register, "daenae test me tonight. Nae after the ale."
Her pulse jumped hard at the sudden sound of her actual name in that specific tone. It wasn't Lady MacKenzie. It wasn't lass.
It was Margaret.
She folded her hands carefully to hide the distinct trembling of her fingers, smoothing down her green wool skirt. Then, she lifted her chin anyway, her hazel eyes flashing in the firelight. She was entirely too reckless now to retreat into the safety of the shadows.
"Or what, Fergus?" she asked softly.
Fergus stared at her across the small space for a long, painful moment. Then, his jaw clenched, and he looked away first, which somehow felt way more dangerous than any verbal answer he could have given her.
Margaret remained standing near the high edge of the bed, her fingers curling tightly around the heavy, embroidered linen of the coverlet to hide the tremor in her hands. The air inside the room had grown impossibly thick.
Fergus did not speak. He didn't offer a single word of explanation or apology for his sudden movement.
He turned slowly, his silhouette broad, imposing, and completely filling the space against the flickering gold of the firelight.
His dark green plaid was dusted with the silver dampness of the evening mist. His linen shirt was undone halfway down his chest, revealing a stark patch of skin that glistened with sweat from the heat.
His eyes, dark and unreadable like mountain lochs at midnight, locked onto hers across the room, stripping away the last remaining, careful layers of her Lowland composure with a single, heavy look.
He crossed the narrow chamber in three long, deliberate strides, the thick floorboards groaning under his massive weight. Margaret's breath caught in her throat, her pulse racing like a trapped bird pounding against the cage of her ribs.
He stopped just inches from her, the intense heat radiating from his skin palpable against her face, a physical force that tugged at her senses until the rest of the room blurred into shadow.
"Fergus," she started, her voice a low murmur, but the name died on her lips as his hands moved.
He did not ask for her permission. He did not need to. The unspoken bargain had been struck the moment she kissed him back and dared him.
His hands—rough, massive, and heavily calloused from years of wielding claymores and managing the stone boundaries of the estate—moved everywhere at once.
They gripped her waist with bruising force, his thick fingers pressing through the soft wool fabric of her festival gown to find her hips, pulling her snug against the hard, unyielding planes of his chest.
The sudden impact knocked the air from her lungs in a sharp gasp. She could feel the violent hammer of his heart beating through his linen shirt against her own ribs.
His lips found the sensitive, burning shell of her ear, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.
He murmured something low and urgent in his native Gaelic, the guttural, rolling syllables vibrating directly against her neck.
She did not know the literal translation of the words, but the primitive tone required no interpreter.
It was a declaration of absolute possession, a hunger that had been denied for nine months until the threads had snapped entirely.
The dark sound settled low in her belly, a coil of liquid heat that tightened with every syllable he uttered against her skin.
Margaret's hands moved on their own, her restraint melting away as her fingers slid up the rough linen of his chest to tangle deep in the dark hair at the nape of his neck.
It was coarse, thick, and slightly damp with the night's mist. She tugged downward, pulling his head closer, needing to close the tiny gap between them.
He responded with a low, predatory growl, a deep vibration she felt in her own collarbone rather than heard.
His hands slid from her waist, moving down over the curve of her hips, tracing the lines of her body with a fierce reverence that bordered on violence. The thick deer fur rugs piled by the bed were soft against her ankles, a stark contrast to the iron, unyielding grip of his hands on her thighs.
With a gentle yet firm pressure, he parted her knees, stepping his heavy boots into the space he had made. Margaret gasped, her head falling back against the bolster as his fingers brushed the lace trim of her shift.
The fine fabric was thin, a useless, transparent barrier against the intense heat of his touch. He teased her through the linen, his knuckles brushing against the damp heat between her thighs, testing her readiness with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
"So wet, lass," he rasped, his voice barely recognizable, thick with the lingering burn of the spirits and a desperate lust he had kept caged behind his ledger books for too long.
His mouth crashed down on hers then, erasing any lingering thought she might have possessed. It wasn't a polite husband's kiss; it was a total conquest of her senses.
His tongue swept deep into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her with a ruthless hunger that left her dizzy.
She tasted the peaty whisky on his tongue.
Sharp, smoky, and heavy, mixing with her own frantic need until her fingers tightened desperately in his hair, pulling a deep groan from his chest. He devoured her lips, moving with a fierce, hungry urgency that left her breathless and trembling against the furs.
One of his massive hands left her hip, sliding up her ribcage to cup her breast through the layers of linen and lace.
His thumb found her nipple, already peaked and highly sensitive from the chill of the room, and circled the point with agonizing slowness.
The friction shot a bolt of pure pleasure straight to her core, making her knees buckle beneath her skirts.
He caught her instantly, holding her upright with a single arm banded like iron around her waist, his other hand never ceasing its torment against her skin.
"Fergus, please," she gasped against his mouth, the plea torn from her throat before she could stop it.
He pulled back just enough to look down at her, his eyes burning with a dark, fierce light in the fire gold. The wide pupils had completely swallowed the iris, leaving only a thin, stormy ring of gray around the black.
"Margaret," he breathed, her name sounding like a solemn prayer and a bitter curse wrapped together in his throat.
His thick fingers slid beneath the hem of her shift, touching the bare, untouched skin of her thigh. The stark contrast of his rough, work-worn palm against her soft, pale flesh was electric, sending a shiver through her body.
He traced the inner seam of her leg, moving upward until his fingers brushed the slick, swollen folds of her sensitive area. Margaret cried out, her hips bucking involuntarily toward his hand, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
He didn't rush her. He stroked her with agonizing deliberation, his long fingers exploring her wetness, spreading the heat over the sensitive bud of her clit.
He circled the bundle of nerves with his thumb, applying just enough steady pressure to make her see stars against the dark rafters, while his other fingers teased her entrance, dipping into her slick warmth before slowly pulling back.
She held onto his broad shoulders, her nails digging into the muscle through his shirt. Her breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps that filled the quiet corners of the room. The tension in her stomach grew tighter and tighter, like a bowstring pulled back until the wood groaned.
"Nae yet, mo chridhe," he whispered against her wet lips, using the Gaelic endearment that he knew completely undid her defenses.
He lowered his heavy head, trailing biting kisses down the column of her throat. His short beard, rough and stubbled, scraped hard against her delicate skin, sending shivers racing down her spine.
He bit down gently on the soft junction of her neck and shoulder, soothing the sharp sting with his tongue until Margaret squirmed beneath him, the mix of pleasure and pain overwhelming her senses.
He continued his slow descent, his lips tracing a deliberate path over her breasts. He pushed the fabric of her gown down past her shoulders, fully exposing her to the cool air of the room and his heated gaze. The yellow firelight danced across her skin, casting her in gold and long shadows.
He didn't wait; he took a hard nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak before he sucked hard.
Margaret arched completely off the bed, a loud cry tearing from her throat into the rafters. The sensation was too intense, too sharp to bear.
He suckled her relentlessly, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, sending jolts of electricity straight down to her clit. His hand between her legs never stopped its rhythm, his fingers moving in a maddening cadence, pushing her closer and closer to the very edge of the precipice.
She was trembling violently now, her entire body taut as a wire. The pleasure coiled in her belly, hot, heavy, and threatening to consume her entirely. She could hear the wet, slick sounds of his fingers moving against her flesh in the quiet chamber.
"Fergus," she moaned, her voice hoarse and unrecognizable even to her own ears. "I cannae, I'm goin' to…"
He lifted his head from her breast, his dark eyes locking onto hers with absolute authority.
His chin glistened in the firelight, his lips swollen from her kisses.
He looked like a predator, a mountain wolf who had finally run his prey to ground in the bracken.
He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips that promised everything.
"Nae yet," he said again, his voice a dark, unyielding command.
He kissed his way back up her body, his lips leaving fiery traces over her ribs. When he reached her mouth, he kissed her deeply, absorbing her desperation into his own throat.
His fingers froze inside her, buried deep, holding her just on the edge of release without letting her fall over. She whimpered into his mouth, her hips rocking desperately against his hand, craving the friction he refused her.
He eased the kiss slightly, resting his damp forehead against hers. Their breath mingled, hot, heavy, and loud in the tight space between them. The hunger in his eyes hadn't faded; if anything, it had become darker and more dangerous.
Margaret shuddered; she knew this was only the beginning of her undoing.