Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
The castle smelled of bitter woodsmoke and spilled ale by the time they finally breached the heavy timber doors of the inner keep.
The festival still roared beyond the perimeter walls. The wild, soaring music of the pipes drifted faintly through the narrow, unglazed arrow-slits, the high notes thoroughly softened now by the vast distance and the thickness of the stone masonry.
Yet, bursts of raucous laughter continued to echo through the drafty corridors as weary clansmen stumbled their way back toward their straw sleeping pallets, and exhausted kitchen servants carried empty pine casks back down toward the lower larders.
Margaret loosened the heavy silver clasp of her wool cloak as she climbed the winding stone stairs beside him.
Her cheeks still burned with warmth, flushed from the intense heat of the peat fire, the unexpected exertion of the reel, and the hefty amount of strong ale Isobel had pressed into her hands afterward, all with a suspiciously wide-eyed innocence.
"Ye were magnificent," Isobel had whispered directly against her ear in the press of the crowd, her breath smelling of sweet mead, before she disappeared entirely back into the swirling mass of tartan.
Now, the alcohol had taken effect, making Margaret's head feel pleasantly light. It wasn't enough to completely dull her sharp thoughts, but it was certainly enough to loosen the tight coils of restraint that usually governed them.
Beside her, Fergus climbed the steep rise of the stairs in absolute silence.
It wasn't his usual, methodical silence.
This one felt far tighter, like the tension of a crossbow string.
She noticed the sharp tensing of his jaw whenever a distant burst of drunken laughter echoed from the lower hall below them.
She saw how he rolled his broad shoulders under his linen shirt, as if he were trying to force himself back into his own skin.
It was an interesting shift. Margaret hid her small smile behind the collar of her cloak.
When they finally reached the landing of their adjoining chambers, Fergus pushed the heavy oak door open. He stood aside, his back pressed against the stone frame to allow her to enter the room first.
The hearth inside still glowed softly from earlier in the afternoon, the thick blocks of peat pulsing a deep, vibrant orange beneath a delicate layer of gray ash.
Someone, most likely Maisie, had left fresh tallow candles burning brightly near the ceramic washstand.
The warm, yellow light softened the sharp lines of the heavy stone walls, illuminating the thick deer furs draped across the wide bed and the dark, carved oak of the high-backed chairs near the fire.
Margaret pulled the long horn pins from her hair one by one as the heavy door clicked shut behind them. She felt the absolute weight of his gaze watching her before she even turned around to face him.
Fergus stood near the closed door, his broad shoulders half-shadowed by flickering candlelight.
His dark green plaid hung loosely over his frame now, one heavy side slipping lower across his chest from long hours in the meadow.
The sharp smell of peat smoke still clung to the fibers of his wool beneath the cold Highland air he had brought inside.
And underneath that layer, the scent of strong highland whisky. The heat of the fire. Him.
Margaret set the horn pins down carefully onto the oak table, the wood clicking softly.
"Ye've been glarin' at half yer own clan all evenin'," she said, keeping her voice light, almost conversational.
"I have nae," he grunted, his voice low.
"Aye, ye have."
"I was observin' the perimeter."
She laughed softly, a bright sound in the quiet room. "Like a man preparin' immediate executions."
The corner of his mouth twitched once despite himself, a brief, involuntary flex of the muscle.
It was a small victory.
Margaret crossed the room slowly toward the hearth, lowering herself onto the thick wool rug near the fire, gathering the heavy green skirts of her gown beneath her legs. The intense heat brushed against her skin immediately, a welcome sensation after the freezing mountain chill outside.
Fergus remained standing by the door. Still watching her every move.
"Sit down," she said, looking up through her lashes.
"That sounded dangerously close to an order, Lady MacKenzie."
"Nay, it's nae."
He exhaled a long breath through his nose and finally crossed the room, his heavy boots thudding against the oak floorboards.
The timber creaked beneath his immense weight as he lowered himself into the carved chair directly opposite her.
The orange firelight moved across the hard, scarred lines of his face, making his features appear softer now after the whisky and the long evening.
Margaret tucked a stray, honey-colored curl behind her ear. Then she leaned forward, looking directly into his dark eyes.
"Now," she said quietly, the ale making her bold, "ye will tell me one single truth ye've never spoken aloud."
Fergus stilled instantly. Something deep within his posture locked incredibly tight all the same, his chest freezing mid-breath.
Margaret waited. She did not attempt to explain herself, nor did she soften the weight of the demand.
She simply let the silence hang. He understood her perfectly.
This was not a conversation about clan accounts, or the upcoming winter stores, or whether little Lilly preferred a spoonful of wild honey in her morning porridge.
This was exposure. Real, raw exposure.
His eyes narrowed slightly, the bronze firelight catching the irises. "The festival ale has made ye reckless tonight, lass."
"Nay." Margaret leaned her back against the base of the heavy chair behind her, her spine relaxing. "Only brave."
"That concerns me significantly more."
She smiled at him.
His gaze dropped briefly, heavily, to the movement of her mouth. Then he tore his eyes away, looking back toward the shadows. Margaret felt the brief trajectory of that look like a sudden, warm coil low in her stomach.
"Well?" she prompted quietly, her voice dropping an octave.
Fergus leaned forward slowly, resting his thick forearms on his knees as he moved closer to the light. The flames flickered in his dark eyes again, making them almost molten bronze for a brief moment before the shadow of his brow swallowed them entirely. He remained silent for several seconds.
Finally, his jaw unlocked, and he spoke.
"I miss bein' Alasdair's man-at-arms."
The heavy words landed between them like a dropped blade.
Margaret blinked once, her fingers tightening on her apron.
It wasn't because the confession itself surprised her—she had suspected the burden of the lairdship was crushing him—but rather because of how quietly he had allowed himself to say it.
There was no defensive armor in his tone, no sharpness.
There was only a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
Fergus looked directly into the pulsing embers of the fire instead of at her.
"It was simpler then," he continued, his voice rough and uneven.
"I kent exactly what I was in the world.
I kent what was expected of me every mornin'.
Fight when needed. Protect what belongs to the house.
Hold the line." His jaw tightened briefly, a cord standing out in his neck.
"There were far fewer people waitin' for me to fail. "
Margaret watched his large hands. They were still clasped together between his knees, held entirely too tightly, the skin over his knuckles stark and pale against his dark skin.
Margaret drew one knee closer beneath the green wool of her skirts, her posture shifting.
Fergus slowly rubbed his large hand across his dark jaw, the sound of his rough stubble scratching loudly in the quiet room.
He suddenly looked incredibly tired. Not the physical exhaustion from a day of driving fence posts, but something much deeper—a weariness of the spirit.
Margaret felt a painful looseness in her own chest at the sight of his vulnerability.
It was dangerous. Very dangerous for her heart.
She instinctively reached for her pewter cup, planning to drink to hide her face, before recalling she had left it downstairs on the long tables. It was probably for the best.
"Another truth," she said lightly instead, refusing to let the heavy mood swallow them entirely.
Fergus's eyes narrowed immediately, though the tension left his shoulders. "Greedy lass."
"Aye."
"This bargain was supposed to be for one truth only."
"And yet here we are sittin' by the fire."
A brief, raspy breath escaped him. It wasn't quite a full laugh; he didn't grant those easily, but it was closer than he usually allowed himself to get. Then, his entire expression shifted again, his posture straightening.
He looked more alert now, his eyes tracking her with a cautious, calculating focus.
"The next truth costs somethin' real, Margaret," he said quietly, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
Margaret immediately felt the implicit warning in his words. Still, she lifted her chin, her pride refusing to allow her to cower. "Does it?"
"Aye." His voice dropped even lower, rough and gravelly. "The next time ye ask me for somethin' real from me past, ye'll give somethin' real in return."
An unexpected, searing heat shot straight into her face. It had nothing to do with how close the hearth fire was. The stone room suddenly felt much smaller, the gap between his chair and her spot on the rug closing to nothing.
Margaret forced herself not to look away from his gaze. "That sounds suspiciously like a Lowland bargainin' tactic, Laird MacKenzie."
"It is a bargain."
"I thought Highland men despised negotiation."
"Only when they're losin' the fight."
Her pulse skipped a distinct beat against her ribs. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing now; the vulnerability was gone.