Chapter 23 #2
Margaret became abruptly, intensely aware of the loosened, low neckline of her green gown where the pins had failed. She felt the heavy warmth of the festival ale in her blood. She saw the way the yellow firelight moved over Fergus's large hands, where they rested against his knees.
They were large hands. Exceptionally capable hands.
Her stomach tightened into a hard knot of anticipation.
"Well?" he asked softly, his eyes darkening.
She knew she should say something clever, some sharp piece of banter to regain her footing. Instead, she heard her own voice ask, "What is it would ye want to ken?"
His dark gaze held hers steadily. Far too steadily.
"The dangerous things," he murmured.
The words slid beneath her skin slowly, like heat entering a wound. Margaret swallowed once, her throat dry. Before she could form a response, a loud explosion of laughter burst suddenly through the stone corridor directly outside their chamber door.
It was loud. Distinctly male.
It was followed immediately by a woman's unmistakable, breathless gasp and another round of unhinged, drunken giggles from the festival-goers.
Both of them froze instantly, their eyes locking.
The rowdy sound continued farther down the long gallery. The sound of stumbling boots against the flags, a muffled, good-natured curse, and another breathless laugh vibrating against the stone walls.
Margaret stared directly into the center of the fire, her cheeks burning. "Someone is thoroughly enjoyin' their festival night," she said. Her voice came out too fast, too light.
Fergus dragged a thick hand slowly down his face, his fingers catching his skin. "For heaven's sake," he muttered.
He pushed himself abruptly out of the carved chair, his massive frame rising into the light. Margaret looked up instinctively at the sudden movement.
It was a terrible idea.
Because something in his expression had changed completely in the space of that single breath.
The rigid restraint was still there, but it was barely holding the line now.
She saw it in the white-hot tension of his broad shoulders.
She saw it in the tight, hard set of his mouth.
She saw it in the way he looked down at her now, without making any attempt whatsoever to disguise the raw hunger that was underneath his armor.
The corridor laughter faded farther away into the depths of the castle. The silence inside the chamber thickened until the air felt heavy as water.
Margaret's heartbeat stumbled once. Then it hammered violently against her ribs when Fergus crossed the small space of the rug toward her.
She had just enough time to draw a single, sharp breath into her lungs before he reached her. Then his hand closed around her waist. His grip was hard, the leather of his gauntlet biting through the wool of her gown.
Margaret's breath caught sharply in her throat as his strength pulled her upright, lifting her clean off the rug until she was pressed flat against the hard surface of his chest. Heat flooded her senses all at once—his fiery body, the scent of whiskey on his breath, the rough, coarse wool of his plaid beneath her fingers as her survival instinct grasped his shoulders.
"Fergus."
He kissed her.
It wasn't a gentle touch. It wasn't controlled. His mouth found hers with all the raw, starved restraint he had kept bottled up for nine long months, finally breaking apart between them like a shattered dam.
Margaret made a small, startled sound against his lips, a tiny gasp that disappeared immediately beneath the sheer, crushing force of the kiss.
God.
His hand tightened around her waist, fingers digging into her hip. His other hand moved up her neck and buried itself deep into her thick hair, his fingers tangled in the loose, copper curls as if he could not get close enough to her fast enough.
Margaret's fingers instinctively clenched into the thick linen of his tunic, her nails digging in deeply. The rough, low sound that escaped his throat at her submission nearly made her knees give out.
He backed her toward the edge of the stone hearth without ever breaking the contact of their mouths.
Her legs pressed against the heavy oak chair behind her, trapping her.
The intense heat from the peat fire curled around them both, caught between their twisting bodies and the cold masonry of the room.
His mouth moved against hers again, demanding, searching, hot.
Margaret kissed him back before her mind could construct a single defense against it.
The exact millisecond she did, Fergus went completely still for the space of one single heartbeat.
It was as though the shocking realization of her response had struck him like a physical blow.
Then, he kissed her significantly harder.
Her head spun in circles. The strong whisky in her blood made everything feel warmer, sharper, impossible to separate cleanly.
His short, rough beard scraped softly against the sensitive skin of her chin. His thick fingers tightened in her hair, pulling her head back.
His massive chest pressed against hers with enough force that she could feel the hard, uneven rhythm of his breathing vibrating beneath his wool plaid.