Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
They reached Fergus bedchamber moments later. Fergus pushed the heavy oak door open with his forearm, ushering Margaret inside with an exaggerated, fragile care that bordered on frantic urgency.
The large room still smelled faintly of the disaster, bitter peat smoke mingling with the familiar, calming scent of dried lavender and beeswax.
Fragments of their frantic midnight escape lay scattered everywhere, frozen in time.
The tangled, tossed linen sheets on the massive bed.
His heavy leather broadsword belt was discarded carelessly near the stone hearth.
The overturned wooden chair from the exact moment the alarm had torn them apart.
Margaret's chest tightened unexpectedly at the sight. Less than two hours ago, she had stood in this very room believing with absolute certainty that she was leaving him forever, that her heart was completely hollowed out. Now, he would not let even a single inch of air pass between them.
Lilly had already fallen half asleep again, her small head resting heavily against Margaret's shoulder, exhausted by the night's terror, by the time the healer finally arrived.
Iseabail swept into the room, her grey hair tucked firmly into a linen cap, carrying bundles of pungent herbs and clean linen bandages.
"Well," the woman muttered, taking in Fergus's blistering, red shoulder and Margaret's smoke-blackened face in a single, sweeping glance. "Ye both look absolutely terrible."
A weak, involuntary laugh escaped Margaret's lips before she could stop it. The sudden, bright sound surprised all three of them in the quiet of the room.
Fergus stared down at her, his eyes unblinking.
Iseabail moved immediately toward Margaret, ignoring the Laird entirely. "Sit down on the chest, me Lady. Move."
Margaret obeyed, her legs suddenly feeling like water. Lilly was expertly removed from her arms by Maisie, who had slipped quietly into the chamber sometime during the initial confusion, her eyes wide with lingering fright.
The very second Lilly left her embrace, Fergus moved closer. He didn't do it consciously; his body simply, instinctively filled the empty space beside her, his thigh brushing against her skirts.
Iseabail checked Margaret's pulse first, her rough fingers pressing firmly against her wrist, before leaning in to listen to her breathing.
Margaret tried her best to answer the healer's sharp questions properly, tried to focus her scattered mind on the practicalities of her health. But every single time she lifted her eyes, she found Fergus watching her.
"Any dizziness when ye stand?" the healer asked, her voice sharp.
Margaret blinked, the words sounding muffled. "What? Forgive me..."
Iseabail paused, her fingers freezing on Margaret's wrist. Then, with a slow, knowing expression, she followed Margaret's distracted gaze directly up toward Fergus's intense, unmoving face. Deep, weary understanding dawned instantly across the old healer's weathered features.
"Oh, for the love of the Almighty," Iseabail muttered, rolling her eyes toward the timber ceiling.
Margaret's cheeks flushed a bright, hot crimson beneath the streaks of black soot. "I apologize," she said weakly, looking down at her lap. "I was distracted."
Fergus stared at her for half a heartbeat, the tight lines around his mouth fracturing. Then he smiled. Margaret forgot entirely what the healer had been asking her. She could only stare back.
Iseabail sighed dramatically, packing her dried coltsfoot and lavender back into her leather pouch.
"She's perfectly fine," she informed Fergus dryly, checking Margaret's hazel eyes one final time with a firm thumb. "Simple smoke inhalation. Exhaustion. Lots and lots of fresh well water, me Lady. Drink until ye drown."
Then, she turned a pointed, blistering glare directly toward the towering Laird. "And perhaps less starin' at each other like ye've both lost whatever small lick of self-restraint the Lord gave ye."
Fergus did not even attempt to look ashamed or offer a stern defense. He didn't take his eyes off his wife for a single second. Which somehow made Margaret's blush burn twice as hot against her skin.
The healer packed her remaining things with theatrical irritation, slinging the strap over her shoulder.
"I'll send up a jar of honey salve for that shoulder of yers," she told Fergus, gesturing to the raw blisters.
"And if either of ye decides to collapse before the mornin' sun breaks, kindly do it after I've had me sleep. "
Then, she left the room, her heavy skirts clicking against the floorboards. Maisie followed shortly after, cradling the deeply sleeping Lilly in her arms and gently closing the thick oak door behind her with a soft, deliberate click.
Leaving the chamber suddenly, completely quiet.
Margaret slowly stood up, muscles aching, and moved toward the warmth of the hearth.
Fergus stayed standing right by the closed door, his broad shoulders braced against the wood, watching her every move.
The restless gold glow of the peat fire flickered across his bare, caked skin, emphasizing the heavy muscles of his chest and arms. Smoke still shadowed the stiff lines of his collarbones, and the fresh, angry burn marked his left shoulder.
His chest rose and fell unevenly, fueled by the lingering mix of adrenaline and deep exhaustion.
And his dark eyes never left her. Not for a single pulse.
Margaret sensed the heavy weight of his gaze on her skin everywhere. The large bedchamber suddenly felt much too small, too warm, with the air thick with tension.
Fergus covered the distance between them in three huge, predatory strides. Then, he came to a complete stop right in front of her. Close enough that she could feel the intense, unnatural heat still radiating from his bare skin, smelling of burnt pine and wild heather.
For one long, suspended moment, neither of them spoke a single word.
Then, Fergus reached for her. Both of his massive, rough hands came up, framing the sides of her face with a startling, trembling care that made her breath hitch. His thumbs brushed gently over the freckles on her cheekbones, smearing the black soot.
"I thought I lost ye," he whispered.
The words came out incredibly low, a rough, broken rasp that sounded as if it had been violently torn from somewhere raw and deep inside his chest. There were no walls left on his face. No defenses. No stubborn Highland pride to shield him from her.
Margaret felt her entire chest ache with a profound, blooming sweetness at the sound. She lifted her hands instinctively, her fingers wrapping around his thick, soot-stained wrists, feeling the heavy leap of his pulse beneath her palms.
"I'm here, Fergus," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm right here."
Fergus closed his eyes briefly, his forehead dropping slightly, as though simply hearing her say the words physically anchored him to the earth. Then, he opened his dark eyes again, looking straight into her soul. The sheer, naked volume of emotion in his face nearly undid her remaining control.
"I cannae breathe without ye, Margaret."
Margaret went entirely still, her heart skipping a beat. The wide room seemed to narrow down to nothing around the weight of those words.
Fergus swallowed hard, the muscle in his throat jumping.
For the first time since she had met him, she realized he looked almost afraid.
Not of a battle, not of an incoming army, not of a raging forest fire.
He was terrified of this. Of handing her his bare heart with absolutely no shield left around it to protect him from the blow.
"I love ye," he said.
Margaret stared up at him, her hazel eyes filling with hot tears she didn't bother to wipe away.
Everything inside her soul softened so quickly, so completely, that it became a physical ache.
All those long months waiting at Dunalasdair.
The crushing loneliness of her empty bed.
The bitter moments when she wondered if she was entirely unlovable, if he would ever truly let her reach him behind his high stone walls.
And now, here he stood—the proud Laird of Clan MacKenzie—shaking lightly from the toxic smoke, lingering fear, and the overwhelming depth of his love for her, gazing down at her as if she had become the absolute center of his entire universe without his consent.
A small smile flickered across her face before she could contain the emotion. Initially subtle and trembling, it soon brightened, filled with a fierce joy. Beautiful enough to render Fergus utterly motionless, his breath catching in his throat.
"And I love ye, Fergus," she whispered against his palms.
A visible wave of raw relief swept through him, causing his shoulders to drop. Margaret barely had time to take a breath before Fergus leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't cautious this time. Everything inside him—every ounce of his soul, his history, his fear, his desire, and his deep love—flowed into the kiss all at once.
His large hands slid deep into her copper-honey curls, tilting her head back, drawing her closer and tighter against him until she could feel the hard, rapid, frantic beat of his heart pounding directly against her ribs.
Margaret kissed him back instantly, completely, pouring a year of suppressed longing into the touch. Her hands slid up his naked chest, her fingers curling tightly into the thick muscle of his shoulders.
Fergus made a rough, dark sound low in his throat that sent a rush of white-hot heat racing straight through her entire body.
Nothing held him back now. Not his obligations to the clan, not his fear of vulnerability, not the endless, twisted instinct to deny himself anything he truly needed to survive.
Her moving fingers accidentally brushed across the raw, blistering skin of his left shoulder, causing him to flinch slightly against her mouth.