"I am nae finished." She held his gaze. "Ye are right to be cautious. Rushin' into that hall before ye are ready serves nay one. But they are nae askin' ye to be ready." She paused. "They are askin' ye to be present. There is a difference. Ye daenae have to ken every name and every boundary before ye stand up there. Ye only have to show them that ye are tryin' to. That ye see them." She tilted her head slightly. "Ye already do. I have watched ye do it. They have watched ye do it. They are nae askin'for a man who kens everythin'. They are askin' for a man who will nae look away."
Fergus was quiet for a long moment.
"Donal said three days," he said finally.
"Then ye have three days," she said. "That is enough."
He looked at her across the water, the evening light turning gold behind the hills, and something inside him that had been held all afternoon finally eased just a fraction.
"Ye should have been a council member," he said.
"I should have been many things," she answered. "Give me time."
He looked at her for a long moment. Something in him was very still.
"Ye understand it," he said quietly. Not a question.
"I understand ye," she said. "More than ye think. I see how strong ye are."
He crouched at the bank until his eyes were level with hers, his forearms resting on his knees, close enough that the distance between them was no longer a distance at all. His gaze movedover her face and then shifted down to her neck, lingering at the space just before her shoulders.
"Margaret."
"Aye."
He reached out. His hand found her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with a slowness that stopped her breath entirely. His eyes followed the movement, dark and intent, and she could see him choosing this, deliberately, without the storm or the dark to blame it on. Just him, and her, and the quiet water between them.
She put her hand over his and held it there.
He exhaled, and something in him gave way.
He came into the water without taking his eyes off her, boots and all, the loch soaking through his clothes as he stepped in until he stood before her and the distance between them disappeared entirely. His hands found her waist beneath the surface, warm against her bare skin, and she felt her breath leave her body.
"I am nae good at this," he said, his voice very low.
"I ken," she said. "Do it anyway."
He kissed her slowly this time. Nothing like in the rain, nothing sharp or sudden. This was a deliberate, thorough kiss from a man who had decided to stop running and was taking his time to arrive. She felt it move through her like warmth, spreading from the press of his mouth to everywhere his hands were and where they had not yet been.
His hands moved at her waist, learning the lines of her, and when she drew breath against his mouth, he made a sound low in his chest that undid her entirely. The water shifted around them as she moved closer, her hands finding the front of his soaked shirt, the solid warmth of him beneath it. His mouth left hers and found the curve of her neck, and she let her head fall back against the steady weight of his arm.
Fergus's hands slid from her waist, trailing down the curve of her hips beneath the water. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged against the sensitive skin of her throat.
"Margaret," he groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. "Ye are a distraction I cannae fight any more."
He sank lower into the water, his knees finding the soft silt of the loch bed. Margaret's hands remained in his hair, her fingers tangling in the damp, dark strands as he settled between her thighs. The water lapped at her breasts, but the heat rising within her was sharper than the evening chill.
"Fergus," she gasped, her spine arching as his face neared the junction of her body.
He did not hesitate. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady as his mouth found her soft center. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat that blurred her vision. He was meticulous and deliberate, applying the same focused intensity he brought to every task, exploring her folds as if they were a map he had finally been allowed to read.
"Aye, lass," he muttered against her skin, his voice thick with a man's hunger. "Ye taste of the river and the sun."
Margaret's head fell back, her eyes closing as the world narrowed to the friction of his tongue and the hard strength of his hands. Every stroke was a slow, agonizing climb. She felt the coil tightening in her belly, a pressure that demanded release.
"Please," she whispered, her fingers tightening their grip on his shoulders. "Fergus, I cannae?—"
"I have ye," he growled, his thumbs pressing into her inner thighs to open her further. "Give it to me, Margaret. Let it go."
