She is half asleep herself.
And she was. Her eyes were closed, her shoulders curved around the child, and even as he watched, the tension in them began to ease, degree by degree, until she was simply breathing, and the bairn was simply breathing, and the fire was burning low, and there was a stillness in the room that he had not seen in any room he had entered in a very long time.
Something in him went quiet.
He did not know what to do with that, the sudden, unasked-for quiet in the middle of his chest. He stood against the cold stone in the dark, looked at the light in the window, and felt it anyway.
This is what it looks like. Easy. Natural. A thing that simply is.
He had never known what that felt like. Not as a child, woken in the night in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar house, learning early that comfort was not something the world distributed evenly or fairly. Not as a boy growing into a man at Alasdair's side, where affection was real but always shaped around duty, around rank, around the careful distance that loyalty required. Not as a soldier, and certainly not as a laird.
He had built himself out of what life had given him, which was discipline and endurance and the ability to keep moving when softer men would stop. He had believed, for a long time, that this was enough. That a man did not need ease. That needing it was a weakness to be corrected rather than a want to be heard.
Standing here now, looking at his wife asleep with his ward against her chest in the firelight, he was not so certain.
He allowed himself a moment—just one—of imagining crossing the yard, climbing the stairs, pushing that door open, sitting in the chair by the fire, and simply being in the room with them.
Fergus turned away from the wall. The yard was freezing, and the cold was finally cutting through his jacket. He started toward the gate, fully intending to head to his own quarters and remain there. But without thinking it through, he just turned aroundand walked back toward the stone stairs. His boots were heavy on the steps, but he didn't slow down. He reached her door and saw it wasn't fully latched. He pushed it open.
Margaret was leaning over the cradle. She was focused on the baby, her movements careful and quiet.
The floorboard groaned under his weight. Margaret stiffened and spun around. Her hair was down, falling in a mess over her shoulders. Her eyes went wide when she saw him standing there.
"Fergus," she whispered.
He stayed by the door. He didn't say a word. The silence in the room changed, getting heavy and tight. He watched her, and she didn't look away. The shock on her face started to fade, replaced by something much sharper. She looked at his mouth, then back at his eyes.
He took a step into the room.
"Ye should nae be here," she whispered. Her voice was shaky, but she didn't move.
"Why can I nae? Ye are me wife." His voice was rough.
He stepped closer until he was standing right in front of her. He could feel the heat coming off her body. Her pulse was jumping in her neck. He reached out and touched the line of her jaw withhis thumb. Her skin felt hot under his fingers, and he heard her gasp.
"Margaret," he groaned.
The tension between them snapped tight. She leaned into his hand just a little bit, her breath hitching. They stood there, caught in the heat, neither one of them willing to pull away.
"Ye should be asleep," she whispered. Her voice was low.
"I couldnae sleep," he said. His voice was a rough scrape in the silence. "I saw ye through the window."
"And?"
"And I cannae stay away, Margaret. ‘Tis becomin' a problem."
His other hand gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him. The heat of her body soaked through his damp clothes immediately. He saw her eyes go dark, the pupils blowing wide. She didn't pull away. She reached up and grabbed the front of his shirt, her knuckles white.
"Is this the Laird speakin'?" she whispered. "Or the man who left me in the rain?"
"That man is tired of fightin' ye," he rasped.
He leaned down, his forehead pressing against hers. The restraint they had both been performing was snapping. He could feel the quick, sharp beat of her heart against his chest. He moved his hand from her waist to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
He tilted his head, his mouth an inch from hers. He was going to kiss her. He was going to pick her up and carry her to the bed and forget every term they had ever made.
Lilly shifted in the crib. She made a soft, small whimper in her sleep.
