Lilly gave a sharp, approving babble, her small fist grabbing at Margaret's shawl.
Fergus didn't answer. He sat on the bench and shoved his foot into the boot, his movements aggressive and final. He did not meet her eyes. He did not look at the bairn. He just stood, adjusted his plaid, and headed for the door without a backward glance.
Margaret stayed in the solar, watching his retreating back. She noticed the way his hand shook as he gripped the doorframe. He was not nearly as composed as he wanted her to believe.
Later that day, Margaret moved between the looms, her fingers trailing over the indigo-dyed wool. She was doing everything necessary to stay busy, but the truth was she was no longer an outsider treading carefully on stone that didn't belong to her; this was her house, she was the Lady, and these women were her own.
"The tension on the warp is loose, Elspeth," Margaret said, stopping beside a woman whose hands moved with a speed that blurred the sight. "If ye daenae tighten it, the pattern will bleed when the winter rains hit."
Elspeth paused, wiping sweat from her brow with a reddened hand. She looked at the weave, then at Margaret, giving a slow nod of respect. "Aye, me Lady. Ye've an eye for the detail, so ye have."
"I spent enough hours at me mother's side in the Lowlands to ken when a thread is lazy," Margaret replied, a small smile touching her lips.
She kept moving, discussing the stores for the fall and the weight of the wool needed for the men's winter plaids. But as she reached for a bundle of dark, unwashed fleece, the heat of the hall seemed to sharpen. The way the light caught the corded muscles of a weaver's arm reminded her of the yard that morning, and the way Fergus had looked as he shoved the benches aside, his jaw tight and his eyes avoidant. He couldn't hide from her forever.
The memory hit her then, unbidden and fierce. She wasn't in the hall anymore; she was back at the loch, the water cold against her skin while his hands were fire. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his thumbs against her inner thighs, opening her, and the raw, guttural sound he'd made against her neck. It had been a choice, deliberate and thorough—a man finally stopping his flight.
A flush that had nothing to do with the hearth-fire climbed her neck. Her fingers tightened on the wool, the oily fibers biting into her skin.
"Me Lady? Are ye well?" Maisie asked, appearing at her side with a basket of empty bobbins.
Margaret blinked, the weaving hall snapping back into focus. She forced her hands to relax, though her skin felt too tight for her bones. "Yes, Maisie. Just the heat. It is a heavy day."
"The Laird has the men out in the south yard," Maisie said, her eyes twinkling with a knowing mischief. "He's been drivin' posts since the sun was up. I ken he's lookin' for somethin' to break."
"He is lookin' to forget," Margaret murmured, more to herself than the maid.
"Forget what?"
Margaret turned to a fresh loom, her movements brisk and final.
That he is nae the only one who kens how to hold a grudge.
"Tell the cook we'll need the midday meal sent out to the yard."
If he wants to work like a horse, he had best be fed like one.
She walked toward the far end of the hall, her head held high. Her mind was already halfway across the courtyard, wondering if his hands were still shaking.
Chapter Seventeen
The seamstress arrived on a Tuesday. Fergus knew this because Tuesday was the day Angus compiled the week's accounting, leaving the ledger on his desk.
Fergus sat at his desk, dipping his quill. He found three figures requiring immediate attention. He was halfway through calculating the first when the noise began.
It wasn't a loud noise. It was the soft, persistent murmur of women's voices carrying down the stone corridor. They rose and fell in waves, punctuated by the crisp rustle of heavy fabric. Then came a sound that made his hand freeze entirely: the low, bright ring of Margaret's laughter.
He forced his gaze down. He turned the page.
Focus.
He managed three more lines before realizing he had read the exact same entry four times. The ink dried on his quill. He couldn't have stated a single sum on the parchment. He set the quill aside.
Mrs. O'Halloran had informed him the previous evening. A seamstress had been fetched from the village to see to the Lady's wardrobe.
Margaret had come north with only what she could pack in two days. It was sensible, but it didn't account for a bitter Highland winter or the demands of a working castle. Fergus had agreed simply to avoid further conversation.
He had not anticipated that the sound of his wife's voice would render his ledgers unreadable. He sat in the silence of his study for another minute. The numbers mocked him.
