He was already staring.
Neither of them looked away. Not quickly. Not with any pretense of accident. The space between the bed and the stool grew tense and froze completely.
Tell me to stop,his silence roared.Tell me to leave, and I will.
She didn't tell him to leave. Instead, she lowered her gaze to her own fingers, her breathing shallow.
"There is another matter," she said softly.
"Aye?" He was proud of how level his voice stayed.
"The blue gown needs a brooch at the collar." Her long lashes lifted just enough to snare him again. "I thought ye might ken if there is somethin' here. Somethin' belongin' to the castle. Clan silver, perhaps."
He thought of the heavy iron box locked in his solar. He stood up before he had fully decided to.
"There's a chest. In the solar. Old pieces from before me time." His voice was steady. "I'll look."
"Thank ye."
The seamstress shook out the blue gown, holding the fabric up against Margaret's front.
Fergus saw immediately that it was wrong. The pale, watery blue drained the warmth from her skin. The green had made her eyes brighter, her freckles more vivid. This blue was correct by every standard measure of a Lowland lady, and entirely wrong by the only one that mattered.
The seamstress frowned. Shifted the angle. Frowned again. "Hm," she grunted.
"Too pale?" Margaret asked, looking down at herself.
"The cut is fine. The color..." The seamstress rummaged in her wicker basket. "I brought another. I wasnae sure which ye'd prefer." She pulled out a deep navy, almost violet at the edges.
"Or ye could try red," Fergus said.
The words cut through the quiet room. Both women froze, looking at him.
He had not planned to speak. He had been looking at the wrong shade of blue near her throat, and the thought had just become definitive before he could weigh its cost.
Well. That's done.
"The red," the seamstress repeated slowly.
"Aye." He kept his tone flat, precise, the exact tone he used for land disputes and grain tallies. "If ye have it. For the evenin' gatherin'. The firelight will suit it."
The seamstress stared at him for a long, quiet moment. A deeply satisfied, knowing expression settled into the lines of her face.
"I have a red," she whispered, and reached deep into the basket.
Margaret was watching him. He felt her gaze the way he felt the peat fire on his skin—steady, pointed, hot enough to burn. He looked down at the pin box, pulled two pins free, and kept them ready between his thick fingers.
"Thank ye," Margaret said softly.
He didn't answer. He didn't trust his voice to stay where he needed it to hide.
The seamstress draped the red fabric across Margaret's chest.
He knew exactly what it would do. The crimson clung to her skin with a perfect, striking heat that took his next breath away entirely. The contrast was starkly clear. It had nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with the fact that she was his wife, standing three feet away, and he had just picked the color that would make every man in the great hall look at her when the time to wear the dress comes.
He could not take it back. He found he did not want to.
"Aye," the seamstress murmured.
