The musicians shifted into a quicker, wilder tune. A traditional MacKenzie reel. Heavy wool skirts flashed through the orange firelight. Thick leather boots pounded the flattened meadow grass in perfect, primeval rhythm with the deer-hide drums.
Margaret stumbled once on a tussock of grass. She laughed at herself immediately, her cheeks flushing. Then she adjusted her weight, her feet finding the cadence. By the second turn of the circle, she had the step. By the third, half the men nearby had stopped their drinking to watch her move.
Fergus became aware of each look, one by one, like arrows hitting a target. The blacksmith's young son forgot his horn cup halfway to his mouth, the ale dripping into the grass. Young Ewan MacPherson walked directly into the corner of an oak table because his head was turned entirely in the wrong direction.
Fergus lowered his cup slowly, his knuckles turning white.
"Do ye want to kill them all now," Alasdair asked mildly, his voice entirely too pleasant, "or shall we wait until after the meat pies are finished?"
"She's me wife."
"Aye."
"And they're starin' at her."
"Aye. They have eyes, Fergus."
Fergus looked at his oldest friend flatly, his jaw ticking.
Alasdair grinned back without a single ounce of apology. "Welcome to marriage, me Laird."
The pipes shrieked higher into the night, the sound mimicking a hawk's cry. The dancers spun faster around the roaring flames,the blue smoke curling through the cold air and carrying white sparks across the dark field.
Margaret turned with the others, breathless now, her face thoroughly flushed from the heat of the fire and the violent movement of the reel. For one sharp, terrible moment, her hazel eyes lifted across the crowded meadow and landed directly on him.
She faltered. Only slightly.
Her next step came half a beat late against the grass. Fergus felt his breath leave him, as if a heavy hand was closing around his throat from a distance. Then she quickly regained her footing, lifting her chin as she looked away first and slipping back into the spinning circle of tartan.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, his chest aching.
"Interestin'," Alasdair murmured into his cup.
"Say another word about her, Alasdair, and I'll throw ye into the middle of the peat fire."
"Aye, there's the Fergus I remember from the regiment."
The dance finally broke apart in a flurry of laughter and heavy applause. Margaret escaped the circle toward the long tables, fanning her neck with one hand while Isobel laughed beside her, handing her a fresh cup.
The night deepened around them, the cold mountain air settling in. More fires were lit further down the lower meadow, twinkling like fallen stars against the dark ridge. The music drifted between the groups in heavy layers now—wild pipes near the stone hill, the sweet scraping of fiddles somewhere lower down, and a group of older men singing poorly near the whisky barrels.
Fergus lost track of how many hours passed. At some point, Angus challenged three stable lads to a wrestling match and immediately regretted it when they tackled him together into the mud.
The clan roared around him in warmth, grease, and violent movement. And through every single frame of it, Fergus remained intensely aware of Margaret.
Always.
Even when she disappeared briefly behind the thick columns of smoke or into the crowd of weavers, some primitive part of his mind tracked her. The bright flash of her green dress between the lanterns. The low cadence of her voice. The specific, clear shape of her laugh.
It was a dangerous habit. She was a dangerous woman.
Isobel appeared beside the traditional musicians sometime later, carrying a wide wooden cup of sweet wine.
"Oh, nay," Margaret said, stepping back.
Isobel ignored her completely, turning her face to the surrounding tables. "Do ye all ken that Lady MacKenzie used to sing for her people?"
Margaret pointed a finger straight at her friend's face. "Isobel, I swear."
