"With her mother," Isobel continued loudly, her voice carrying over the music. "Every summer evenin' until half the village came listenin' outside her windows in the Lowlands."
The nearby tables erupted into a chorus of pounding timber.
"A song then!"
"Aye, let us hear the Lady!"
Margaret laughed once in pure disbelief, her cheeks turning a bright red. "Absolutely nae. The pipes have ruined me ears tonight."
"Coward," Isobel said serenely, taking a sip of her wine.
"I hate ye deeply," Margaret hissed.
"Nay, ye love me with all yer heart."
More voices joined in from the darkness beyond the fire pits. The old men by the whisky barrels turned around.
"Sing, Lady MacKenzie!"
"Just one verse for the glen, me Lady!"
"Come now, show the MacKenzies what ye have!"
Margaret shook her head hard, her loose curls slipping farther free from their horn pins to spill over her shoulders.
"Me mother isnae here to hold the lower melody," she said, her voice dropping into a quieter register. "It wouldnae sound right without her."
For a brief, rare moment, the rowdy crowd softened, the men lowering their cups.
Then an older weaver near the hearth fire called out, her voice cracked with age but steady: "Then sing for her anyway, me Lady. She'll hear it over the ridge."
The crowd took it up immediately, louder this time.
"Aye!"
Margaret pressed her lips together into a thin line.
Fergus watched her fingers tighten once around the handle of her mug until the skin over her knuckles turned white. She was embarrassed, not frightened. He knew her well enough now torealize she didn't scare easily, and she wasn't truly unwilling either. She simply looked exposed, standing there in the middle of three hundred people who belonged to him.
Isobel reached out and gently touched her bare arm, her expression softening. "They'll love it, Margaret. They want to hear the soul of ye."
"That's precisely the problem," Margaret whispered.
Laughter echoed around them again, easing the tension. Then Margaret sighed, a long, exhausted sound. She set her mug down on the wooden table, straightened her green wool apron, and stepped into the open circle of the firelight.
The simple movement changed the entire dynamic of the meadow.
Not immediately, and not with a shout, but the silence spread outward from her boots one by one as people noticed her position. Conversations faded into murmurs. The nearest fiddlers lowered their bows, the strings groaning softly. Even the running children slowed to a halt, their sticky faces turning toward the light.
Margaret stopped within the very center of the firelight's radius. The wind moved softly across the grass, carrying a small cloud of red sparks around the hem of her red skirts, catching the fabric's depth and turning it briefly, brilliantly alive.
Fergus had seen her beauty before. He had seen her in his dark chambers with Lilly asleep against her chest in the middle of the night. He had seen her in the early morning gold beside the solar window. He had seen her furious and unyielding, staring him down in the great hall.
But this? This felt entirely different.
The massive peat fire painted a rich, deep gold across her skin, emphasizing the tiny dusting of freckles lightly scattered over her shoulders and the bridge of her nose. Her thick hair caught a deep, burning copper hue where the flames touched the edges of her curls.
She briefly glanced at Isobel, her chin dipping. Then she lifted her face toward the dark, silent hills behind the castle walls and started to sing.
