"I miss bein' Alasdair's man-at-arms."
The heavy words landed between them like a dropped blade. Margaret blinked once, her fingers tightening on her apron. It wasn't because the confession itself surprised her—she had suspected the burden of the lairdship was crushing him—but rather because of how quietly he had allowed himself to say it.There was no defensive armor in his tone, no sharpness. There was only a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
Fergus looked directly into the pulsing embers of the fire instead of at her.
"It was simpler then," he continued, his voice rough and uneven. "I kent exactly what I was in the world. I kent what was expected of me every mornin'. Fight when needed. Protect what belongs to the house. Hold the line." His jaw tightened briefly, a cord standing out in his neck. "There were far fewer people waitin' for me to fail."
Margaret watched his large hands. They were still clasped together between his knees, held entirely too tightly, the skin over his knuckles stark and pale against his dark skin.
Margaret drew one knee closer beneath the green wool of her skirts, her posture shifting.
Fergus slowly rubbed his large hand across his dark jaw, the sound of his rough stubble scratching loudly in the quiet room. He suddenly looked incredibly tired. Not the physical exhaustion from a day of driving fence posts, but something much deeper—a weariness of the spirit. Margaret felt a painful looseness in her own chest at the sight of his vulnerability.
It was dangerous. Very dangerous for her heart.
She instinctively reached for her pewter cup, planning to drink to hide her face, before recalling she had left it downstairs on the long tables. It was probably for the best.
"Another truth," she said lightly instead, refusing to let the heavy mood swallow them entirely.
Fergus's eyes narrowed immediately, though the tension left his shoulders. "Greedy lass."
"Aye."
"This bargain was supposed to be for one truth only."
"And yet here we are sittin' by the fire."
A brief, raspy breath escaped him. It wasn't quite a full laugh; he didn't grant those easily, but it was closer than he usually allowed himself to get. Then, his entire expression shifted again, his posture straightening.
He looked more alert now, his eyes tracking her with a cautious, calculating focus.
"The next truth costs somethin' real, Margaret," he said quietly, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
Margaret immediately felt the implicit warning in his words. Still, she lifted her chin, her pride refusing to allow her to cower. "Does it?"
"Aye." His voice dropped even lower, rough and gravelly. "The next time ye ask me for somethin' real from me past, ye'll give somethin' real in return."
An unexpected, searing heat shot straight into her face. It had nothing to do with how close the hearth fire was. The stone room suddenly felt much smaller, the gap between his chair and her spot on the rug closing to nothing.
Margaret forced herself not to look away from his gaze. "That sounds suspiciously like a Lowland bargainin' tactic, Laird MacKenzie."
"It is a bargain."
"I thought Highland men despised negotiation."
"Only when they're losin' the fight."
Her pulse skipped a distinct beat against her ribs. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing now; the vulnerability was gone.
Margaret became abruptly, intensely aware of the loosened, low neckline of her green gown where the pins had failed. She felt the heavy warmth of the festival ale in her blood. She saw the waythe yellow firelight moved over Fergus's large hands, where they rested against his knees.
They were large hands. Exceptionally capable hands.
Her stomach tightened into a hard knot of anticipation.
"Well?" he asked softly, his eyes darkening.
She knew she should say something clever, some sharp piece of banter to regain her footing. Instead, she heard her own voice ask, "What is it would ye want to ken?"
