Margaret turned her face slightly, desperate for a breath of cool air.
It was a massive mistake.
Fergus's mouth found the exposed line of her jaw immediately, his lips hot and wet. A sharp bolt of liquid heat shot straight through her spine.
"Christ," he muttered roughly against her skin, his breath burning.
The raw sound of his voice nearly melted her bones.
Margaret's fingers dug harder into the muscle of his shoulders, her head resting back against his arm. "Ye are absolutely... terrible at restraint, Laird MacKenzie."
"Aye," he growled against the column of her throat, his teeth brushing her skin. "I'm becomin' acutely aware of that fact tonight."
His mouth brushed the highly sensitive place just beneath her ear, inhaling her scent. Her breath broke into a ragged sob. Some distant, surviving piece of her Lowland dignity whispered that she should regain complete control of this situation immediately before it was too late.
Unfortunately, that piece of her was losing the battle completely.
Fergus lifted his head suddenly, his breathing ragged. His dark eyes met hers.
Margaret forgot entirely what she had intended to say to him. The orange firelight turned his gaze dark, molten, and dangerous. His mouth was swollen from the force of kissing her. One long curl of her hair remained tangled tightly around his thick fingers.
Neither of them moved a single inch. The air between them felt remarkably thin. Dangerously thin.
Then, Fergus looked down once toward the movement of her mouth. And stopped himself.
Margaret watched the exact, agonizing moment his discipline attempted to return to his face. His heavy jaw clenched so tightly it ached, the bone jutting out.
He stepped back once. Only a single pace.
But the sudden loss of his body heat hit her like a splash of well-water.
Fergus dragged both of his large hands fiercely through his dark hair, turning his back to her as he faced the dying fire with a savage curse muttered under his breath.
Margaret remained frozen against the chair, staring at the broad expanse of his back, trying entirely unsuccessfully to remember how the mechanics of breathing worked.
She stood up and walked towards the bed. The stone room remained painfully silent now, save for the steady, soft crackle of the hearth peat.
Finally, Fergus spoke without turning around to look at her.
"This," he said, his voice incredibly rough and raw, "is precisely why separate chambers were a good idea from the start."
Despite the trembling in her limbs, Margaret laughed softly. It was a breathless, shaken sound.
"And here I thought ye were the most disciplined soldier in the entire Highlands."
He looked over his massive shoulder then, his dark brow furrowed. The intense expression remaining on his face sent another dangerous wave of heat straight through her veins.
"Margaret," he said quietly, his voice dropping into a dangerous register, "daenae test me tonight. Nae after the ale."
Her pulse jumped hard at the sudden sound of her actual name in that specific tone. It wasn't Lady MacKenzie. It wasn't lass.
It wasMargaret.
She folded her hands carefully to hide the distinct trembling of her fingers, smoothing down her green wool skirt. Then, she lifted her chin anyway, her hazel eyes flashing in the firelight. She was entirely too reckless now to retreat into the safety of the shadows.
"Or what, Fergus?" she asked softly.
Fergus stared at her across the small space for a long, painful moment. Then, his jaw clenched, and he looked away first, which somehow felt way more dangerous than any verbal answer he could have given her.
