Margaret remained standing near the high edge of the bed, her fingers curling tightly around the heavy, embroidered linen of the coverlet to hide the tremor in her hands. The air inside the room had grown impossibly thick.
Fergus did not speak. He didn't offer a single word of explanation or apology for his sudden movement.
He turned slowly, his silhouette broad, imposing, and completely filling the space against the flickering gold of the firelight. His dark green plaid was dusted with the silver dampness of the evening mist. His linen shirt was undone halfway down his chest, revealing a stark patch of skin that glistened with sweat from the heat. His eyes, dark and unreadable like mountain lochs at midnight, locked onto hers across the room, stripping away the last remaining, careful layers of her Lowland composure with a single, heavy look.
He crossed the narrow chamber in three long, deliberate strides, the thick floorboards groaning under his massive weight. Margaret's breath caught in her throat, her pulse racing like a trapped bird pounding against the cage of her ribs.
He stopped just inches from her, the intense heat radiating from his skin palpable against her face, a physical force that tugged at her senses until the rest of the room blurred into shadow.
"Fergus," she started, her voice a low murmur, but the name died on her lips as his hands moved.
He did not ask for her permission. He did not need to. The unspoken bargain had been struck the moment she kissed him back and dared him.
His hands—rough, massive, and heavily calloused from years of wielding claymores and managing the stone boundaries of theestate—moved everywhere at once. They gripped her waist with bruising force, his thick fingers pressing through the soft wool fabric of her festival gown to find her hips, pulling her snug against the hard, unyielding planes of his chest.
The sudden impact knocked the air from her lungs in a sharp gasp. She could feel the violent hammer of his heart beating through his linen shirt against her own ribs.
His lips found the sensitive, burning shell of her ear, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. He murmured something low and urgent in his native Gaelic, the guttural, rolling syllables vibrating directly against her neck. She did not know the literal translation of the words, but the primitive tone required no interpreter. It was a declaration of absolute possession, a hunger that had been denied for nine months until the threads had snapped entirely.
The dark sound settled low in her belly, a coil of liquid heat that tightened with every syllable he uttered against her skin.
Margaret's hands moved on their own, her restraint melting away as her fingers slid up the rough linen of his chest to tangle deep in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. It was coarse, thick, and slightly damp with the night's mist. She tugged downward, pulling his head closer, needing to close the tiny gap between them.
He responded with a low, predatory growl, a deep vibration she felt in her own collarbone rather than heard.
His hands slid from her waist, moving down over the curve of her hips, tracing the lines of her body with a fierce reverence that bordered on violence. The thick deer fur rugs piled by the bed were soft against her ankles, a stark contrast to the iron, unyielding grip of his hands on her thighs.
With a gentle yet firm pressure, he parted her knees, stepping his heavy boots into the space he had made. Margaret gasped, her head falling back against the bolster as his fingers brushed the lace trim of her shift.
The fine fabric was thin, a useless, transparent barrier against the intense heat of his touch. He teased her through the linen, his knuckles brushing against the damp heat between her thighs, testing her readiness with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
"So wet, lass," he rasped, his voice barely recognizable, thick with the lingering burn of the spirits and a desperate lust he had kept caged behind his ledger books for too long.
His mouth crashed down on hers then, erasing any lingering thought she might have possessed. It wasn't a polite husband's kiss; it was a total conquest of her senses.
His tongue swept deep into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her with a ruthless hunger that left her dizzy. She tasted the peaty whisky on his tongue. Sharp, smoky, and heavy, mixing with her own frantic need until her fingers tightened desperately in his hair, pulling a deep groan from his chest. He devoured her lips, moving with a fierce, hungry urgency that left her breathless and trembling against the furs.
One of his massive hands left her hip, sliding up her ribcage to cup her breast through the layers of linen and lace.
His thumb found her nipple, already peaked and highly sensitive from the chill of the room, and circled the point with agonizing slowness. The friction shot a bolt of pure pleasure straight to her core, making her knees buckle beneath her skirts. He caught her instantly, holding her upright with a single arm banded like iron around her waist, his other hand never ceasing its torment against her skin.
"Fergus, please," she gasped against his mouth, the plea torn from her throat before she could stop it.
He pulled back just enough to look down at her, his eyes burning with a dark, fierce light in the fire gold. The wide pupils had completely swallowed the iris, leaving only a thin, stormy ring of gray around the black.
"Margaret," he breathed, her name sounding like a solemn prayer and a bitter curse wrapped together in his throat.
His thick fingers slid beneath the hem of her shift, touching the bare, untouched skin of her thigh. The stark contrast of his rough, work-worn palm against her soft, pale flesh was electric, sending a shiver through her body.
He traced the inner seam of her leg, moving upward until his fingers brushed the slick, swollen folds of her sensitive area. Margaret cried out, her hips bucking involuntarily toward his hand, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
He didn't rush her. He stroked her with agonizing deliberation, his long fingers exploring her wetness, spreading the heat over the sensitive bud of her clit.
He circled the bundle of nerves with his thumb, applying just enough steady pressure to make her see stars against the dark rafters, while his other fingers teased her entrance, dipping into her slick warmth before slowly pulling back.
She held onto his broad shoulders, her nails digging into the muscle through his shirt. Her breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps that filled the quiet corners of the room. The tension in her stomach grew tighter and tighter, like a bowstring pulled back until the wood groaned.
"Nae yet, mo chridhe," he whispered against her wet lips, using the Gaelic endearment that he knew completely undid her defenses.
