Everything moved with terrifying speed now. It was controlled chaos, raw fear sharpened into disciplined action. Fergus approached his own bay stallion, mounting in one smooth, practiced motion. The animal shifted nervously beneath him, its nostrils flaring as it caught the heavy scent of smoke on the wind.
Then, through the frantic crowd, he saw her.
Margaret emerged from the heavy stone archway of the keep. She carried Lilly balanced firmly against one shoulder, her free hand gesturing sharply as she directed the younger kitchen servants.
"Take the filled water casks upstairs before the smoke thickens in the lower hall," she told one of the trembling maids, her voice steady and commanding. "And move the heavy wool blankets into the great hall in case families from the lower glen are brought inside for shelter."
The maid nodded instantly, reassured by her mistress's composure, and ran to obey.
Margaret turned then, her eyes sweeping the crowded yard until they found him. Even across the distance of the noisy courtyard, Fergus felt the impact of her gaze.
Something inside his chest snapped painfully tight, a sudden, suffocating knot. Because all at once, the cold truth of the night rushed over him. He had forgotten himself. He had let his guard down. For one night. One woman. He had lain in a warmbed, wrapped in her scent and her words, while his duty went ignored. And now his land, his people's livelihood, burned for it.
The realization hit hard enough to turn his fear into sudden, sharp anger. He wasn't angry at her. He was angry at himself, at his own weakness, which somehow made the fury twice as bitter.
Margaret crossed the gravel toward his horse immediately, her stride unhurried but purposeful. "I can help organize the lower hall, Fergus," she said, looking up at him. "If the families from the western cottages need shelter, we'll need food prepared immediately, and the bairns kept away from the gates."
Fergus reached down from the saddle and caught her arm. Firmly. Too firmly. His calloused fingers dug into the soft fabric of her sleeve.
She stopped abruptly, her breath hitching. The sudden, harsh movement startled Lilly enough that the baby whimpered softly, burrowing her small face deeper into Margaret's shoulder.
Fergus barely heard the child's cry. The surrounding noise suddenly seemed to fade into a distant, muffled hum. Everything blurred beneath the violent, irregular pounding of blood in his ears. He pulled her a few steps away from the traffic in the yard, guiding her toward the shadowed, cold edge of the stable wall.
"What are ye doin'?" she asked quietly. Her hazel eyes searched his tight face. There was deep concern in them.
"This happened because I wasnae thinkin'," he said. The words came out rough, like grinding stones. They were harsh enough that she blinked, her chest hitching. "I should have stayed in the courtyard after the toast. I should have checked the bonfires meself. I should have made certain the men banked the embers properly with damp peat before the wind turned."
Margaret frowned, her brow furrowing in the orange light. "Fergus, ye cannae blame yerself for a sudden gale."
"I left." His jaw tightened until the muscle leaped hard against his skin, aching with the strain. "Because I came back to ye."
The words landed heavily between them, stark and ugly. He watched the meaning strike her. He watched the deep, unmistakable hurt arrive in her eyes before her proud Lowland dignity could rise to hide it. And still, he could not stop the bleed. Because fear had a tight hold of his throat now.
"Ye are a distraction to me," he said quietly, the words cold and level.
Margaret went completely, utterly still.
Fergus felt the weight of it immediately in his gut. It was like watching himself drive a clean blade somewhere soft, right through her ribs. But the orange fire still burned beyond the ridge, casting bloody light across the sky. His men were waiting at the gates. And the guilt kept twisting deeper into his heart with every passing second he wasted.
"I cannae afford that," he finished, his voice dropping into the dark.
Margaret stared up at him. Fergus had seen her angry before. He had seen her sharp-tongued, defiant, teasing, and fiercely proud. He had even seen her hurt by his coldness in the early days of their marriage. But this, this looked entirely different.
Because she truly did not understand the cruelty of it. And perhaps that was the most devastating part of the blow he had dealt.
She had spent months standing beside him in this bleak northern keep, helping him and strengthening the broken pieces of his clan in ways he hadn't even realized were needed. She had given him her full trust in the dark of their room, and still, his first instinct when struck by fear was to push her away and blame her for his own choices.
"Ye think I weaken ye," she said. Her voice was remarkably quiet, stripped of all color.
"Nay." The answer came too fast, too defensive.
Her hazel eyes flashed in the shadow of the stable wall. "That is exactly what ye think."
Fergus dragged a rough hand through his dark hair, his palm coming away smelling of ash. He could smell the burning peat everywhere now. He could hear the fire roaring louder, eatingits way through the western hills. "There's nay time for this, Margaret."
"There was time enough for ye to say it."
God.
