Margaret coughed hard against his chest, her body jerking. Fergus's heart nearly stopped in his chest.
"Stay awake, lass," he barked through the wet cloth on his face.
Her fingers tightened weakly against the skin of his shoulder, her nails digging in. "I'm tryin', Fergus."
At last, his great bay stallion emerged through the swirling smoke ahead on the path. The loyal animal was still waiting, though it was frantic, tossing its head and pawing at the dirt as the fire closed in.
Fergus nearly collapsed with relief. He reached the animal quickly, keeping one powerful arm wrapped tightly around Margaret's waist while grabbing the leather reins with his free hand. The horse snorted nervously, its nostrils flaring at the suffocating smell of burning pine.
"Easy, boy," Fergus muttered, his own voice sounding rough and broken from the smoke and the sheer panic that had gripped him.
Margaret sagged harder against him, her head slipping from his shoulder.
Nay. Nay, nay, nay.
He forced himself into a cold, artificial calm. He needed clarity. He needed to move immediately. Holding her close, he mounted the stallion in one quick, powerful motion, then carefully pulled Margaret up in front of him across the saddle.
The very moment she settled against his chest, he wrapped his arm snugly around her waist, anchoring her to him. It was a protective, instinctive posture, possessive enough that he no longer bothered trying to fight or hide it from himself.
Margaret leaned back weakly into his embrace, her loose curls spilling over his arm as her head rested briefly against his bare shoulder. The simple contact nearly broke him apart.
He dug his heels in, urging the stallion forward along the path. Behind them, the flames roared through the brush at the dragon's tail, engulfing the very spot where she had fallen. Too close. Far too damn close.
The horse burst into a gallop, its hooves pounding over the dirt. The black smoke trailed behind them fiercely through the narrow trail. As they reached the mouth of the canyon, the wind suddenly shifted again, blowing the worst of the toxic haze eastward across the empty hills.
Fergus took a deep breath into his burning lungs. It wasn't relief, not yet. Margaret stayed frighteningly quiet and limp in his arms, her eyes closed.
"Talk to me, Margaret," he murmured near her ear.
Her long eyelashes fluttered weakly before she opened her eyes a fraction. "What would ye like me to say?"
Even now, half-choking on smoke and battered by a fall, she still found enough stubborn Lowland pride for that small bite. The realization hit his chest with a fierce, desperate affection that made his throat tighten.
"Anythin'," he said roughly. "Just speak."
Margaret swallowed hard, her throat moving. "I hate yer horse, Fergus."
A startled, rough laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet hills. It felt almost violent after the terror of the canyon.
Margaret shifted slightly against his arm, trying to sit up, but a sharp grimace of pain instantly crossed her face. Fergus tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her close against his ribs.
"Daenae move, lass," he said softly.
"Ye are very commandin' when half naked," she whispered, her voice cracking.
Despite the smoke, despite the terrifying fire, despite the destruction he had nearly caused in their lives, she still sounded exactly like herself. The relief hit him hard. He briefly pressed his forehead to the top of her damp hair, inhaling the scent of her that lingered beneath the ash. The movement was entirely instinctive.
Margaret froze perfectly still in his arms. The sudden, deep intimacy of the moment settled quietly between them, filling the space between their bodies. It was different now, completely raw from the closeness of death.
Fergus looked down at the top of her copper head, at the black soot streaking her pale skin, at the trembling she still could not fully control. And suddenly, with a brutal, blinding clarity, he saw exactly what his fear had almost destroyed. Not merely his strategic marriage. Not merely his chance at a peaceful keep. Buther.
The living, breathing woman who had crossed half of Scotland to fulfill a decree for him. The woman who had stood beside him through every hostile clan meeting. Who had loved Lilly without a single hesitation or doubt. Who had looked at him through all his anger and seen not a burden, not a laird's title, not a political weapon, but simplyFergus.
And he had repaid that fierce devotion by making her feel like an unwanted obligation. The ugly shame of it sank deep into his bones.
"We'll go back to the keep now," he said quietly, guiding the horse toward the valley lights.
Margaret did not answer him. The heavy silence stretched between them beneath the rhythmic thunder of the stallion's hooves.
