Margaret's heart twisted violently in her chest. Fergus stopped so abruptly that she nearly collided straight into his bare, soot-stained chest.
Lilly wriggled wildly against Isobel's shoulder the very moment Fergus reached the bottom of the steps, reaching her small, soot-stained hands desperately toward both of them, her little mouth trembling.
Margaret stepped forward, reaching out, and gathered the child close against her shoulder immediately. The little girl clung to her neck with a fierce, surprising strength, her tiny fingers digging into Margaret's hair.
Margaret buried her face deep into Lilly's soft, copper curls, inhaling the sweet, untainted scent of her. Warm. Safe.
Thank God. Thank God.
Fergus stood right next to them, completely still. Watching. A deep, unreadable emotion flickered across the tense muscles of his face.
Margaret looked back at Fergus, noticing the black ash caked across his broad, bare chest. She also observed how his large hand still hovered just an inch from her waist, trembling slightly—like he was afraid she might vanish into thin air if he let go.
A wave of intense relief crossed Isobel's pale face so quickly it almost vanished before Margaret could fully process it. She offered a small, watery smile of understanding.
Then Fergus moved again, his instinct for control taking over. "Healer!" he roared sharply as they crossed into the great hall, his voice bouncing off the high stone rafters. "To me chambers. Now!"
The keep erupted into frantic motion around the absolute authority of the command.
Margaret could barely keep pace with his long, urgent strides through the winding stone corridors. Now that the immediate physical danger had passed, a bone-deep, crushing exhaustion weighed heavily on her limbs. Her chest felt tight, and her lungs still burned faintly with a dry, bitter heat each time she tried to inhale too deeply.
Fergus immediately noticed the slight hitch in her stride. Of course he did. His grip tightened slightly against her back, slowing his heavy steps to match hers.
"Slow down, Fergus," she murmured, her voice sounding dry and cracked.
"Ye nearly suffocated to death in a mountain pass, Margaret," he said, his jaw flexing hard enough to turn the skin white.
"And yet, as ye can see, I survived."
His jaw clenched tighter, a muscle leaping violently beneath the soot. "Daenae joke about it. Nae tonight."
The raw, unrefined roughness in his voice startled her, catching her breath in her throat. It wasn't the cold, biting anger she had become used to over the past year. Instead, it was a terrifying fear lingering just beneath the surface of his skin.
Margaret looked up at him more carefully then. Really looked through the shadows of the corridor. He was shaken. Not merely worried or stressed by the tactical threat of a fire. He was shaken to his very core.
The realization melted the last of the icy Lowland pride inside her chest, softening something profound and ancient between them.
Chapter Thirty
They reached Fergus bedchamber moments later. Fergus pushed the heavy oak door open with his forearm, ushering Margaret inside with an exaggerated, fragile care that bordered on frantic urgency.
The large room still smelled faintly of the disaster, bitter peat smoke mingling with the familiar, calming scent of dried lavender and beeswax.
Fragments of their frantic midnight escape lay scattered everywhere, frozen in time. The tangled, tossed linen sheets on the massive bed. His heavy leather broadsword belt was discarded carelessly near the stone hearth. The overturned wooden chair from the exact moment the alarm had torn them apart.
Margaret's chest tightened unexpectedly at the sight. Less than two hours ago, she had stood in this very room believing with absolute certainty that she was leaving him forever, that herheart was completely hollowed out. Now, he would not let even a single inch of air pass between them.
Lilly had already fallen half asleep again, her small head resting heavily against Margaret's shoulder, exhausted by the night's terror, by the time the healer finally arrived.
Iseabail swept into the room, her grey hair tucked firmly into a linen cap, carrying bundles of pungent herbs and clean linen bandages.
"Well," the woman muttered, taking in Fergus's blistering, red shoulder and Margaret's smoke-blackened face in a single, sweeping glance. "Ye both look absolutely terrible."
A weak, involuntary laugh escaped Margaret's lips before she could stop it. The sudden, bright sound surprised all three of them in the quiet of the room.
Fergus stared down at her, his eyes unblinking.
Iseabail moved immediately toward Margaret, ignoring the Laird entirely. "Sit down on the chest, me Lady. Move."
