Margaret obeyed, her legs suddenly feeling like water. Lilly was expertly removed from her arms by Maisie, who had slipped quietly into the chamber sometime during the initial confusion, her eyes wide with lingering fright.
The very second Lilly left her embrace, Fergus moved closer. He didn't do it consciously; his body simply, instinctively filled the empty space beside her, his thigh brushing against her skirts.
Iseabail checked Margaret's pulse first, her rough fingers pressing firmly against her wrist, before leaning in to listen to her breathing.
Margaret tried her best to answer the healer's sharp questions properly, tried to focus her scattered mind on the practicalities of her health. But every single time she lifted her eyes, she found Fergus watching her.
"Any dizziness when ye stand?" the healer asked, her voice sharp.
Margaret blinked, the words sounding muffled. "What? Forgive me..."
Iseabail paused, her fingers freezing on Margaret's wrist. Then, with a slow, knowing expression, she followed Margaret's distracted gaze directly up toward Fergus's intense, unmoving face. Deep, weary understanding dawned instantly across the old healer's weathered features.
"Oh, for the love of the Almighty," Iseabail muttered, rolling her eyes toward the timber ceiling.
Margaret's cheeks flushed a bright, hot crimson beneath the streaks of black soot. "I apologize," she said weakly, looking down at her lap. "I was distracted."
Fergus stared at her for half a heartbeat, the tight lines around his mouth fracturing. Then he smiled. Margaret forgot entirely what the healer had been asking her. She could only stare back.
Iseabail sighed dramatically, packing her dried coltsfoot and lavender back into her leather pouch.
"She's perfectly fine," she informed Fergus dryly, checking Margaret's hazel eyes one final time with a firm thumb. "Simple smoke inhalation. Exhaustion. Lots and lots of fresh well water, me Lady. Drink until ye drown."
Then, she turned a pointed, blistering glare directly toward the towering Laird. "And perhaps less starin' at each other like ye've both lost whatever small lick of self-restraint the Lord gave ye."
Fergus did not even attempt to look ashamed or offer a stern defense. He didn't take his eyes off his wife for a single second. Which somehow made Margaret's blush burn twice as hot against her skin.
The healer packed her remaining things with theatrical irritation, slinging the strap over her shoulder. "I'll send up a jar of honey salve for that shoulder of yers," she told Fergus, gesturing to the raw blisters. "And if either of ye decides to collapse before the mornin' sun breaks, kindly do it after I've had me sleep."
Then, she left the room, her heavy skirts clicking against the floorboards. Maisie followed shortly after, cradling the deeply sleeping Lilly in her arms and gently closing the thick oak door behind her with a soft, deliberate click.
Leaving the chamber suddenly, completely quiet.
Margaret slowly stood up, muscles aching, and moved toward the warmth of the hearth. Fergus stayed standing right by the closed door, his broad shoulders braced against the wood, watching her every move. The restless gold glow of the peat fire flickered across his bare, caked skin, emphasizing the heavy muscles of his chest and arms. Smoke still shadowed the stiff lines of his collarbones, and the fresh, angry burn marked his left shoulder. His chest rose and fell unevenly, fueled by the lingering mix of adrenaline and deep exhaustion.
And his dark eyes never left her. Not for a single pulse.
Margaret sensed the heavy weight of his gaze on her skin everywhere. The large bedchamber suddenly felt much too small, too warm, with the air thick with tension.
Fergus covered the distance between them in three huge, predatory strides. Then, he came to a complete stop right in front of her. Close enough that she could feel the intense, unnatural heat still radiating from his bare skin, smelling of burnt pine and wild heather.
For one long, suspended moment, neither of them spoke a single word.
Then, Fergus reached for her. Both of his massive, rough hands came up, framing the sides of her face with a startling, trembling care that made her breath hitch. His thumbs brushed gently over the freckles on her cheekbones, smearing the black soot.
"I thought I lost ye," he whispered.
The words came out incredibly low, a rough, broken rasp that sounded as if it had been violently torn from somewhere raw and deep inside his chest. There were no walls left on his face. No defenses. No stubborn Highland pride to shield him from her.
Margaret felt her entire chest ache with a profound, blooming sweetness at the sound. She lifted her hands instinctively, her fingers wrapping around his thick, soot-stained wrists, feeling the heavy leap of his pulse beneath her palms.
"I'm here, Fergus," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm right here."
Fergus closed his eyes briefly, his forehead dropping slightly, as though simply hearing her say the words physically anchored him to the earth. Then, he opened his dark eyes again, looking straight into her soul. The sheer, naked volume of emotion in his face nearly undid her remaining control.
"I cannae breathe without ye, Margaret."
Margaret went entirely still, her heart skipping a beat. The wide room seemed to narrow down to nothing around the weight of those words.
