Fergus swallowed hard, the muscle in his throat jumping. For the first time since she had met him, she realized he looked almost afraid. Not of a battle, not of an incoming army, not of a raging forest fire. He was terrified ofthis. Of handing her his bare heart with absolutely no shield left around it to protect him from the blow.
"I love ye," he said.
Margaret stared up at him, her hazel eyes filling with hot tears she didn't bother to wipe away. Everything inside her soul softened so quickly, so completely, that it became a physical ache. All those long months waiting at Dunalasdair. The crushing loneliness of her empty bed. The bitter moments when she wondered if she was entirely unlovable, if he would ever truly let her reach him behind his high stone walls.
And now, here he stood—the proud Laird of Clan MacKenzie—shaking lightly from the toxic smoke, lingering fear, and the overwhelming depth of his love for her, gazing down at her as if she had become the absolute center of his entire universe without his consent.
A small smile flickered across her face before she could contain the emotion. Initially subtle and trembling, it soon brightened, filled with a fierce joy. Beautiful enough to render Fergus utterly motionless, his breath catching in his throat.
"And I love ye, Fergus," she whispered against his palms.
A visible wave of raw relief swept through him, causing his shoulders to drop. Margaret barely had time to take a breath before Fergus leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't cautious this time. Everything inside him—every ounce of his soul, his history, his fear, his desire, and his deep love—flowed into the kiss all at once. His large hands slid deep into her copper-honey curls, tilting her head back, drawing her closer and tighter against him until she could feel the hard, rapid, frantic beat of his heart pounding directly against her ribs.
Margaret kissed him back instantly, completely, pouring a year of suppressed longing into the touch. Her hands slid up his naked chest, her fingers curling tightly into the thick muscle of his shoulders.
Fergus made a rough, dark sound low in his throat that sent a rush of white-hot heat racing straight through her entire body. Nothing held him back now. Not his obligations to the clan, not his fear of vulnerability, not the endless, twisted instinct to deny himself anything he truly needed to survive. Her moving fingers accidentally brushed across the raw, blistering skin of his left shoulder, causing him to flinch slightly against her mouth.
She pulled back immediately, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. "Oh God, Fergus... yer shoulder, the burn."
"I daenae care about the damn shoulder," he growled out instantly, his voice fierce, his lips chasing hers back down before she could fully retreat.
Margaret laughed softly against his mouth, the bright, musical sound unraveling the very last vestige of tension remaining in his heavy frame.
The flickering hearth cast dancing shadows across the room, illuminating the rich tapestries depicting Highland battles and the massive four-poster bed draped in deep green wool.
Margaret's heart hammered against her ribs as Fergus's calloused fingers traced the line of her jaw, his touch sending sparks through her veins.
"Mo ghràdh," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her bones.
My love.
The endearment hung between them in the fire-warmed air as he lowered his head, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that tasted of whiskey and desire. Margaret melted against him, her hands tangling in the thick red hair that fell to his broad shoulders.
Fergus's hands moved to the laces of her gown, his fingers working with practiced efficiency. The rough wool pooled at her feet, followed by the thin linen shift beneath. Margaret shiveredas the cool air kissed her bare skin, her nipples tightening to hard peaks.
Fergus's gaze swept over her, his eyes darkening with hunger.
"So beautiful," he breathed, his hands cupping her breasts, thumbs circling the sensitive peaks. Margaret arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. His mouth followed his hands, hot and demanding as he took one nipple between his teeth, biting down just enough to send a jolt straight to her core.
Margaret's fingers fumbled with the ties of his leine, desperate to feel his skin against hers.
The coarse linen fell away to reveal a chest dusted with red hair, muscles honed from years of swordplay and riding the Highland hills. She traced the scars that mapped his body, each one a story she knew by heart.
Fergus settled between her thighs, his hardness pressing against her through his trews. Margaret rocked against him, friction building a delicious ache deep inside. His mouth claimed hers again, tongues tangling in a dance as old as time.
With a swift motion, he shed his remaining clothes, his manhood springing free. Thick and proud, curving upward toward his navel. Margaret's mouth watered at the sight, her folds clenching with anticipation.
Fergus positioned himself at her entrance, teasing her with shallow thrusts that had her writhing beneath him.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick with desire.
Margaret's eyes met his as he pushed inside, inch by enticing inch. She gasped at the stretch, her body adjusting to his size. He filled her completely, reaching that spot deep inside that made stars burst behind her eyelids.
Fergus began to move, slow at first, then faster as her hips rose to meet his. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with Margaret's cries and Fergus's guttural groans. The bedframe creaked in rhythm with their lovemaking, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
Margaret wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The angle changed, and suddenly, he was hitting her clit with every thrust. Pleasure built rapidly, coiling in her belly like a spring about to snap.
