Fergus reached between them, his thumb finding her swollen nub and circling it in time with his strokes.
"Come for me, Maggie," he growled, his accent thickening with passion. "Let me feel you."
The combination of his cock pounding into her and his fingers working her clit sent Margaret over the edge. Her back arched off the bed, a silent scream tearing from her throat as wavesof pleasure crashed over her. Her clit clenched around him, milking his manhood as her orgasm ripped through her.
Fergus followed her over, his thrusts becoming erratic as his own release approached. With a final deep thrust, he buried himself inside her, his manhood pulsing as he filled her with his cum. Margaret felt the warmth spreading through her, prolonging her own pleasure.
They collapsed together, limbs tangled, bodies slick with sweat. Fergus rolled to the side, pulling Margaret with him so she lay draped across his chest. His heart beat a steady rhythm against her ear, gradually slowing as their breathing returned to normal.
Margaret traced patterns on his chest, her fingers tangling in the crisp hair. "Mo laoch," she whispered.
My hero.
Fergus's arms tightened around her, his lips pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"Always," he promised, his voice thick with emotion. "Always."
The fire had burned low, casting the room in a warm glow. Margaret felt sleep pulling at her, but she fought it off, wanting to savor these moments in his arms.
Outside, the Highland wind howled, but in here, wrapped in Fergus's embrace, Margaret had never felt safer or more loved.
As her eyes drifted closed, she knew that no matter what challenges they faced, this—their love, their passion—would see them through.
Epilogue
The land smelled of smoke and rain the next morning.
It was not the bitter, choking odor of total ruin, not anymore. It was the sharp, clean scent of healing.
Margaret stood shoulder to shoulder with Fergus at the very lip of the western ridge, the crisp morning wind tugging at the heavy wool of the plaid wrapped securely around her shoulders.
Below them in the wide glen, the entire MacKenzie clan moved across the blackened, soot-stained fields like an army of ants. Able-bodied men worked in sweaty teams to clear fallen, charred timber; sturdy women carried wooden pails of water and baskets of fresh supplies between the workers; and small children darted carefully along the safer edges of the bracken, their high-pitched laughter ringing out as they gathered anything left untouched by the hungry flames.
The fire had scarred the ancient Highlands. It had left deep, black gashes across the earth, but it had not taken the land.
Sunlight spilled in pale, liquid gold across the rolling hills, warming the wet earth where a sudden, heavy downpour during the gray dawn hours had finally smothered the last stubborn, glowing embers. Wisps of white smoke still curled faintly from certain patches of peat, but the terrifying danger was now a memory.
Life remained.
Margaret watched with a soft expression as Angus stood a few hundred yards away, gesturing wildly and arguing cheerfully with two young stable boys over the proper, structural way to rebuild a split-rail fence, while Maisie distributed thick chunks of barley bread with a terrifying, hands-on-hips authority from the back of a supply wagon.
A fond smile tugged at the corner of Margaret's mouth.
Beside her, Fergus rested his large, calloused hand lightly against the small of her back. He had barely stopped touching her since they had returned from the dragon's tail the night before. It wasn't a possessive, aggressive grip, but something infinitely quieter. A continuous, grounding pressure. As though the physical contact itself reassured his battle-hardened instincts that she was truly standing there beside him, whole and unharmed.
Margaret had discovered over the past twelve hours that she liked his constant proximity far more than her pride should allow.
"Ye're smilin', lass," Fergus murmured, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling low in his chest.
She glanced up at him through her lashes. The dark, bruised circles of total exhaustion remained etched beneath his eyes, but something fundamental had shifted in the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face. The constant, unyielding tension she had grown entirely used to seeing in his jaw and shoulders over the past year had finally eased, melted away by the fire.
The tension hadn't vanished entirely. Fergus was a laird, and he would always carry the heavy weight of his people's responsibility like iron armor. But now, looking at him, she could see a profound, radiant warmth beneath the steel. Peace, perhaps. Or at least the beautiful beginning of it.
"Angus nearly lost his footin' and fell headfirst into the mud ten minutes ago," she informed him with mock gravity, her hazel eyes dancing.
Fergus looked toward the muddy fields, his brow lifting. "Tragic."
"It was very entertainin', me Laird."
