The sun is shining. The sky is as blue as he can recall it being. The day, by definition, is perfect. So why can't Fergus settle his jittering insides?
On second thought, the lad knows exactly why his gut is jumping about. And it has nothing to do with the fortunate weather.
The Highland Games are more important to him this year than ever before, because he will be a participant rather than a bystander. He has no doubt of confidence that he will perform to the best of his abilities, ultimately winning the contest and the hand of the Lord McKinley's eldest daughter.
Yes, a fair maiden by name of Elinor…
His inner turmoil, he surmises, is brought on by not the possibility of losing, but what will happen after he is named champion.
Fergus watches the desired lass from his nearby position on the grassy field. She dances gracefully through the crowd of merry people, dipping at the waist when the music entails, long braid whipping around her lively body in streak of rich brown. Her sapphire-hued skirts flutter as she twirls, reminding him of a shimmering ocean.
These festivities that surround the actual competition are meant as celebration, yet Fergus couldn't relax if he tried. He wants to win, and not just for the sake of his pride.
His aqua eyes effortlessly follow the movements of the dancing girl. Since they were formally introduced the afternoon prior, he has been unable to dismiss her from his mind. Everything she does is fascinating—her dainty sipping of tea; her gentle smile…the way she manages to sit positively still during speeches from the Lords…
Fergus has yet to see her particularly happy or even angry, but he bets both emotions are adorable on her. He wants so badly to be the one able to discover these qualities about her. Oh, gods, what if he loses? But what if he wins? Will she take to him as he already has to her?
Fergus feels very much like he is about to be sick.
"I declare the winner of these Games, and the hand of the maiden before us; Fergus of DunBroch!"
Lord McKinley—Elinor's father—raises Fergus's hand high into the air. The cheering of the crowd impresses upon his brain in the form of a dull roar. He cannot believe it. He has won!
"Congratulations, m'boy!" the Lord grins, and releases Fergus after a firm handshake. He manages to return the smile though his injuries from the final sword battle are beginning to sting. Then he catches a glimpse of a certain brunette, and he feels his stomach clench with a jolt of…anticipation. Or fear. And excitement. (Possibly all of the above.)
He drifts towards her across the stone floor in a dreamy haze, the surrounding madness fading away like a distant storm. Somehow, he brings his feet to a stop, though he cannot recall even leaving his previous spot.
"Well done," she says to him softly. Her brown eyes are glowing in sheer joy. His heart swells in answer.
"I thank ye," he says modestly, though inside he is singing. Fergus doesn't know what he'd do if one of the others had won—probably kill them, he supposes. But that doesn't matter now.
Elinor steps towards him, tiny slippers peeking their way from under her dress. Fergus glances at her form as quickly as chivalry will allow. He sees that she has changed into a violet-colored dress for supper.
…A dress that hugs her delicate curves in such a way that his neck feels awfully hot.
"Would ye care for a walk outside?" Fergus asks suddenly. She nods in response, realizing that he has been under plenty of public scrutiny lately. She, too, is aching for a break from her mother's watchful glare.
"Aye. I could use a bit of air," she says gratefully. He follows her from the Great Hall and as they make their way through the crowd, he focuses his eyes on her thick chestnut braid that has been artfully woven with matching purple ribbons. He is mesmerized by the way it swings against her back as she walks, the silky length of it surpassing her waist.
They soon reach the outdoors, where the golden sun is just setting on the horizon.
He hears her awed sigh. "Oh…it's beautiful."
Fergus turns to see her gazing at the sky with slender hands clasped at her breast. The warmth of the atmosphere is disappearing with the dying sun, and she shivers once.
(He shivers for a different reason.)
"Are ye cold?" he asks, remembering to be concerned. Elinor turns to respond, but without warning her foot catches on a loose stone in the yard.
She stumbles, and he catches her, his hands landing on the swell of her hips as she falls into his chest. Her mouth falls open in surprise as he rumbles an apology. Once he has steadied her, she nervously smiles in expectance that he will release his hold.
But he only smiles widely, and Elinor feels the blood rush to her cheeks in embarrassment at her clumsiness.
"All right, there?" he asks cheekily, and she realizes that he is continuing the physical contact on purpose. The pink tint of her cheeks darkens to red upon her own thoughts that she does not exactly oppose this turn of events. Meanwhile, he has leaned closer and now their faces are only inches apart as their breaths twirl together in the cool night air.
His blue eyes meet her brown ones questioningly. She says nothing, but her ladylike expression indicates that the next move is up to him.
Enough of the jiggery-pokery, he thinks, and goes for it.
Grasping her tiny waist with his much larger hands, he meets her lips gently, but firmly. She starts, surprised, but catches on—and to his pleasant surprise—responds enthusiastically. Well, he can see now that Elinor is fiery, and some of his fears at the prospect of their compatibility begin to recede.
Fergus is used to thinking that there is no such thing as magic. But this…this is magical. The feel of her lips is so soft, they are so inviting…he is floored by how right it feels, how absolutely perfect it is to be kissing Elinor, whose eyes have closed in what he hopes is pleasure.
The stars are shining, but when she opens them once more, the sparkle that radiates from the eyes of his betrothed is unmatched. She is not angry with him! Fergus rejoices internally.
He pulls away, pouring every ounce of strength into the action of removing his arms. It aches to let her go, but he must mind his manners.
The deep blue sky is gorgeous in twilight.
From the forest close at hand, an owl hoots a nighttime greeting.
And Elinor is his.