Page 22 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"I ken exactly what I saw in that gallery yesterday. I ken what happened under yer own bed, and in that corridor the night before, and I'll wager if I stepped close enough right now, yer breath would catch the same way it did then."

His voice dropped, low and certain, no trace of doubt in it at all. "Ye can stand there and tell me ye want nay part in this marriage all ye like, Nandag Farquharson. I'll nae argue the point with ye today. But I promise ye this. There will come a night, nae so far off, when ye're the one begging tae share me bed, and I intend tae remember every word ye're saying tae me right now when that night comes."

"Ye arrogant, insufferable…" She was already turning for the door, too furious to finish the thought, her hand finding the latch with more force than it required. "Ye're a brute, Fearchar Chisholm."

"The wedding is tomorrow," he called after her, entirely unbothered, as the door swung shut hard enough to rattle in its frame.

Fearchar stood at the front of the chapel in his father's plaid, freshly cleaned of the courtyard's blood and grime, and found his hands wouldn't settle no matter what he did with them. He smoothed the fabric across his chest, then adjusted his belt, only to flex his fingers again at his sides.

He'd fought pitched battles with steadier hands than this.

He had promised her time. Promised her in the corridor outside her room that he wouldn't force this upon her and then let Laird Alasdair deliver the decree like an execution sentence before he could even speak to her himself.

Father Lennox fussed with his stole beside the altar, murmuring through the order of the rite under his breath one final time. Duncan stood at Fearchar's shoulder in his own good plaid, arms crossed, watching the chapel doors.

"Ye look like a man about tae be sentenced," Duncan murmured.

"I gave her me word I'd nae rush her," Fearchar muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening as his gaze remained fixed on the heavy oak doors. "And then she learned of her own wedding from some servants’ gossip, Duncan. Nae from me."

"The Council moved, Fearchar. Ye had nay choice."

"I had a choice tae get tae her first." Fearchar’s throat worked as he swallowed down the bitterness. "She’s walking down this aisle believing I dragged her here against her will."

"Then ye have the rest of yer life tae prove otherwise, or at least that ye did it fer a good reason," Duncan said quietly. "Look sharp."

Fearchar didn't answer that, because the doors were opening.

The gathered clan rose as one, a low rustle of plaid and boots against stone, and Fearchar's breath went clean out of him the moment Nandag stepped through.

She wore ivory and pale gold, her chestnut hair loose beneath a simple circlet, no grand jewels, no elaborate finery, only herself dressed plain and lovely in a way that made every other woman he'd ever stood across from at a formal occasion fade into something forgettable by comparison.

Laird Alasdair walked beside her, one hand steady beneath her arm, and Nandag's eyes found Fearchar's the moment she crossed the threshold and held there the entire slow walk up the aisle, chin lifted, back straight, every inch the woman who'd put a wall sconce through a man's jaw two nights past.

Fearchar didn't remember deciding to smile. He only became aware somewhere around the third pew that he was doing it, and that he couldn't seem to stop.

Alasdair placed her hand in Fearchar's at the altar, his grip lingering a moment longer than the gesture required, a silent weight passed between them that needed no words to carry it. Fearchar closed his fingers around hers, felt them cold and not quite steady, and ran his thumb once across her knuckles before either of them turned to face the priest.

"We are gathered," Father Lennox began, his voice carrying easy through the stone chapel, "before God and this clan, tae witness the union of Fearchar, Laird of Clan Chisholm, and Nandag, daughter of Clan Farquharson , in the bond of holy marriage."

Nandag's hand tightened in his. Fearchar tightened his back, just slightly, just enough to answer it.

"Fearchar Chisholm," the priest said, "will ye take this woman as yer wife, tae protect her, honor her, and stand beside her through whatever comes, forsaking all others, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will." He said it steady, said it looking straight at her, and watched something flicker across her face at the certainty in it, quick and unguarded, before she caught it back.

"Nandag Farquharson." Father Lennox turned to her. "Will ye take this man as yer husband, tae stand beside him, honor him, and share in whatever this union brings, forsaking all others, so long as ye both shall live?"

She was quiet a beat longer than Fearchar had, her eyes searching his face for something he hoped to God she found there, and then she lifted her chin, the same defiant tilt she'd worn in a garden seven years gone, and said it clear enough for the whole chapel to hear.

"I will."

Father Lennox produced a length of plain cord, Chisholm blue twisted through Farquharson green, and bound their joined hands with it, murmuring the old words over the knot as he worked, words older than either clan, older than the King's Accord that had first tangled their lives together without either of them choosing it.

"By the authority given me," Father Lennox said, at last, "and before God and this gathered clan, I now pronounce ye laird and lady, husband and wife. Ye may seal this union."

Fearchar didn't wait to be told twice.

He drew her in with the hand still bound to hers, his free hand finding the curve of her jaw and kissed her.