Page 26 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Nandag looked at him for a long moment, firelight catching the last of the flush still lingering at her throat from the dancing earlier, and when she spoke again her voice had lost most of its edge. "Ye're a strange sort of husband, Fearchar Chisholm."

"How so?"

"Most men I've heard of would take the excuse ye just handed away and use it twice over."

"I'm nae most men." He crossed to the window, drawing the shutter half closed against the night air, giving her, without saying so outright, the space of his back turned while she settled herself for whatever came next. "And I'd rather earn a place in yer bed than take one I havenae been given leave tae sit in."

"That could be a very long wait."

"I've waited seven years already fer less certain reasons. I expect I'll manage a while longer." He glanced back at her, and something easier crossed his face, not quite the teasing grin from the training yard, something quieter than that. "There's a second blanket in the chest by the wall. I'll take the floor, if it eases yer mind any."

"Ye fought a war and carried me up two flights of stairs bleeding. Ye're nae sleeping on a floor in yer own wedding chamber on me account."

"Then we'll share the bed, and I'll keep tae me own side of it, and ye can trust the door's locked and I'm a man of me word, or ye can stay awake all night watching tae make certain of it. Either way, lass, the choice is yers tae make, same as everything else taenight."

Nandag looked at the bed, then at him, weighing something behind her eyes that Fearchar couldn't quite read, and didn't try to rush.

"Yer side," she said finally. "Stay on it."

"Done."

She climbed beneath the coverlet, drawing it up to her shoulder, and Fearchar banked the fire low before crossing to the far side of the bed, settling atop the blankets rather than beneath them, putting every inch of careful distance between them that the frame allowed.

The room went quiet, firelight ticking soft against the stone, and neither of them, for a long while yet, showed any sign of finding sleep.

CHAPTER TEN

The hearth fire had died down to a dull mound of embers, casting long, bruised shadows across the stone floor of the bedchamber.

Nandag shifted beneath the heavy wool blankets, the cool air striking her bare shoulders as the coverlet fell away. The space beside her was empty, the sheets cold to the touch where Fearchar should have been. She blinked against the dimness, her eyes tracing the outline of the room until she spotted him.

He sat by the tall, arched window, a shadow carved against the blue-black glass of the night. His shirt was unlaced at the throat, his bare feet resting flat against the floorboards, hands resting motionless on his knees. He was staring out into the dark glens, so still he might have been made of the same stone as the castle walls.

Nandag slid her legs out from beneath the furs. The chill of the floor sent a sharp shiver up her spine, but she did not reach for her robe. She moved quietly across the room, the hem of her shift brushing softly against the grain of the wood. Fearchar did not turn, but his shoulders lifted slightly—a single, quiet intake of breath that told her he had registered her presence before her feet even reached the window recess.

She did not force herself into his line of sight. Instead, she leaned her hip against the stone frame, pulling one knee up to rest her weight against the sill.

"The Chisholm laird rests, it seems, only when forced by an army," she said softly, her voice still thick with sleep.

A slow, wry curve touched the side of his mouth, though his eyes remained fixed on the distant, dark silhouette of the hills. "The bed was too soft. I’m used tae a saddle or a patch of wet heather."

"A terrible affliction fer a laird," she murmured, resting her chin on her hand. "Shall I have the servants throw dirt on the floorboards tomorrow tae make ye feel at home?"

He let out a low huff of a laugh, the sound dark and warm in the quiet room. "I’d ask fer naething less, lass."

Silence settled over them again, but the sharpness had bled out of it. The wind howled faintly through the outer courtyard, rattling the heavy leaded panes of glass, yet inside the window alcove, the air felt thick, safe, and untouched by the rest of the fortress.

Nandag watched his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar running along the edge of his cheekbone, the way his knuckles tightened once, then relaxing back onto his knee.

"Ye were staring at the hills like ye expected Robert tae ride through them taenight," she said quietly, her banter giving way to something gentler.

Fearchar turned his head slowly, his grey eyes catching the faint twilight gathering at the edge of the glass. "I spent four years waking every two hours tae the sound of men dying or horses screaming. When the Western war ended, I thought the quiet would feel like a victory." He paused, his throat working as he swallowed. "It just feels like an ambush waiting tae happen."

Nandag’s fingers twitched against her knee, but she kept her posture easy, letting him set the pace. "The Accord was supposed tae fix that."

"Aye." He leaned his head back against the stone wall, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. "When King James had us sign that parchment in Edinburgh seven years ago, I was twenty. I thought it was simple. A signature, a bride, a border drawn on a map, and peace secured fer me faither's people. I thought I would marry fer the clan, dae me duty, and live out me days building barns instead of burning them."

His hand reached up, brushing back a stray lock of golden hair from his forehead before falling back to his lap.