Page 31 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

The air blew out of Fearchar’s lungs in a loud, heavy huff.

They landed together in a tangle of wool, skirts, and limbs, rolling once before settling into the soft, thick clover beside the garden fence.

Around them, the children erupted into wild, shrill choruses of victory, jumping up and down in a circle and clapping their muddy hands.

Nandag lay pinned against him, her breath ragged, her palms resting flat against the broad, warm expanse of his chest. Her heart was hammering like a trapped bird, though whether from the sprint or the sudden, solid contact of his body, she couldn't tell.

Fearchar lay beneath her, his head propped back in the grass, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy surges under her hands. A single strand of golden hair fell across his brow.

He looked up at her. The playful banter completely vanished from his eyes.

The silence between them stretched, thick and sudden, cutting straight through the noisy cheers of the children around them. Nandag felt the heat of his skin through his linen shirt, radiating straight into her palms. His gaze dropped to her mouth, his jaw tightening slightly as his broad hands came up to rest gently on the sides of her waist, anchoring her against him.

Her breath hitched in her throat. The wind rustled through the clover, but neither of them moved. The physical reality of him—the heavy, solid weight, the scent of rain and leather, the quiet intensity in his grey eyes—seemed to pull all the air from her lungs.

Fearchar’s thumb brushed once against the curve of her hip, a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a sharp shiver straight down her spine.

"Laird Fearchar fell over!" the little boy shouted, breaking the spell like a stone thrown through glass. "The lady got him!"

Fearchar blinked, his throat working as he cleared it hastily. The sudden tension snapped.

Nandag flushed hot, her cheeks burning as she pushed herself up onto her knees, scrambling awkwardly out of the tangle of her skirts. Fearchar sat up immediately, offering her a hand, but she was already pushing herself to her feet, smoothing down her plaid with quick, trembling fingers.

"A tragic lack of footwork, Laird Chisholm," she said, her voice a little higher than usual as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear, avoiding his direct gaze.

Fearchar pushed himself off the ground, brushing grass and damp earth from his knees, a faint, wry smirk returning to his lips, though a dusky flush lingered along his neck. "The clover was treacherous, Lady Chisholm. A tactical disaster."

He turned to the children, tossing the little boy a small silver coin before guiding Nandag away toward the row of small merchant stalls near the edge of the green.

The heat in her face slowly receded as the cool mountain breeze washed over them again. At the far end of the lane sat a modest timber stall draped in canvas, where an old peddler was unpacking his wooden crates.

Nandag’s eyes caught a dark, square shape on the counter, and her feet slowed of their own accord.

Stacked neatly on the weathered wood were fresh, tightly rolled sheets of pale parchment, small jars of black ink, and bundles of fine, pressed willow charcoal sticks.

Nandag stepped past Fearchar without a word, her eyes widening as she approached the table. She reached out, her fingers hovering over the parchment before lightly touching the smooth, thick edge of a sheet. It was clean, unmarred by political seals or royal decrees.

"Fresh from the south, lady," the peddler said, bowing his head. "Fine parchment and real willow charcoal from the river vales."

Nandag picked up a single stick of charcoal, turning it over in her palm. Her callused thumb tested the smooth, soft texture of the wood. For years, she had scavenged burnt twigs from the hearth fire in her room, drawing small, hidden sketches of the glens and river paths on scraps of leather or old ledger margins when Mòrag was busy with her lessons. She had never owned a proper bundle of real charcoal.

"How much fer the bundle and three sheets?" she asked, her voice light, infused with a sudden, unguarded eagerness.

"Two copper pieces, lady."

Before she could reach for her pouch, Fearchar’s large hand extended over her shoulder, placing three bright silver coins onto the wooden table.

"We’ll take the whole box of parchment and the ink as well," Fearchar told the merchant smoothly.

Nandag turned to him, her eyes wide with surprise. "Fearchar, nay, that’s far too much, I only need these."

"The silver is already on the board, Nandag," he said softly, leaning down slightly to meet her gaze. He picked up the neatly wrapped package of charcoal and parchment, holding it out to her.

Nandag took the parcel, pressing it against her chest as if it were made of delicate glass. A genuine, radiant smile broke across her face, one completely stripped of caution or defense.

Fearchar watched her, his expression softening as a look of quiet fascination settled in his eyes. He folded his arms across his broad chest, falling into step beside her as they walked back toward their horses.

"I dinnae picture ye as one fer book-learning and parchment," he said gently, a quiet warmth lacing his words. "What dae ye draw?"