Page 32 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Nandag looked down at the brown paper parcel in her arms, her fingers tracing the twine binding. "Nae books. Nae maps fer war, either." She hesitated, then glanced up at him through her lashes. "The glens. The old oak on the ridge. The way the light hits the river before rain."

Fearchar listened, his head tilted down toward her, taking in every word as if it were the most critical intelligence he’d heard all day.

"Will ye draw me one?" he asked quietly.

Nandag looked into his steady grey eyes, feeling that quiet, solid warmth settle over her once again. She cradled the supplies in her arm and offered him a small, confident nod.

"If ye stay still long enough," she murmured, a gentle sparkle returning to her eyes. "Which seems unlikely."

CHAPTER TWELVE

The air in the stone solar of Glen Cannich smelled of damp moss, sour ale, and smoke from a chimney that refused to draw properly.

Robert Cameron stood by the narrow arrow slit, his fingers white where they gripped the cold stone ledge. Below in the courtyard, two dozen men were sharpening blades on a whetstone, the steady, rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh grinding against his nerves like iron on bone.

Behind him, the heavy oak door creaked open.

Malcolm stepped into the dim room, his wet plaid dripping rain onto the floorboards. He didn't offer a greeting. He pulled a rolled parchment from his belt and tossed it onto the heavy trestle table, where a half-eaten loaf of bread and a pair of iron sconces sat.

"It’s done," Malcolm said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual booming authority. "The priest signed the register yesterday at noon. Fearchar and Nandag were wed in the chapel before the whole Council."

Robert didn't turn around. His gaze remained fixed on the courtyard below. "And the elders?"

"They stood fer it," Malcolm replied, stepping closer to the hearth and spreading his broad hands toward the dying embers. "Old Alasdair declared the Accord satisfied. By nightfall, the news had reached the lower village. The blacksmiths were drinking tae the new laird’s health before the taverns closed."

A terrible, suffocating silence fell over the room.

Robert’s chest expanded slowly, a ragged, hitching breath drawing into his lungs. The lower village. The smiths. The very men whose fathers had sworn oaths to his line were now raising tankards to a Chisholm invader who had marched into Strathglass and stolen what was rightfully his.

Fearchar.

The name tasted like ash.

Robert turned from the window. His movement was not fast; it was deliberate, heavy, and terrifyingly silent. His dark eyes swept over the parchment lying on the table—the document that effectively stripped him of his claim, his bride, and his standing under royal decree.

"They drink tae him," Robert whispered.

"The clan follows the paper, Robert," Malcolm said gruffly, not looking up from the fire. "And right now, Fearchar holds the paper, the bride, and the King's seal."

Something inside Robert snapped.

With a guttural roar that echoed off the vaulted stone rafters, Robert lunged forward. His broad hand swept across the trestle table with terrifying force. The pewter tankards, the iron sconces, the inkwell, and the half-eaten bread flew across the room, crashing violently against the opposite wall.

Ink splattered like fresh blood across the pale stone. The iron sconce clattered and bounced across the floorboards, gouging deep tracks into the wood.

"The paper means naething!" Robert shrieked, his face flushing dark red, the veins in his neck bulging against his collar.

He kicked the heavy oak chair beneath the table, sending it tumbling backward into the stone hearth, where it smashed against the iron grate, showering sparks and grey ash across the floor. He grabbed the edge of the trestle table itself, his knuckles turning blue as he lifted the heavy timber and flipped it onto its side with a deafening crash that shook the floorboards.

Outside in the corridor, two guards drew their dirks, peering cautiously through the doorway before freezing at the sight of his fury.

Robert stood in the center of the ruined room, his shoulders heaving, his dark hair falling in tangled, sweat-dampened locks across his forehead. He panted in short, ragged gasps, his hands twitching violently at his sides as he stared at the shattered timber and scattered ink.

Malcolm hadn't moved from the hearth. He merely wiped a speck of flying ash from his cheek, his sharp eyes watching the younger man with cold, calculating patience.

"Have ye finished?" Malcolm asked quietly. "Because the men downstairs can hear ye breaking chairs, and they dinnae march tae Glen Cannich tae follow a boy throwing tantrums."

The words hit Robert like a bucket of ice water.