Page 39 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

A young castle servant was sprinting toward them, his wool tunic disheveled, his face flushed red and dripping with sweat. He stumbled to a halt a few paces from the bench, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as he fought to catch his breath.

"Me laird..." the lad wheezed, pointing back toward the inner courtyard. "A rider from the lower ford. Duncan sent me, ye must come at once, me laird."

Fearchar stood up, the warmth of the moment vanishing instantly, replaced by the sharp, cold instinct of a laird. He reached down, offering Nandag his hand to help her up from the stone bench. Her fingers were trembling, but her face was set in a firm, watchful expression as she smoothed down her skirts.

"What is it, lad?" Fearchar demanded, his voice dropping into the hard command tone. "What rider?"

"A runner from the smithy near the lower burn," the boy panted, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "He says unfamiliar men were seen near the woods three miles out."

"How many?"

"Five or six, me laird. Mounted. Heavy cloaks, nay clan tartans showing." The lad swallowed hard. "They were asking the charcoal burners about the castle patrol times and about Lady Nandag's riding habits."

A cold, lethal flame ignited in the pit of Fearchar's stomach.

"Where is Duncan?" Fearchar asked, stepping past the servant and heading briskly back up the path toward the main yard.

"At the stables, me laird," the lad called out, jogging to keep pace behind them. "He's having the horses saddled."

Nandag walked fast beside Fearchar, her light footsteps keeping up with his long stride. "Fearchar, who would be asking about me movements? The Camerons?"

"Robert Cameron daesnae send six men in plain cloaks tae ask questions," Fearchar said grimly, as they burst out of the garden archway into the bustling courtyard. "He marches three hundred blades with banners flying. This is something else."

The courtyard was already transformed. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls as men moved in swift, disciplined order. Duncan was near the stable doors, shouting orders to two young guards who were buckling on steel breastplates.

"Duncan!" Fearchar called out.

His kinsman turned, his face dark as a thundercloud. "Ye heard?"

"Aye," Fearchar said, stopping beside Duncan's mount. "Double the wall guard immediately. I want four men on the eastern gate tower and three on the river watch. Nay one enters or leaves the castle gates without me explicit word or yers."

"Already done," Duncan replied, checking the girth on his stallion's saddle. "I've pulled eight men from the lower barracks tae reinforce the outer ward."

"Good," Fearchar said. "Saddle me horse. We ride fer the lower ford now."

"Fearchar, wait."

Nandag stepped into the center of the stable ring, her eyes bright and defiant in the torchlight. She looked between Fearchar and Duncan, her chin lifted high. "I'm coming with ye."

Fearchar stopped, turning to look at her fully. "Nay."

"I ken every track and sheep path between here and the lower burn," she insisted, stepping closer to him, her voice low so the surrounding guards wouldn't hear. "If these men are lurking near the Chisholm border, I can identify where they might be hiding better than yer Strathglass men."

"Nandag, they are asking fer ye," Fearchar said, taking her by the shoulders, his grip firm and unyielding. "They are scouting yer movements. I am nae riding out intae the twilight with the very prize they're looking fer hanging on me hip."

"I am nae a prize tae be locked in a tower!" she snapped, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce spark that made him respect her all the more. "I am the daughter of this hall!"

"And ye are me wife," Fearchar countered, his voice dropping into a low, fierce rumble that cut through her defiance. "And as laird of this house, I am telling ye that yer place taenight is behind two feet of Chisholm oak and thirty broadswords."

She stared up at him, her chest heaving, fighting the urge to argue further. But as she looked into his face, seeing the cold, absolute certainty in his eyes, her shoulders softened just a fraction.

"Fearchar..." she whispered, her voice losing its edge, filled now with a quiet, sharp worry. "If it's an ambush..."

"It willnae be," Fearchar promised her. He reached up, cupping her cheek for one brief, fleeting second in front of the entire courtyard, careless of who watched. "I have six battle-tested men at me back and Duncan beside me. We are going tae find out who is asking questions on our land."

Duncan led Fearchar's stallion forward, the heavy black beast snorting against the cool night air. Fearchar took the reins, swinging smoothly up into the saddle.

Looking down at her from the horse's back, he held her gaze amidst the swirling chaos of mounting riders and clattering steel.