Page 42 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

A tiny, breathless gasp escaped the little girl’s lips, the glassy terror in her eyes softening as she stared at her creation.

"Aye," Nandag said softly, her thumb brushing a smudge of black dust from the girl's cheek. "Just like that. A fine Highland eagle."

Within minutes, three children were crowded around her, their quiet sniffles giving way to soft, cautious breaths of fascination.

Fearchar quietly watched her, his heart stirring with a great, silent pride that surpassed any victory he had won with a broadsword. In the Western wars, he had seen leaders command through fear, through steel, and through the sheer weight of authority. But here was his wife, weaving the fractured, terrified spirits of her people back together with simple human grace.

He saw old MacRae, who had sat across the table hours ago questioning Chisholm's loyalty, standing near the doorway. The old elder watched Nandag tend to his cousin's family, his hand resting thoughtfully against his white beard, a look of profound, solemn gratitude settling over his weathered face.

By the time the last bowl of broth was emptied and the last gash bandaged, the Great Hall had settled into a soft, quiet rhythm. Families lay tucked beneath thick woolen blankets near the warmth of the roaring fire, the children sleeping peacefully against their mothers.

As Nandag finally stood up, wiping her hands on a clean cloth, more than one weary face looked up at her, whispering quiet blessings in Gaelic, their eyes reflecting an absolute, unbreakable devotion.

She had not just helped them; she had cemented her place as the beating heart of Strathglass.

The late hour had turned the castle corridors into long tunnels of deep shadow by the time Fearchar pushed open the heavy door to their bedchamber.

The room was cool, illuminated only by the faint, dying embers of the hearth and a single beeswax candle flickering on the small table near the window.

Nandag was sitting on the edge of the high mattress, her dark hair unbraided and falling in soft, heavy waves over her shoulders. She had changed into a simple linen shift, her posture slumped with a bone-deep exhaustion she had refused to show downstairs. She was staring blankly at her lap, her small hands resting palms-up on her skirts, the skin red and tender from scrubbing linen and carrying hot water for hours.

Fearchar closed the door quietly behind him, his boots dropping softly against the floorboards. He unbuckled his sword belt, setting the heavy broadsword and scabbard carefully against the wooden chest, before walking over to the bed.

He sat beside her, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. The sudden warmth of his presence filled the space between them.

Nandag didn't lift her head immediately, but a long, shuddering breath escaped her lips—a quiet release of all the fear and tension she had held bound since the rider had arrived at sunset.

"They're all asleep," she whispered, her voice husky with fatigue. "The blacksmith’s fever has broken. The children are warm."

"I ken," Fearchar said softly. He reached out, his broad, calloused hand gently taking hers, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles across her knuckles. "I saw."

Nandag turned her head to look at him, her dark eyes reflecting the amber flicker of the candle. "It was close, Fearchar. If ye hadnae reached the burn when ye did..."

"We got there," Fearchar interrupted gently, stopping her thoughts before they could plunge into the dark what-ifs of the night. "The village is scorched, aye, but the people are alive. And they are safe inside these walls because of what ye built fer them downstairs taenight."

A faint, self-deprecating smile touched the corner of her mouth. "I only handed out broth and blankets."

"Ye gave them back their peace," Fearchar corrected, his voice dropping into a low, rough murmur. He leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing against hers, his gaze steady and fiercely sincere. "A laird can fight the battle at the border, Nandag, but it takes a true lady of the hall tae keep the spirit of the clan from breaking. They looked at ye taenight like ye were the sun coming up over the ridge."

Nandag’s eyes softened, a faint flush of rose coloring her cheeks. "Fearchar..."

"I mean it," he said, shifting his grip to lightly frame the back of her neck, his fingers trailing into the thick warmth of her hair. "Clan Farquharson and Clan Chisholm are lucky tae have ye. And I am the luckiest man in all the High Glen."

She let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh, and leaned forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder. Her hand came up to grasp his linen shirt, her fingers clinging tightly to the fabric as she let the solid weight and steady warmth of his body wash over her.

Fearchar wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side, resting his chin atop her soft hair. For several long, silent minutes, neither of them spoke. The world outside—Cameron's hidden threat, the burning cottages, the scheming elders—faded into nothingness against the quiet sanctuary of the room.

Eventually, Fearchar felt the heavy, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as she began to drift toward sleep against his ribs.

Regretfully, he tightened his arm once before gently loosening his hold. He shifted, lifting her head carefully and guiding her back onto the pillows.

Nandag blinked up at him through heavy eyelids, her brows knitting together in faint confusion. "Where are ye going?"

"The battlements," Fearchar murmured, reaching down to pull the thick wool quilt up over her shoulders, tucking it snugly around her neck. "I need tae walk the wall guard once more, check the river watch, and make sure the guards on the eastern tower are awake before I lay me head down."

Nandag reached out from beneath the blanket, her warm fingers brushing against his wrist. "Dinnae stay out in the cold too long."

"I willnae," Fearchar promised. He leaned down, placing a soft, lingering kiss against her forehead, smelling the faint, comforting scent of lavender in her hair. "I'll be back before the candle burns out. Sleep, me lass."