Page 47 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"Dae ye ken what I felt when I heard that basin shatter?" he asked quietly.

Nandag turned her head back to look at him.

Fearchar was staring down at their joined hands, his jaw set, his throat working as he swallowed hard. The fierce, unbreakable laird of Strathglass looked suddenly raw, the lines around his eyes deep with a profound, terrifying vulnerability.

"I was halfway down the corridor," he murmured, his rough voice cracking slightly on the words. "When the scream reached me, me blood went to ice. I ran, and every step felt like a mile. I thought of the blood on me own sword from the village, and I thought... if I open that door and find ye cold... if I am too late..."

He stopped, closing his eyes for a long second, his fingers tightening around hers until the grip was almost painful.

"I have faced three hundred Cameron blades in the open glen without me heart missing a beat," Fearchar whispered, opening his eyes to look directly into hers. "But in those three seconds outside that door, Nandag, I was more terrified than I have ever been in me entire life. I thought I had lost ye."

The sheer weight of his words shattered the last wall holding her together.

A ragged sob tore from her throat, and she sat up, reaching for him blindly.

Fearchar didn't hesitate. In a single fluid motion, he swung his leg over the edge of the mattress and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his massive arms around her. He drew her flush against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin, his plaid wrapping around them both.

Nandag buried her face into the crook of his neck, her hands clutching at the leather of his doublet, and wept. She wept for the fear that had choked her, for the horror of the dirk at her throat, and for the sheer, overwhelming relief of his arms around her. Every drop of tension she had held since the sunset poured out of her in heavy, shuddering sobs that shook her entire body.

Fearchar held her through it all. He held her tight against his heart, his hand resting against the back of her head, his fingers gently threading through her dark, loose hair.

"Ye are nae weak, Nandag," he whispered fiercely into her hair, his breath warm against her cheek. "Ye fought a killer with yer bare hands and a bronze stick. Ye bled fer this house, and ye survived. Ye are the strongest woman I have ever known."

He pressed a lingering, tender kiss against the top of her head, then another to her temple, his chin resting atop her head as her sobbing gradually slowed into ragged breaths.

"I willnae let them touch ye again," Fearchar swore softly into the quiet room, his voice a low, absolute vow that vibrated right through his ribs and into hers. "Nae Cameron, nae his mercenaries, nae a single serpent in this glen. I will burn every forest in Strathglass before I let anyone hurt ye."

Nandag leaned heavily against his chest, listening to the slow, steady thudding of his heart beneath her ear. The terrifying memory of the assassin's cold eyes began to recede, pushed back by the solid, unyielding warmth of the man holding her.

Slowly, the exhaustion returned, heavy and suffocating, pulling her eyelids down. She didn't move from his lap, and Fearchar made no move to put her back on the pillows. He shifted slightly, settling his back against the heavy oak headboard, keeping his arms locked around her, his plaid draped over them both.

As her breathing finally evened out into the deep, quiet rhythm of sleep, she felt his hand still smoothing her hair, his steady warmth guarding her against the dark.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Morning light bled through the tall, narrow arrow slits of the bedchamber, cutting long gray ribbons across the stone floor.

Fearchar stood by the heavy oak wardrobe, buckling his leather broadsword belt over his shoulder. The exhaustion of the night still weighed heavily on his eyes, but his mind was sharp, hardened by the cold reality of what awaited them downstairs. He turned toward the bed, intending to pull the heavy wool quilt higher around Nandag’s shoulders before stepping out to face the Council.

She was already on her feet.

Nandag stood near the hearth, dressed not in a soft gown of state, but in her dark, close-fitted wool, her hair drawn back into a tight, severe braid. Her shoulder was heavily bandaged beneath her linen shift, her movements guarded and stiff, but her jaw was set in an unyielding line.

Fearchar stopped, his hand resting on the basket hilt at his hip. "Ye are nae going down tae the hall, Nandag."

"I am," she replied quietly, her dark eyes meeting his in the dim light. She reached for her tartan plaid, draping it over her uninjured shoulder.

"The Council is a hornet's nest this morning," Fearchar said, taking two swift strides across the room to stand before her. He reached out, his broad hands resting gently on her arms, his thumbs brushing against the soft fabric. "The elders are frightened, angry, and looking fer someone tae blame. Duncan has the inner ward locked down, but the air in that hall is thick with tension. Stay here. Stay where I ken the door is barred, and the guard is absolute."

Nandag looked up at him, her chest rising in a slow, deliberate breath. "If I hide in this chamber today, Fearchar, Robert Cameron wins without drawing another blade."

"Nandag."

"He sent a man into me bedroom tae slaughter me like a spring lamb," she interrupted, her voice dropping into a low, fierce murmur. "If I sit behind barred oak while the elders debate me safety, I tell every man in Strathglass that Robert has made me afraid. I tell them I am fragile. I am the daughter of the house, and I will nae be locked away in me own home."

Fearchar stared down at her. He saw the faint violet shadows beneath her eyes, the subtle tremor in her left hand, and the raw, lingering trauma of the previous night’s violence. But beneath all of it, he saw the fierce, unbroken spirit that had drawn him to her from the start. He knew that forcing her to stay would break something far more vital than a council's protocol.

Without another word, Fearchar offered her his arm. Nandag looked at it for a fraction of a second, then slid her slender hand into the crook of his elbow.