Page 5 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

She watched Mòrag straighten her veil with steady hands, watched her sister look, for the first time all morning, almost peaceful about the man waiting at the altar, and thought that if the rumors were true, if that golden-haired stranger really had died in some bog in the west, then at least he would never have had to stand at this altar and she would never have had to watch it happen either.

Small mercies. She'd take what she could get.

She forced her eyes back to the priest.

Father Thomas cleared his throat, raising his silver crucifix over the couple. "By the power vested in Holy Mother Church, and before the eyes of Clan Farquharson..."

Across the dais, Robert reached out and caught Mòrag’s fingers. His grip was tight, immediate, his knuckles white against her skin. Over her head, his eyes locked with Malcolm’s.

Malcolm gave a single, firm nod. A shadow of a smirk touched the corner of Robert’s mouth, satisfied, settled, victorious.

"...I declare ye husband and wife."

The hall erupted.

Men slammed their wooden tankards against the long oak tables, shouting toasts, while the pipers at the back of the room blew a loud, skirling blast to signal the start of the feast. Robert pulled Mòrag’s hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles with practiced grace, his eyes already sweeping the room to greet the cheering councilors.

Then came the blow.

It was not a soft sound. It was the crack of oak splitting against stone as the massive, iron-studded outer doors were thrown open with such force that they bounced off the interior walls.

The wind howled into the hall, snuffing out a dozen candles near the entrance. The pipers’ song sputtered and died in a hideous, discordant screech.

A man stepped across the threshold.

He was broad-shouldered, towering over the guards at the door, draped in a heavy wool cloak caked in dark, drying road mud. Rain trickled down the worn leather of his bracer, dripping onto the stone flagstones with a steady tap, tap, tap. Beneath the torn, mud-splattered cloak, the dark green and red tartan of Clan Chisholm hung in ragged strips across his chest.

He did not draw his sword. He didn't have to. His hand rested casually on the pommel of a broadsword strapped to his hip, his knuckles scarred and bruised. Golden hair, dark with wet mud and sweat, hung past his jaw in tangled strands, framing a face lined with exhaustion and hardened by four brutal years of war.

Silence fell over the hall like a wet blanket dropped onto a fire.

Robert froze, his hand still holding Mòrag’s fingers. The smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, rigid tension in his jaw. Beside the High Table, Malcolm took a step backward, his hand dropping reflexively to the hilt of his dirk.

Laird Alasdair pushed himself up from his chair, his weak, trembling hands gripping the carved arms as he stared down the center aisle. "By the Saints..." the old man breathed, his voice cracking.

The mud-covered warrior took three long, deliberate steps into the hall. His boots squelched against the rushes on the floor.

He didn't look at the armed guards reaching for their weapons. He didn't look at the councilors scrambling out of their seats. He lifted his head, amber eyes burning through the dim torchlight as he scanned the elevated dais.

His gaze brushed past Robert, ignored Malcolm entirely, and landed squarely on Mòrag, and the silver-and-white wedding ribbon wrapped around her wrist.

Fearchar Chisholm halted ten paces from the altar rail. He rolled his shoulders, a slow, heavy motion that rustled his damp plaid, and wiped a smear of drying mud from his cheekbone with the back of his scarred hand.

"Ye start the feast early in Strathglass," Fearchar said. His voice was low, rasping like rough linen over stone, unused to soft rooms after years of battle command.

Malcolm stepped forward, his chest puffing out beneath his fur trim. "Who claims entrance tae Strathglass without leave? The laird is ill, and this is a private holy union."

"I ken who the laird is," Fearchar cut him off, his voice quiet, devoid of anger, but carrying an iron weight that made Malcolm's mouth snap shut.

Fearchar turned his amber gaze directly to Laird Alasdair. He dipped his head—a short, formal inclination of respect—before looking back at Mòrag.

"I am Fearchar, Laird of Clan Chisholm," he said, stepping closer until the firelight caught the faint, pale scar running from his temple to his jawline. "And I have come tae collect me bride."

Nandag’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped out from behind Mòrag, her hazel eyes wide as she stared at the man standing in the aisle.

The gold hair was darker now, threaded with grime and sweat. The easy confidence of the young laird in the Edinburgh garden, a man grown but not yet hardened, had been carved away, replaced by the lethal, flint-hard posture of a veteran commander. But as he shifted his weight, his eyes flicked past Mòrag for a split second, catching Nandag's gaze in the gloom.

A tiny, almost imperceptible muscle twitched in his jaw.