Page 50 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Nandag stood up slowly, her hand resting over her heart. She looked around the busy courtyard—at the women nodding solemnly from the washing tubs, the men standing tall on the ramparts, the children who no longer wept in the shadows.

They were not Fearchar’s soldiers, sworn by oath and silver. They were not the council’s men, bound by political necessity. They were her people, bound to her not by authority but by bloodline, and by the quiet, unbreakable thread of shared devotion.

For the first time since she had been in Castle Strathglass as a bride, Nandag felt the solid ground beneath her feet. She wasn't just a Chisholm living in a Farquharson stronghold. She was the heart of Strathglass, and no elder in the Great Hall could ever take that away from her.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The heavy stone walls of Castle Strathglass had begun to feel less like a fortress and more like a tomb.

For three days, the keep had existed in a state of suffocating lockdown. The air in the corridors was thick with the reek of tallow candles, unwashed wool, and the sharp, metallic tang of cold iron. Fearchar stood near the solar window, his hand resting on the stone frame, his grey eyes fixed on his wife.

Nandag sat at the heavy oak table, a ledger of grain stores open before her. Her spine was straight, her dark hair drawn into its usual neat braid, but the signs of deep, bone-weariness were plain to see.

The violet shadows under her eyes had darkened into deep bruises against her pale skin. Her left shoulder remained stiff, her hand trembling almost imperceptibly every time she dipped her quill into the inkwell. She had spent every waking hour since the council meeting organizing rations, listening to the grievances of displaced crofters, and pacing the floor whenever Fearchar walked the perimeter.

She was also constantly checking in on her father to make sure he was holding up. He had been feeling poorly after the two marriages and all that ensued and had taken to his bed. She spent as much as she could spare time by his side, reassuring him that she and her new husband had full control of the situation.

She was running herself into the dirt, holding the weight of the entire glen on a body that had barely begun to heal from an assassin’s blade.

Fearchar crossed the room with quiet, heavy steps. He didn't speak until he reached the table, taking the quill directly out of her fingers and laying it across the parchment.

Nandag blinked up at him, her dark eyes clouded with sudden confusion. "Fearchar? I am nearly finished with the salt fish tally fer the lower vaults."

"Put it down, lass," Fearchar said, his voice a low, gravelly command that left no room for debate.

"The elders are meeting again at noon," she insisted, reaching for the quill, but Fearchar gently caught her hand, his broad, warm fingers wrapping around her cold knuckles. "If the rations are nae settled, Malcolm will⁠—"

"Malcolm can chew on dry oats fer all I care," Fearchar cut her off gently. He leaned down, his grey eyes locking onto hers with steady intensity. "Look at ye, Nandag. Ye havenae seen the sun in four days. Ye havenae taken a breath of clean mountain air since Cameron's serpent stepped over our threshold. Ye are coming outside."

Nandag hesitated, her shoulders tensing as her eyes darted toward the barred heavy door. "Outside? Fearchar, the gates are sealed fer a reason. The valley isnae safe."

"The main road isnae," Fearchar agreed, pulling her slowly to her feet. "Which is why we arenae taking the road. Trust me."

Ten minutes later, the two of them slipped out through the postern gate on the castle's western flank, away from the bustling main courtyard and the watchful eyes of the Council.

Fearchar’s keen eyes scanned the dense tree line of the lower glen, while he flanked the narrow, winding deer path that cut deep into the shadowed folds of the hills.

Fearchar rode his heavy, iron-grey stallion directly beside Nandag’s bay mare, his horse’s shoulder nearly brushing her stirrup. His left hand held his reins, but his right remained resting on the basket hilt of his broadsword, his gaze constantly sweeping the high ridges above them.

For the first mile, Nandag rode in rigid silence. Her hand clutched the leather reins so tightly her knuckles were stark white, her head turning at every snap of a dry twig or rustle of heather in the wind. The bedroom attack hung over her, her body braced for an ambush that could spring from every shadow.

Fearchar kept his stallion close, his broad, solid frame shielding her side, his presence a silent, immovable barrier between her and the wild glen.

As the path climbed higher, leaving the damp spruce woods behind, the trees thinned into an open, sunlit valley hidden deep within the crests of the surrounding hills. It was a secluded meadow, untouched by the fires of the border raid. High, craggy peaks rose on all four sides, forming a natural stone basin where the wind whispered through tall, golden grass and clusters of purple bell-heather and yellow buttercups.

Fearchar dismounted first, his heavy boots sinking into the soft turf. He walked over to Nandag’s mare and reached up, placing his broad hands on her waist to help her down, mindful of her injured shoulder.

When her feet touched the earth, Nandag didn't move away immediately. She stood close to his chest, her breath catching as the sharp, clean scent of crushed pine, peat, and summer wildflowers filled her lungs. There was no smell of woodsmoke, no iron reek of blood, no damp stone walls pressing in on her.

"Walk, lass," Fearchar murmured into her hair, releasing her waist. "There is nay one here but the wind and the hills."

Nandag took a hesitant step forward, her leather boots sinking into the thick carpet of wild grass.

She walked slowly toward the center of the meadow, where a tiny, crystal-clear burn trickled over smooth river stones. The bright midday sun broke through the silver clouds, bathing the glen in warm, amber light.

Nandag stopped beside the water. She reached up with both hands, unbuckling the silver brooch at her neck, and let her heavy wool tartan plaid drape over a flat, sun-warmed boulder. Next, she unpinned her tight, severe braid, letting her dark, thick hair fall free over her shoulders, the mountain breeze catching the tresses and blowing them softly across her face.

Fearchar remained near the horses, leaning his arm against his stallion’s saddle, watching her.