Page 55 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Fearchar’s grin widened into a deep, chuckle that vibrated straight through his chest into hers. "Aye, ye were. Ye were sitting there looking at a pair of wool skirts as if they’d just insulted yer honor." He reached up, his thumb casually tracing the fiery red line of her cheekbone. "Or maybe ye were thinking about what happened before we went tae sleep."

"Fearchar," she warned, though the heat in her face doubled.

"Ye're red as a rowan berry, Lady Chisholm," he teased softly, his fingers trailing down to tuck a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I dinnae ken the brave daughter of Clan Chisholm could turn so shy in the morning light."

"I am nae shy," she protested, reaching out to push his broad chest, but her palm only slid against the warm, hard muscle of his ribs. A quiet, helpless laugh bubbled up from her throat despite her best efforts to look severe. "Ye are intolerable."

"Aye, but I'm warm," he murmured, his grin softening as he leaned down and pressed a quick, lingering kiss to the corner of her laughing mouth.

He shifted his weight and sat up, letting the blanket drop to his waist. He swung his long legs and stood, completely unbothered by his lack of shirt, and walked over to the hearth. He reached up, testing the heavy wool of her dress with his calloused palm.

"Dry as bone," he declared, turning back to hand her light linen shift.

He knelt beside the bed, his demeanor instantly changing from playfulness to a quiet, attentive care. He helped her pull the shift over her head, his large hands guiding her arms with meticulous slowness so as not to pull on her healing, bandaged shoulder.

Next came the heavy dark dress. He stood behind her as she pulled it over her hips, his broad fingers working their way up her spine, fastening every single bone button with steady, patient precision.

When he reached the top button near her collar, his fingers lingered against the sensitive skin of her neck for a second before he stepped back to pull on his own linen shirt, leather doublet, and heavy wool plaid.

As he tightened his broadsword belt around his waist, settling the heavy basket-hilt steel at his hip, the reality of the outside world began to creep back into the quiet stone room. The storm had passed, leaving behind a crisp, silent morning. Beyond the timber door lay Castle Strathglass, the hovering threat of Robert Cameron, and a council of elders waiting to tear at them both.

Fearchar walked toward the heavy oak door, his hand resting on the iron latch. He turned to look at her, waiting.

Nandag stood by the dying hearth, her hands resting over the smooth wool of her skirts. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not with the panic of the castle, but with a strange, terrifying vulnerability that had nothing to do with swords or war.

She took a slow step forward. Then another.

Fearchar paused, his grey eyes watching her with quiet curiosity as she closed the distance between them. She stopped right in front of him. Before her nerve could fail her, she reached up, her fingers gripping the thick leather lapels of his doublet and pulled herself up on her tiptoes.

She pressed her lips to his.

It was sweet, deliberate, and entirely unbidden. She held him there for three long heartbeats, letting the steady, solid warmth of his mouth ground her.

When she pulled back, her cheeks flared hot once more. She quickly dropped her gaze to the brass buckle of his belt, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

"Nandag?" he asked softly, his hand coming up to rest gently beneath her chin, coaxing her face back up.

She swallowed hard, looking at the dark stubble on his jaw rather than directly into his searching grey gaze. "In the keep... I have spent every day waiting fer the blade tae fall. I have spent me whole life believing that safety was something ye had tae build out of stone walls, heavy iron bars, and political bargaining."

She took a soft breath, her fingers tightening against his leather coat before she finally forced herself to look him in the eyes.

"I am beginning tae understand why I feel safe with ye, Fearchar," she admitted quietly, the words stripping away the last shield she possessed. "It isnae the stone. It isnae the castle. It's ye."

A profound, breathless silence settled over the small hut.

Fearchar didn't speak. He didn't offer a witty remark or a boastful laugh. A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his rugged face—a smile so entirely genuine, so fiercely tender, that it transformed his hard, warrior's features completely.

He raised his hand, his knuckles brushing over her cheek one last time, before his long, calloused fingers slid down to weave firmly into hers. He squeezed her hand tight, an immovable anchor against whatever awaited them outside.

"Come on then, lass," Fearchar murmured softly, his voice thick with a quiet promise. "Let's go face the glen."

He lifted the iron latch, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and led her out into the crisp, sunlit morning.

The heavy oak gate of Castle Strathglass groaned shut behind them with a definitive, echoing thud, sealing out the cool morning air of the glen.

The courtyard was already buzzing with grim activity. Stable boys hurried past carrying armfuls of wet straw, men-at-arms sharpened broadswords against grinding stones near the smithy, and the sharp scent of roasting meat mingled with the lingering dampness of last night’s storm.

Fearchar dismounted first, his boots splashing through the shallow puddles in the cobblestones. He turned and reached up, his broad hands settling securely around Nandag’s waist to lower her from her mare. For a brief second, as her feet touched the ground, her fingers tightened against the wool of his sleeves, her dark eyes meeting his with a quiet, shared understanding before she stepped back and adjusted her plaid.