Page 60 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Fearchar blinked, taken off guard by the sudden shift. He looked at her, then down at his coat. Slowly, without a word, he reached into the inner lining and pulled out a tiny, threadbare ribbon of sky-blue silk, its edges frayed by years of gentle handling.

"It is naething that concerns the Council," he said roughly, though his fingers held the delicate fabric with an almost reverent gentleness.

"Tell me," she pressed softly, her dark eyes wide and steady.

Fearchar chuckled, looking down at the bit of blue in his palm. "Seven years ago, before the war took the south, I was sent tae the King’s court in Edinburgh as a young lieutenant. I hated every bloody minute of it—the posturing, the political lies, the scented courtiers." A teasing smile touched his lips. "One afternoon, I walked into the palace rose gardens tae escape the noise. I found a girl hiding behind an ancient yew hedge, ducking her tutor."

Nandag blushed, her heart giving a sudden, violent thud against her ribs at the memory.

"She was fierce," Fearchar continued softly, his thumb brushing the silk. "She had dark, wild hair and eyes like polished oak. She called the King’s ministers a pack of strutting roosters. I laughed so loud talking tae her. Before I left fer the northern pass the next dawn, I kissed her beneath the stone archway. She lost this ribbon." He looked up, his grey eyes filled with a raw passion. "I never learned her name. But whenever the war grew too dark, I pulled this out tae remind meself that there was still something untamed and sweet left in the world."

Nandag stood entirely breathless. She looked from the faded silk ribbon to Fearchar's rugged, scarred face, the memory crashing over her in a blinding, glorious wave of clarity. He had found her lost ribbon. He had saved it all this time!

A quiet giggle escaped her lips.

"I met a boy... in Edinburgh, seven years past" she whispered, her hands trembling as she reached out, her fingertips brushing the edge of the blue silk in his palm. "A tall mountain warrior who smelled of pine and rain, who told me the King's court was nothing but a cage for gilded birds..."

His grey eyes went dark, his grip tightening on the ribbon.

"Nandag?" he rasped, his voice barely a thread of sound.

“I never fergot ye."

“Neither did I.”

The truth settled between them. They were still the same two souls who had found each other in a quiet garden seven years ago.

Fearchar let out a low, rough growl, dropping the ribbon into his pouch as he stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.

His mouth came down on hers beside the splashing fountain, a kiss that possessed neither the fear of the storm nor the caution of the castle walls. It was wild, deep, and filled with a fierce, joyful certainty. Nandag wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, pulling herself flush against his chest, returning the kiss with every ounce of love and devotion she had tried so hard to deny.

When he finally pulled back, his grey eyes were bright with an unyielding flame. He reached down, slipping one broad arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, sweeping her up into his arms.

Nandag laughed softly, resting her cheek against his warm shoulder as he carried her away from the fountain, up the stone stairs, and straight into their private chamber.

He set her down gently beside the grand mahogany bed, kicking the heavy oak door shut behind them, sliding the iron bolt firmly into place to lock out the rumors, the elders, and the looming threat of war.

The fire on the hearth cast a soft, golden glow over the quiet room.

Nandag reached out, her fingers slowly unbuckling the silver brooch at her shoulder, letting her heavy wool plaid fall to the floor. She stepped toward him, her dark eyes locked onto his, completely unhurried, completely free.

"Nay decrees, Fearchar," she whispered, taking his large, calloused hands and placing them over her waist. "Nay royal obligations. Nay bargains."

Fearchar looked down at her, his rugged face filled with an uncharacteristic, reverent tenderness. "Only us, lass. Only ye."

He pulled her close, his hands moving over her skin with deliberate, breathless warmth.

Nandag lay wrapped in Fearchar’s strong arms, her head resting over the steady, powerful beating of his heart. and knew with clarity that she was no captive or pawn. She was loved, she was whole, and she belonged to the laird who held her tight against the dark.

The warmth of his body seeped through her woolen skirt as she leaned into him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a grounding pulse beneath her ear.

Fearchar's hand moved from her shoulder, his fingers tracing the curve of her collarbone through the thin linen of her chemise. The touch was light, almost reverent, but she felt it everywhere—a trail of heat that spread across her skin like honey poured over warm stone.

"Nandag," he breathed, her name a rough prayer against her temple.

She turned toward him, lifting her face to meet his gaze. His grey eyes had darkened, the flecks of silver catching the fading light like storm clouds gathering over the loch. She reached up, her fingers tracing the scar near his temple, feeling the slight tremor in his jaw beneath her touch.

"I want ye," he whispered.