Page 7 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"Yer faither is a dying old man who would hand our home tae a Chisholm beast!" Robert spat, shoving past a panicked servant. "Ye are me wife, Mòrag. Yer blood seals me right tae this seat, and I am nae leaving ye behind!"

Nandag didn't think. She gathered the heavy folds of her saffron skirts in both hands, ducked beneath a swing of a guard's elbow, and sprinted down the side aisle after them.

A blade cut the air a hand's width from her shoulder, some Chisholm warrior's wild swing meant for someone else entirely, and she felt the wind of it pass before she registered what it was.

She didn't stop.

A servant went down hard in front of her, knocked flat by a fleeing councilman, and she leapt over the man's legs without breaking stride, her slipper catching the hem of her own skirt and nearly putting her on the floor beside him.

"Mòrag!" Nandag called out, her voice cutting through the din of breaking pottery and shouting men.

She shoved through the heavy tapestry covering the archway, bursting into the narrow, cold stone corridor. Ten yards ahead, Robert was hauling Mòrag toward the outer iron door, flanked by two of his personal retinue, broad-shouldered men with drawn daggers.

One of the men—a dark-bearded warrior named Torcall—glanced back over his shoulder at the sound of Nandag’s rushing footsteps. His dark eyes flicked from her face to her crimson silk sash, recognizing the laird’s youngest daughter instantly.

"Robert!" Torcall called out, halting near the doorway. "The younger sister is right behind us!"

Robert paused, his hand on the iron latch of the courtyard door. He turned, his nostrils flaring as his eyes landed on Nandag. A sharp, calculating shift cleared the fury from his face, replaced by a cold, opportunistic light.

"Take her," Robert ordered flatly.

"Robert, nay!" Mòrag gasped, lunging to grab his arm. "Leave Nandag out of this!"

Robert shoved Mòrag behind him, stepping out into the rain-slicked courtyard. "If Chisholm challenges Mòrag’s contract using the King's words, the younger daughter is next in line fer the bloodline claim. I’ll nae leave another one fer him tae marry. Grab her!"

Torcall whirled, reaching out with a leather-clad hand to seize Nandag’s arm.

Nandag didn't wait for his fingers to close around her skin. She pulled a heavy brass wall sconce free from its stone socket and swung it with all the strength in her upper body.

The brass edge struck Torcall full across his jaw with a sickening crack. He stumbled back, cursing blood into his beard, his hand flying to his broken face.

Nandag turned on her heel and ran.

Her leather slippers skidded on the slick floorboards as she sprinted back toward the castle interior, her heart slamming violently against her ribs. The sound of heavy iron-shod boots echoed behind her. Torcall was recovering fast, his angry, ragged breath closing the gap down the corridor.

She couldn't go back into the Great Hall; the narrow passageway was choked with smoke and retreating servants. She turned right, darting down the narrow archway leading to the outer stables and the horse-block.

The cold autumn wind struck her as she burst through the side postern door into the rain-drenched courtyard. The cobblestones were slick with water and mud. To her left, the high stone walls of the stable block offered no exit, the massive wooden gates locked shut for the night.

She was trapped.

Nandag whirled, backing up against the rough wooden timber of a water trough. She held the brass sconce out in front of her with both hands, her chest heaving, rain plastering dark, curling strands of her brown hair to her forehead and cheeks.

Torcall lunged through the postern door, blood streaming down his neck from his shattered jaw. His eyes were wild, red-rimmed with rage.

"Little cat," he snarled, spitting a mouthful of red onto the cobblestones. He didn't draw his sword; he dropped his weight low and dived for her legs.

Nandag swung the sconce again, but Torcall caught her wrist in mid-air, twisting her arm until her fingers went numb and the brass weapon clattered onto the stones. He slammed her back against the wooden trough, knocking the breath from her lungs in a sharp, gasping wheeze. His heavy leather coat smelled of wet dog, stale ale, and iron as he wrapped a thick arm around her waist, lifting her feet clean off the ground.

"Get off me!" Nandag slammed her elbows down into his ribs, kicking her feet wildly against his shins.

"Shut yer mouth!" Torcall dragged her toward a horse tied near the mounting block, where two more of Robert’s men were already mounted, waiting with swords drawn. "Robert wants ye at the eastern tower before the Chisholms clear the hall!"

"Put her down."

The command was not screamed. It was uttered with a quiet, icy clarity that seemed to freeze the rain mid-air.

Torcall paused, turning half-around with Nandag still pinned against his chest.