Page 75 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"Let her go, Robert," Nandag said softly, stepping clear of the vault door, her chin lifted, her hands held open at her sides. "It’s me ye want. Fer ye want the keep. Let Mòrag go, and I will step forward."

"Nandag, nay!" Fearchar growled, his chest heaving as he took a half-step, but Robert’s blade twitched against Mòrag's skin, stopping Fearchar in his tracks.

"A touch closer and she bleeds!" Robert barked at Fearchar, his eyes darting hungrily toward Nandag as she took another quiet step forward. The madness in his face flared bright and victorious. He gestured with his chin to the two broad-shouldered mercenaries standing beside him.

"Seize her," Robert commanded, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "Bind her tight. We take them both intae the hills, and we see how much the Chisholm laird values his paper kingdom when his bride is in me camp."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The iron-shod toe of Fearchar’s boot caught the flat of a mercenary’s shield, sending the man crashing backward over a fallen oak bench.

Fearchar didn't watch him hit the stone floor. His broadsword swept around in a horizontal arc, the heavy steel biting deep through a leather jack to cleave the second attacker away from the cellar archway.

The copper stink of spilt blood was thick in the enclosed space, mixing with the sharp, acrid smoke from overturned tallow lamps and burning rushes. Sweat stung Fearchar's eyes, but his focus never wavered from the mouth of the vault.

Behind him, Duncan came through the smoke like a wounded bull, four Chisholm broadswords at his back. The metal-on-metal shrieks grew deafening as they threw their weight into the breach.

"Clear the hall! Drive the bastards tae the courtyard!" Duncan roared, his blade ringing hard against a mercenary's pike, forcing the line of attackers back toward the broken timber postern piece by bloody piece.

The sudden, brutal counter-attack broke Robert’s grip for a fraction of a second.

Mòrag didn't hesitate. She threw her weight sideways, her iron heel stomping down hard onto Robert’s instep. Robert let out a muffled curse, his hunting knife slipping as Mòrag tore her neck free, leaving a thin smear of crimson across her damp wool collar.

"Nandag!" Mòrag gasped, her voice raw. She scrambled on her hands and knees across the blood-slicked stone toward her sister, her skirts catching in the dark pools on the floor.

Nandag dropped to her knees, her small hands reaching out to drag Mòrag to her. She wrapped her arms tight around her sister's trembling frame, tucking Mòrag’s head against her collarbone as her eyes searched the room for another threat.

Robert’s face twisted into a mask of pure, ugly fury. He wiped a spray of blood from his cheek with the back of his iron gauntlet, his broadsword clearing its scabbard with a sharp, metallic screech that rang above the chaotic clashes in the outer passage. He took three long, lunging strides toward the two women, his blade raised high for a killing strike.

Fearchar stepped into the gap.

The collision of steel on steel detonated between them. Fearchar caught Robert’s descending blade on the heavy crossguard of his broadsword, the bone-deep impact vibrating straight through his forearms and into his shoulders. He drove his weight forward, muscles bunched under his wet linen shirt, shunting Robert back two full paces and placing his broad frame directly between the sisters and the killer.

"Touch them," Fearchar said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet grate that carried deadlier weight than any shout, "and ye leave this hall in pieces."

Robert backed away a step, his heavy boots grinding against loose gravel and blood on the oak floorboards. His breath came in ragged, whistling gasps, his dark eyes wide and bloodshot as he adjusted his grip on the leather hilt of his sword. A fine line of red ran down the side of his jaw where a splinter of wood had grazed him, but he seemed entirely blind to it.

"Ye stole it all," Robert spat, his voice cracking with a high, bitter tremor. He pointed the shaking tip of his blade straight at Fearchar’s throat. "Every single piece of it! The keep! The land! It was meant fer me!"

Fearchar didn't raise his guard higher. He held his blade low and ready, his feet set wide on the firm stone, his grey eyes locked on the nervous twitching of Robert’s right shoulder. "The clan was never yers tae take, Robert."

"It was promised tae me!" Robert roared, his face flushing dark purple in the yellow torchlight. "I was promised respect! I was promised power! I spent seven years fighting me faither's petty border wars while ye were rottin' in the south fighting wars! I built those defenses! I bled on the eastern hills! I was meant tae be Laird of Clan Farquharson! Ye dinnae take yer place early."

"Ye tried tae steal it with murder and forged ink," Fearchar replied, taking a slow, deliberate half-step forward, forcing Robert to yield ground toward the cold hearth. "Ye thought ye could burn villages, starve those that were tae become yer own people, and call it lordship. Ye built naething. Ye tore it apart."

"I married Mòrag!" Robert screamed, his knuckles turning white as he shook his sword frantically in the air. "I took her tae the altar! I stood in that chapel! By every right of blood and marriage, I was the head of this family! I was the one who was meant tae rule Strathglass!"

Behind Fearchar, Mòrag drew in a sharp, shaking breath, her fingers clutching tighter into the wet wool of Nandag’s plaid. Nandag held her firm, her eyes fixed on Fearchar's broad back, trusting the steel in his hand.

Fearchar didn't glance back. His gaze remained pinned to the swaying blade in Robert's fist.

"Mòrag never gave agreed tae ye ruining her house," Fearchar said, his tone icy, flat, and absolute. "She was a weapon tae ye. A piece of paper tae throw before the Council tae validate yer greed. And the King saw straight through the lie."

"The King is a fool sitting on a cushion!" Robert screeched, stepping forward to slash his blade through the air in a wild, desperate arc meant to disarm.

Fearchar sidestepped the stroke with easy, practiced grace, the flying steel passing six inches from his doublet. Before Robert could recover his balance, Fearchar surged inside his guard. His heavy shoulder slammed hard into Robert’s chest, rattling the iron ribs of his armor and sending him stumbling back against the stone fireplace.

A cloud of fine gray soot billowed out from the hearth as Robert hit the masonry, coughing violently as the breath was driven from his lungs.