Page 78 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

The cold steel passed under Robert’s guard.

The point bit deep into the center of Robert’s chest, punching through leather, wool, and bone with a sickening, heavy crunch.

Robert’s momentum carried him straight onto the hilt. His sword clattered uselessly out of his hands, bouncing twice on the flagstones before coming to rest near the cold hearth. His hands flew up, catching the iron crossguard of Fearchar’s blade, his fingers twitching helplessly against the steel.

For a long, frozen second, they stood chest to chest. Robert’s eyes were wide, staring directly into Fearchar’s grey, unblinking gaze.

Fearchar wrenched the blade free.

Robert collapsed hard onto his face, his forehead striking the stone with a dull thud. His legs twitched once, a long, rattling sigh escaping his lips, blowing a tiny patch of grey ash across the floor. Then, he lay completely still.

The crimson pool expanded slowly beneath him, touching the hem of his ruined mantle, before stopping against the stone edge of the dais.

Fearchar stood over the body, his shoulders heaving, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps. He lowered his broadsword, the tip resting flat against the bloody rushes, before his fingers loosened and the weapon slid from his numb hand, clattering harmlessly to the floor.

Slowly, as if turning through deep water, Fearchar turned toward the cellar archway.

Nandag was already moving.

She broke away from the stone wall, stepping over the fallen benches and scattered weapons without looking down once. Her plaid was torn, her face stained with soot and rain, but as her eyes locked onto his, the rigid, granite tension vanished from her face.

She reached him in three long strides, throwing her arms around his neck with a force that nearly drove the breath from his lungs.

Fearchar caught her with his left arm, pulling her flush against his chest, burying his face into the warm, damp curve of her neck. He ignored the burning fire in his wounded right arm, his large hand coming up to cup the back of her head, holding her close until there was no air left between them. Her hands clutched frantically at the thick linen of his doublet, her heart hammering against his ribs in a wild, frantic rhythm that slowly, steadily began to match his own.

"Ye’re safe," he rasped into her hair, his voice thick and rough. "It’s over, lass. It’s over."

A broken, breathless sob escaped her lips against his shoulder, but she didn't weep. She held him tighter, her fingers tangling into his dark, damp hair, anchor to anchor.

Footsteps rushed up behind her. Mòrag stumbled forward, her knees giving out as she reached them. She fell against her sister’s side, her arms wrapping around Nandag’s waist, burying her face into her wool plaid. She wept openly, her shoulders shaking violently as weeks of fear, terror, and shame finally broke free in a torrent of quiet tears.

Nandag reached down, taking her sister’s trembling shoulder, pulling Mòrag tight against them both, holding her close beneath Fearchar’s broad shoulder.

Across the hall, Duncan stepped forward, his bloody broadsword pointed straight at the four surviving mercenaries trapped near the postern.

"Drop the steel," Duncan roared, his scarred face grim, his voice echoing through the silent rafters. "Drop it, or ye join yer master in the dirt."

One by one, the mercenaries let go of their hilts. The weapons clattered loudly against the stone—swords, daggers, and iron pikes rolling uselessly into the corners. The men slowly raised their gauntleted hands, backing toward the timber wall, their eyes fixed on the body lying dead on the dais floor.

The terrible noise of battle faded completely from the keep, replaced only by the crackle of the dying hearth fire and the quiet rush of the wind through the high arrow-loops.

The survivors—guards, villagers, and elders stepping out from the dark archways—stood in silent awe, staring down at the broken seal of Robert’s reign. The threat that had hung over the glen like a shadow was gone.

Fearchar held Nandag close beneath his arm, his thumb tracing the smooth line of her jaw as they looked out over the quiet hall.

EPILOGUE

The quiet return of the meadow was slow to sink in.

One week after the stone hall had been cleared of soot and dried blood, the air above the valley had turned clean again. Up on the high shelf above Strathglass, where the wild heather gave way to soft mountain grasses, the wind blew sweet and cool, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and late-summer pine.

Nandag sat with her knees drawn up against her chest, the dark green wool of her mantle draped over her legs to keep out the afternoon chill. Her charcoal slate lay flat in her lap, her thumb casually smudging the shadowed ridge of a drawn cliffside. Down below, the grey keep of Castle Strathglass looked tiny, wrapped in thin ribbons of blue chimney smoke drifting up toward the hills.

There were no iron boots echoing on stone up here. No panicked shouts, no clatter of broadswords, no royal seals waiting to be broken.

Behind her, a light crunch of dry twigs signaled a deliberate step. She didn't jump. She knew the rhythm of his weight before he even reached the crest of the hill.

Fearchar crested the gentle rise, his tall frame outlined against the wide, amber sky. He had left his broadsword and iron jacks behind in the armory, dressed only in a simple linen shirt and his thick tartan wrapped over his shoulder. A clean white bandage peeked out from beneath his rolled sleeve, wrapped tightly around his right forearm, but he moved without the stiffness that had plagued him days ago.