Page 34 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Below, in the darkening shadows of the curtain wall, two horses stood saddled. Their stirrup irons were wrapped in oiled rags to deaden the clatter against stone, their bridles plain hemp instead of silver-studded leather. Two young men in mud-splattered plaids stood by their mounts' heads, checking the cinch straps in tight, disciplined silence.

"Call them up," Fearchar commanded.

Moments later, the heavy oak door opened again, and the two young riders stepped into the solar, pulling their bonnets from their heads. Colin was stocky and broad-shouldered with a weathered face; Jamie was leaner, his eyes wide and bright with the nervous energy of youth.

Fearchar didn't stay behind his desk. He walked down the two steps, stopping directly in front of the pair. He reached out, his broad hand coming down heavily on Jamie’s shoulder. The boy straightened instantly under the weight.

"This parchment goes tae the Lord Chancellor at Holyrood Palace," Fearchar said, his grey eyes locked onto the young rider’s face, his tone quiet, absolute, and devoid of grand rhetoric. "It carries the King's seal and me name. If it reaches Edinburgh, the Crown recognizes Strathglass as legally secure under me house. Robert Cameron becomes an outlaw the moment the royal court reads it."

"We'll ride hard, me laird," Colin said, touching his knuckle to his temple. "We can be past Perth in four days."

"Ye will nae take the south road," Fearchar interrupted sharply, his voice cutting like a blade.

Both riders blinked in surprise.

"Robert has men at Glen Cannich," Fearchar continued, turning his gaze toward the window that faced the southern hills. "He kens as well as I dae that our first move is Edinburgh. He’ll have scouts watching the main pass at the Great Glen and the ford at Spey. If ye take the highway, ye'll be strung up from an oak tree before midnight."

He stepped closer, pointing a long finger toward the east. "Ye take the high ridge past the black loch. Cut through the pine forests of Glen Affric, cross the high pass above the clouds, and dinnae come down tae the low country until ye're well past Cameron territory. Ride by night. Nay fires. If ye see smoke on the horizon, ye circle five miles wide."

Jamie swallowed hard, his throat working, but he nodded firmly. "Aye, me laird."

"If Robert’s men catch ye," Fearchar added, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with stark truth, "ye destroy the parchment. Ye burn it, ye eat it, ye drop it in a roaring burn, whatever ye must dae so it daes nae fall intae his hands. Dae ye understand me?"

"On me life, Laird Fearchar," Colin swore quietly, patting the oiled leather pouch tucked inside his tunic.

Fearchar looked at them both for a long, heavy second, seeing the quiet resolve in their young faces, the same resolve he had seen in a hundred young men in the western trenches. He reached out, shaking both their hands with a firm, crushing grip.

"Go," Fearchar murmured. "And keep tae the shadows."

The two men bowed quickly, turned on their heels, and slipped back out the door, their soft leather boots making no sound against the stone corridor. Duncan followed them down to the courtyard to oversee their departure.

Fearchar remained standing by the narrow window embrasure, leaning one forearm against the cold stone frame.

Outside, the last rays of the setting sun had died away, leaving the sky a bruised, deep violet above the black silhouettes of the mountains. Below, in the courtyard, the heavy timber gates creaked open just wide enough for two horses to pass through.

Colin and Jamie led their mounts out into the dark, stepping quietly across the drawbridge without a single lantern to light their way.

The heavy gates groaned shut behind them, the iron bolts sliding home with a dull, final thud.

Fearchar watched the darkness beyond the walls. The two riders vanished almost instantly into the thick pine forests.

He stayed by the window long after the sound of their horses' hooves had faded into the rushing roar of the distant river. The parchment was away. If the King’s clerk registered the union, Robert Cameron’s rebellion would be stripped of every shred of legal pretense, leaving him nothing more than a common bandit in the eyes of the law.

Fearchar drew a long, deep breath of the cold mountain air, his fingers tightening against the stone sill. It was a race now between the king’s parchment riding south, and Robert Cameron’s poison spreading through the glens.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The late afternoon sun cast long, amber bars through the leaded window of Nandag’s chamber, painting the stone floor in deep shades of honey and rust.

Nandag sat cross-legged on the wide stone sill, her back braced against the wall, the fresh smell of charcoal and river-pressed parchment surrounding her. The quiet of the room was broken only by the soft, rhythmic scratch of willow against paper. Her sleeve was pushed up past her elbow, a faint smudging of black dust coating the side of her palm as she shaded the curve of a jawline.

A low knock sounded against the heavy oak door.

Before she could speak, the latch lifted, and Fearchar stepped into the room.

Nandag’s heart gave a sudden, ridiculous flutter. Her fingers reacted instantly, almost by instinct, slamming a blank sheet of heavy parchment over the open drawing book in her lap before he could take two steps past the threshold.

Fearchar paused, his broad frame framed by the doorway, one hand resting easily against the lintel. His sharp grey eyes dropped to her hands, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.