Page 35 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"I didnae mean tae startle ye, Lady Chisholm," he said, his voice a warm, quiet rumble that filled the quiet chamber.

Nandag smoothed her skirt over her knees, forcing her fingers to relax as she leaned back against the stone recess. "Ye enter like a ghost when ye arenae wearing iron, Fearchar. A little noise would be polite."

"I'll wear loud boots next time," he murmured, stepping further inside and closing the heavy door behind him. He walked over to the window, his long stride unhurried, stopping just beside the sill.

He leaned down slightly, his gaze falling on the scattered charcoal sticks and the visible edge of the blank parchment covering her lap. "Are ye going tae let me see, or is it a secret of state?"

Nandag hesitated for half a second before carefully sliding the blank sheet aside, ensuring the drawing beneath remained covered by her hand. She tilted the book slightly toward him, revealing the outer edge of the page. A sweeping, delicate sketch of the pine-covered ridge above the river, the needle-fine strokes capturing the way the afternoon mist clung to the lower trees.

Fearchar let out a quiet breath, leaning in closer. His shoulder brushed against hers, the warmth of his body seeping straight through the wool of her sleeve.

"Ye have a fine hand, Nandag," he said softly, his tone completely stripped of teasing. "Ye can see the wind in those trees."

"It's just pine and rock," she said, her cheeks growing warm under his close attention. She traced the edge of the charcoal stick between her thumb and forefinger to hide the tremor in her hands.

Fearchar leaned his elbow against the stone window frame, looking down at her with quiet curiosity. "Dae ye ever sketch people?"

The question hung in the air between them, sharp and sudden.

Nandag’s throat went dry. Beneath her right palm, tucked three pages back in the binding of her leather book, were dozens of sketches drawn over seven long years. Sketched in secret, late at night by candlelight—the sharp line of a young warrior’s jaw, the way he held a broadsword in the Edinburgh court, the faint scar running along his cheek, the golden hair catching the sunlight near the garden wall.

"Nay," Nandag said quickly, her voice a fraction too fast, a fraction too level. "Trees are far more patient."

Fearchar watched her face, his thumb absently rubbing his chin. A subtle, dangerous glint of humor sparked in his grey eyes, as if he suspected her lie even if he couldn't prove it.

"Well," he said smoothly, shifting his weight and dropping himself down onto the low wooden chest directly opposite her windowsill. He sat back, crossing his heavy arms over his broad chest, resting his head against the wall, and striking a stiff, exaggerated pose. "I can stay still."

Nandag blinked at him. "What are ye daeing?"

"I am posing," Fearchar declared, his mouth twitching with a suppressed grin. "I am being a patient tree fer the lady artist."

A breathless laugh escaped Nandag’s throat before she could catch it. "Ye look ridiculous, Fearchar."

"A laird never looks ridiculous," he corrected, keeping his head perfectly still while his eyes tracked her face. "He looks majestic. Begin yer work, me lady."

Nandag bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She looked down at her lap, her fingers moving slowly as she flipped past the hidden pages of her past, stopping on a fresh, clean sheet of pale parchment. She picked up a stick of soft willow charcoal.

"If ye move a single inch," she warned, raising her eyes to meet his, "I’ll draw ye with a snout like a boar."

"I wouldnae dare," he murmured.

For the next several minutes, the room fell into a quiet, comfortable cadence. The afternoon sun dipped lower, casting a deep crimson glow across the chamber walls. Nandag lifted her gaze to his face, letting her eyes linger on the strong bridge of his nose, the fine lines around his eyes from years of squinting into the Highland wind, the solid, unyielding set of his jaw.

Each time she looked up, Fearchar was watching her. He didn't look away or strike a grand pose; he sat in the quiet light, his gaze steady, warm, and entirely focused on her.

"Ye're staring," Nandag murmured, her charcoal hovering over the paper.

"I’m supposed tae be looking at ye," Fearchar replied easily. "How else are ye going tae capture me majestic broadsword-swinging countenance?"

"I am currently drawing yer ears," she countered, her lips curving into a wicked little smile. "They're remarkably large. Like a donkey’s."

Fearchar let out a dark, low huff of a laugh, though he kept his head still. "Ye're a cruel woman, Nandag Farquharson."

"Nandag Chisholm," she corrected absently, her hand sweeping smooth, dark shading across the paper to capture the angle of his cheekbone.

The words slipped out so naturally that she didn't realize what she had said until the charcoal stopped moving. The room went very still. Nandag felt her breath catch in her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the paper, her pulse hammering wildly at her throat.

Opposite her, Fearchar’s posture softened. The teasing spark in his eyes gave way to something deep, quiet, and profoundly gentle. He didn't speak, nor did he break the silence with a joke. He watched her as she worked, the air between them growing thick with an unspoken, heavy warmth.