Page 44 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

The assassin scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his nose, his eyes wild as he raised the dirk toward Fearchar. "Chisholm."

Fearchar didn't draw his broadsword. There was no room for fencing, no patience for steel. He stepped inside the assassin's guard, ignoring the strike of the dirk that grazed his leather doublet, and caught the man by the throat and wrist.

Fearchar slammed the assassin backward into the stone fireplace mantle with a sickening crunch. The man gasped, his grip loosening, and Fearchar twisted the assassin's arm violently until the dirk clattered uselessly onto the hearth.

With a brutal, fluid motion, Fearchar drove his iron-wrapped elbow into the man’s jaw, followed by a heavy blow from his fist that lifted the assassin off his feet. The man hit the stone wall and slumped into the corner, motionless, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

Silence fell over the bedchamber, sudden, suffocating, and absolute.

Fearchar stood over the body, his chest heaving like a bellows, his fists clutched tight, blood dripping from his knuckles onto the stone. The lethal, terrifying light in his grey eyes flickered, his gaze sweeping frantically around the ruined room until it landed on Nandag.

The rage vanished from his face, replaced instantly by raw, naked horror.

"Nandag!"

He dropped to his knees beside her, his broad hands hovering over her trembling frame, afraid to touch her, afraid he might break what was left. His eyes fixed on the crimson stain spreading across the white linen of her shift at her shoulder.

"Nandag, sweet Christ, Nandag..." his voice cracked, rough and desperate, completely stripped of the laird's calm authority.

Nandag looked up at him, her chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged hitches. The adrenaline that had sustained her crashed all at once, leaving her shivering violently in the cool night air. She didn't look at the body in the corner. She looked only at Fearchar’s face, seeing the pale terror in his eyes.

"Fearchar," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper.

She reached for him.

Fearchar didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, gathering her up against his chest, wrapping his heavy plaid and arms around her like a shield. He held her so tightly she could feel the frantic, terrified thudding of his heart against her ribs, his cheek pressed hard against the crown of her head.

"I have ye," he breathed into her hair, his hands trembling as he smoothed her dark, tangled locks. "I have ye, lass. Ye're safe. I'm here."

Nandag buried her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers digging deep into the thick wool of his doublet. A shuddering sob tore from her throat, the realization of how close the blade had come finally crashing over her. She clung to him with all the strength left in her body, burying herself in his warmth, his scent of rain and steel anchoring her to the world.

Fearchar held her, his eyes locked on the dead assassin across the room.

The hearth embers cast long, dark shadows over the blood-stained floor. The realization settled into his chest like a block of ice: Robert Cameron had not just attacked a border village. He had planted a blade beneath their roof, past their guards, and inside the sacred sanctuary of their own home.

Fearchar tightened his arms around Nandag, kissing her temple again and again as she wept softly against his neck.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The heavy oak gates of Castle Strathglass slammed shut with a boom that echoed through the stone courtyard. Iron bars slid into place, sealed tight against the dark valley beyond.

Fearchar stood at the top of the courtyard steps, the night air bitter and sharp against his face. Blood—some his own, but most belonging to the corpse currently being hauled down to the vaults—crusted his knuckles and dark leather doublet.

Beside him, Duncan stood with his hand resting grimly on his basket-hilted broadsword.

“I want tae speak tae every villager. I still dinnae ken how that man managed tae hide among them.”

“Me laird, it seems he had come looking fer a job tae make some coin a few days past and he was helping the smithy.”

"Well, I will question each and every one of them. Double the wall guard," Fearchar ordered, his voice a low, hard rasp that cut through the frightened murmurs of the gathered servants. "Four men on the gatehouse. Three on the water post. I want archers posted every ten paces along the battlements, and nay one—nay one—moves through this inner ward without a torch and two guards beside them. "

"Aye, me laird," Duncan said, his eyes scanning the shadow-draped courtyard with dangerous intensity. "And Lady Nandag?"

"She is inside under armed guard," Fearchar said, his jaw tightening so hard the muscles in his cheek throbbed. "Four of me personal men at the door. Duncan, if a single soul so much as breathes near her threshold without me word, put steel through them."

Duncan nodded once, a sharp, solemn jerk of his head. "Consider it done."

Fearchar turned on his heel and strode back into the Great Hall.