Page 45 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

The warmth of the massive hearth fire did nothing to thaw the cold dread settled deep in his gut. Hours ago, this room had been a place of sanctuary, filled with weeping children and weary women eating hot broth from his wife’s hands. Now, every shadow felt like a drawn dagger, every frightened face a potential betrayer.

The rescued villagers were gathered near the high dais, huddled together under wool blankets, their eyes wide and terrified as armed Chisholm guards took up positions along the stone walls. Fearchar pulled a heavy wooden chair to the center of the floor and sat directly in front of them. He didn't wear a helmet; he didn't raise his voice. He sat at eye level, his grey eyes piercing and relentless.

"One by one," Fearchar commanded quietly. "Bring the smith first."

The blacksmith staggered forward, his arm wrapped tightly in linen where Nandag had stitched him only hours before. The man’s knees shook, his eyes darting toward the cold stone floorboards.

"Laird Fearchar," the smith rasped, his voice trembling. "We didnae ken, we swear on the Holy Book, none of us knew what that viper was daeing here."

"Quiet, man," Fearchar said, raising a broad hand. The gesture was calm, but his tone held no patience for panic. "I am nae blaming ye. I am asking ye tae help me tear this serpent out by its roots. Sit."

The smith sat gingerly on a three-legged stool.

"Tell me about the man who attacked me wife," Fearchar said, leaning his forearms on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. "He wore yer village’s soot. He walked among ye as if he belonged to the burn. Where did ye first see him?"

The smith rubbed his brow with his good hand, his breath coming in ragged hitches. "He... he came to the forge two days past, me laird. Said his name was Cormac. Claimed he was a timber-cutter from the upper glen whose cabin was burned by border reivers. He was lookin’ fer protection and a job."

"Did anyone vouch fer him?"

"He had a letter of passage," the smith whispered, swallowing hard. "Signed with the mark of the Farquharson reeve from the south ridge. We had nay reason tae doubt it. He worked the bellows, helped carry charcoal... he was quiet. Never complained."

Fearchar’s eyes narrowed slightly. "And during the attack taenight?"

"When the smoke rose, he was near the river," the smith continued, his memory sharpening under Fearchar’s steady, unblinking gaze. "I saw him near the trees before the fighting started. He wasnae running from the riders, me laird. I... I saw him standing beside the mounted brute, the one ye ran through."

"Speaking tae him?" Fearchar pressed, his voice dropping an octave.

"Aye," the smith said, a shudder running through his heavy frame. "Low and fast. Things happened so fast I didnae have time tae think of it. I now think he may have cut his own arm and started screaming fer help."

Fearchar’s knuckles turned white against his knee. The trap had been laid with terrifying precision. Robert Cameron hadn't simply sent a party of nameless mercenaries to raid a border settlement; he had used the attack as a smoke screen to drive a wolf directly into the sheepfold, trusting Fearchar’s own sense of honor and duty to carry the assassin straight past the castle gates.

"Bring the old shepherd's daughter," Fearchar ordered, waving the smith back toward the hearth.

The young woman stepped forward, wrapping her frayed wool shawl tight around her shoulders. She was still pale, a purple bruise purpling along her cheekbone where the mercenary had struck her, but her gaze was clear.

"Tell me what ye noticed about him," Fearchar said gently. "Anything he said. Anything he asked."

"He asked about the castle layout, me laird," the girl whispered, her voice tight with suppressed anger. "Two nights ago, while we were mending nets by the river. He knew the names of the guard captains. He even..." She hesitated, glancing toward the stairwell leading to the upper chambers.

"Speak, lass," Fearchar urged.

"He knew Lady Nandag’s routines," she said softly. "He knew she walked the gardens after evening prayers. Fergive me, me laird, I didnae think much of it at the time. I thought it was just a wee bit of castle gossip. People like tae imagine what goes on in here…”"

A dark, lethal silence settled over the Great Hall.

Fearchar stood up slowly. The sheer calculation of it burned in his chest like swallowed fire. Robert Cameron had mapped their lives from afar, exploiting their mercy, using the suffering of innocent clan members to strike at the heart of Castle Strathglass.

Duncan stepped up beside him as the girl returned to her family. "He daesnae act alone, Fearchar," Duncan muttered, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the hearth fire.

Fearchar turned his head slightly, peering at his kinsman. "What are ye saying?"

"A timber-cutter with a forged pass daesnae learn the guard rotations of the inner ward by standing near a smithy three miles away," Duncan said, his dark eyes fixed on the servants moving nervously along the periphery of the hall. "Someone inside these walls gave him those names. Someone told him which postern gate was weakly guarded taenight, and when ye would be stepping ontae the battlements."

Fearchar’s gaze drifted past Duncan, scanning the faces of the castle guards, the cooks carrying cold platters, the stable hands huddled near the doors.

Malcolm’s smooth, arrogant face from the evening’s meeting flashed in his mind.

Mòrag remains the laird's eldest daughter... a true Farquharson never fergets the eldest line.