Page 46 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"Malcolm," Fearchar growled under his breath.

"Or someone paid by him," Duncan replied grimly. "Or a Cameron sympathizer left over from the war. If there's one rat under the floorboards, there may be three more hiding in the grain bins."

Fearchar paced to the center of the hall, his boots striking the flagstones with heavy, deliberate rhythm. The weight of command pressed down on his shoulders, cold and unforgiving. He had won the elders' grudging respect with timber and free milling; he had saved these villagers from fire and steel. But none of it mattered if his home was a sieve, and his wife a target in her own bed.

He halted, spinning round to face Duncan and the gathered captains of the guard.

"Listen tae me well," Fearchar declared, his voice echoing off the high stone rafters, sharp as winter ice. "Starting now, every man, woman, and child inside this castle is tae be questioned. I want every servant checked against the steward's rolls. Every guard who was on the eastern gate taenight is tae be disarmed and brought tae the solar one by one."

"And the newcomers?" a guard captain asked, gesturing toward the terrified villagers near the fire.

"Keep them safe, feed them, but dinnae let a single one of them wander intae the upper keep without four guards at their back," Fearchar commanded. "If anyone—guard, servant, or elder—attempts tae leave the castle grounds or approach Lady Nandag's chambers, toss them in the pit until I can deal with them personally."

"Aye, me laird!" a captain called out, turning to shout orders to his men.

Fearchar turned back to Duncan, his expression carved from mountain granite. "I am going up tae the solar. I want the guard doubled outside Nandag’s door. I willnae leave her side again until every stone in this fortress is purged."

"Go tae her," Duncan said, resting a heavy hand on Fearchar's shoulder. "I'll handle the gate guards meself."

Fearchar didn't wait. He turned and marched up the wide stone staircase, his hand resting tightly on the basket hilt of his broadsword, his eyes scanning every shadowed alcove as he moved toward his wife.

The heavy oak door was barred from the inside with an iron-bound beam, and four Chisholm blades kept watch in the corridor beyond, but the chamber still felt vast and exposed.

Nandag lay beneath the thick wool quilt, staring up at the dark timber rafters of the bed canopy. The hearth fire had burned down to a pile of soft, orange embers that cast long, swaying shadows across the stone walls. Beside the bed, Fearchar sat on the heavy carved chair he had dragged over from the window. He hadn't removed his leather doublet or his sword belt. His long legs were stretched out, his hands resting heavily on his knees, his broad frame a solid, unmoving silhouette in the dim glow.

Every time she closed her eyes, the room dissolved.

She didn't see the dark rafters. She felt the rough, grease-stained wool of the assassin's tunic against her face. She felt the crushing, suffocating weight of his body pinning her to the floorboards, the iron smell of stale sweat and wet copper thick in her throat. She felt her fingers slipping—useless and weak—against his bloodied wrist as the tip of the dirk sank quarter-inch by quarter-inch toward her throat.

A sharp, involuntary gasp tore from her chest, and her hand flew to her neck, her fingernails digging into the linen shift.

"Nandag."

Fearchar's voice was instantly there, low and gravelly, breaking through the dark memory. The chair scraped softly against the floorboards as he shifted closer, resting one heavy forearm on the edge of the mattress.

"I'm here, lass," he whispered. "I'm right beside ye."

Nandag turned her head toward him, her chest heaving in quick, shallow hitches. She forced her hand away from her throat, clutching the edge of the quilt until her knuckles turned white.

"I should have seen it, Fearchar," she choked out, the words tasting bitter and sharp on her tongue.

Fearchar's brow furrowed, his grey eyes searching her face in the shadows. "Seen what?"

"He was standing right in front of me in the Great Hall," she said, her voice rising, trembling with a sudden, ugly surge of self-loathing. "I washed his hands. I wrapped the linen around his arm. I looked him in the eye and gave him a bowl of broth, and I... I didnae see a thing. I brought him up the stairs meself."

"Nandag, stop."

"Nay!" She turned onto her side, her fingers digging into the feather mattress as she looked up at him. "I am a daughter of this hall! I was raised tae ken me people, tae read their faces, tae guard this house. And I walked him straight past our guards because I was too blind, too soft-hearted tae question a bloody bandage!"

"He was a trained cutthroat sent by Robert Cameron," Fearchar said, his voice flat and unyielding as granite. "He fooled the smith, he fooled the charcoal burners, and he fooled the guards at the ford. Ye gave bread tae a wounded man, Nandag. That is nae a flaw. That is who ye are."

"I couldnae stop him," she whispered, the anger instantly draining out of her, leaving behind a cold, hollow cavity in her chest. "When he grabbed me hair, when he pinned me against the bed... I fought him with everything I had, Fearchar. I used the candlestick, the basin... and it meant nothing. He was too strong. I was completely helpless."

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracking hot and silent down her temple into her dark hair. She looked away from him, staring back at the dying embers of the hearth. "I was terrified. I thought... I thought that was how it ended. On the floorboards of me own chamber."

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Then, the bed shifted under a heavy weight as Fearchar leaned forward. His broad, calloused hand reached out, gently wrapping around her trembling fingers where they clutched the quilt. He didn't pull away, nor did he offer quick, hollow comfort. He held her hand.