Page 53 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

He leaned forward in his stirrups, his sharp grey eyes cutting through the grey sheet of driving rain, scanning the dark hillside above the timberline.

Halfway up a shelter of granite crags on the northern slope, nearly hidden by a thick grove of ancient rowan trees, stood a rough stone structure. It was an old shieling, a shepherd's summer hut built of dry-stacked fieldstone and roofed with thick sod, used by hill herders during the spring drives.

"There!" Fearchar called out, pointing his heavy leather glove toward the grove. "Up into the rowans!"

He turned his stallion, leading Nandag’s mare off the main track and up a steep, grassy bank. The horses fought for footing in the mud, their iron shoes digging deep as they scrambled up the incline under the relentless pelting of the storm.

As they neared the shelter, Fearchar saw that the sod roof was intact, the thick turf keeping out the worst of the deluge. A small lean-to made of rough pine logs stood beside the main stone wall, providing enough cover for the horses.

"I’ll secure the horses in the lee of the ridge!" Fearchar said, swinging down from his horse before the animal had even fully stopped. His boots splashed deep into the mud.

Then he swung around to Nandag’s side. Water was streaming off her chin and hair, her skirts heavy and drenched, sticking tightly to her legs. She reached for the saddle horn to dismount, her fingers stiff and numb from the sudden mountain cold.

Fearchar didn't wait for her to find her footing. He reached up, caught her around the waist, and lifted her bodily out of the saddle.

Nandag gasped as he pulled her flush against his chest, her wet hands clutching at his shoulders for balance. He held her tight, shielding her body with his own against the driving wind as he turned and hurried toward the low archway of the stone hut.

He kicked open the heavy timber door, which creaked loudly on its rusted iron hinges, and carried her straight inside out of the storm.

The heavy oak door slammed shut, cutting off the deafening roar of the downpour to a steady, muffled thrum against stone and sod.

Nandag stood just inside the threshold, water streaming from her hair and pooling around her leather boots. Her teeth chattered softly, her body shuddering as the piercing mountain cold settled deep into her bones. Her injured shoulder throbbed with a sharp, heavy ache beneath her dripping shift, but the quiet darkness of the dry hut felt like a sanctuary.

Fearchar didn't waste a second. He immediately knelt by the stone hearth at the back of the room, his long fingers working with practiced speed. He reached into a dry stone niche beside the chimney where shepherds kept tinder, pulling out a handful of dry birch bark and pine splints. He struck his flint against steel; bright sparks showered into the dry tinder, catching instantly. A thin wisp of sweet-smelling smoke curled upward, followed by a sudden, golden flame that cast long, warm shadows across the rough stone walls.

"Come away from the door, lass," Fearchar growled softly, dropping small oak logs onto the growing blaze.

Nandag took a stiff step forward, her heavy, water-logged wool skirts clinging to her legs. She sank onto a low, wooden bench beside the hearth, holding her trembling hands out toward the crackling heat.

Fearchar turned to her, his own leather coat and heavy wool plaid already discarded in a wet heap near the corner. Stripped to his damp linen shirt and breeches, the broad, powerful contours of his shoulders and chest were illuminated by the amber firelight.

He stepped close, kneeling before her. Without a word, his broad, warm hands reached up to undo the silver brooch at her neck. He eased her sodden plaid away, then carefully worked the damp bone buttons of her bodice down to her waist. His movements were remarkably gentle, his large fingers mindful of the white linen bandage covering her healing shoulder.

"Help me raise yer arms," he whispered, his grey eyes searching her face.

Nandag lifted her arms, letting out a small, shuddering breath as he pulled the heavy, soaked dress over her head, leaving her in only her light, thin linen shift. He took a dry wool blanket from the wall rack, shaking it out before wrapping it snugly around her bare shoulders. He sat down beside her on the bench, pulling another rough blanket over his lap, and gathered her cold hands into his large, calloused palms.

For a long time, the only sound was the crackle of the burning oak and the heavy, rhythmic drumming of the rain on the sod roof above. The warmth gradually seeped through the blanket, chasing the bone-deep chill from her skin.

“It feels safe and cozy in here,” Nandag said quietly.

Fearchar stared into the flames, his jaw set, his grey eyes distant and heavy with a shadow she had seen many times before, but which he had never named.

"It never leaves me, nonetheless" he said quietly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely rose above the pop of the fire.

Nandag didn't interrupt. She shifted closer, her fingers tightening around his warm wrist, letting him speak at his own pace.

"The elders talk of war as if it were a chessboard," Fearchar continued, his eyes fixed on the red embers. "They see flags, land, and prestige. But when the clash comes, it is just blood, mud, and men screaming fer maithers and wives who cannae hear them."

He took a slow, heavy breath, his chest expanding against her shoulder. "I still wake in the dark, Nandag. I see the faces of the lads from the lower glen I marched with intae the southern pass seven years ago. Lads who looked at me like I was a god who could keep them safe. I couldnae save them. I watch them fall in me sleep, night after night."

Nandag reached up, her palm resting gently against the side of his rough, stubbled jaw, turning his face toward her. The firelight caught the raw, unspoken grief in his grey eyes, the burden of a chief who carried every dead soldier in his soul.

"Ye brought them home in yer heart, Fearchar," she murmured gently. "A lesser man would have fergotten their faces."

Fearchar closed his eyes, leaning his face into her warm palm. "Before I came tae Strathglass, I thought the rest of me life would be nothing but steel, blood, and waiting fer a blade in the dark. I stopped believing I could have a peaceful life. I stopped believing I deserved one."

He opened his eyes, looking directly into hers with a fierce, burning clarity that made her pulse leap.