Page 59 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Below the table, the scuffling froze instantly. A tiny, wide-eyed face peeked out from beneath the tablecloth, the boy’s cheeks pale with sudden terror as he realized whose cup he had just overset.

Nandag looked from the pool of ale on the table to Fearchar, who was standing with his arms held wide, a look of thunderous, exaggerated outrage plastered across his features. His dark eyebrows were drawn down into a terrifying scowl, but she caught the faint, wicked twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The sheer absurdity of the grand Laird Chisholm being ambushed by a five-year-old was too much. A sudden, clear laugh burst from Nandag’s lips—a bright, ringing sound that cut straight through the noise of the great hall.

"Ye look utterly terrifying, me laird," she teased, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye as she watched him shake the wet linen napkin in his hand. "I am sure the lad is quaking in his boots."

"It was a coordinated ambush, Lady Chisholm," Fearchar growled, though his grey eyes danced with bright, fiery amusement. "The little devil had tactical positioning."

He sat back down with a heavy sigh, looking sternly down at the small boy who was still hovering beneath the table edge. Instead of scolding him, Fearchar reached out, caught a fresh, warm trencher roll from the center basket, and casually broke off a large chunk.

While Nandag was still laughing, her head turned toward the children, Fearchar’s hand moved with lightning speed across her plate. His broad fingers snatched the thick, roasted venison piece right off her trencher, slipping it into his mouth with an innocent, unbothered expression.

Nandag stopped laughing. She looked down at her empty trencher, then snapped her gaze up to Fearchar, who was chewing casually, his eyes fixed on the high rafters as if admiring the architecture.

"Fearchar!" she gasped in indignation. "Ye thieving brute!"

"I have nay idea what ye mean, lass," he muttered around his bite, his face a picture of pure, solemn dignity. Then, "The war effort demands proper nourishment."

Nandag narrowed her eyes at him, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. Without moving her upper body or breaking her composure, she reached beneath the linen tablecloth with her right foot and delivered a sharp, deliberate kick straight to his ankle.

Fearchar’s eyes widened slightly as her boot connected, a low "Oof" escaping his chest, though he maintained his stoic posture for the benefit of the hall. He slowly turned his head to look at her, his lips twitching into a wide, devastatingly handsome grin that lit up his entire face.

He reached beneath the table, his hand finding her knee under her wool skirts, his fingers squeezing her leg in playful retaliation before sliding down to take her hand in his under the cover of the cloth.

Nandag leaned her shoulder against his, the sound of the Great Hall fading into a comfortable, joyful background hum as the children giggled and scampered away beneath the benches.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The soft, rhythmic scrub of a coarse wool rag against wet stone was the only sound in the quiet inner courtyard.

Nandag stood beneath the shade of the stone archway, her hands tightly clutching the dark wool folds of her apron. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a cold, sickening coil of anxiety tightening in her stomach with every step she took across the damp flags.

The kitchen maid’s hushed, terrified whisper still echoed in her ears—whispers of visiting merchants spreading poison through the lower village, claiming Fearchar was a thief who had stolen the Farquharson lands, and that she was a traitorous sister who had usurped Mòrag’s rightful place in Strathglass for a gilded cage.

Across the cobblestones, Fearchar leaned over the ancient stone fountain. He had stripped off his heavy leather doublet after training; his linen shirt hung unbuttoned to his waist, dripping with water as he scooped cold spring water into his broad palms and washed the sweat and dark grit from his face and neck. Drops of water sparkled like silver beadwork in his dark hair and bearded jaw in the bright midday light.

The soft crunch of her boots on the gravel made him pause. Fearchar wiped his face with a dry cloth resting on the fountain’s rim and turned, his grey eyes instantly sharpening as he took in her pale, rigid posture.

"Nandag?" he asked, his low voice instantly dropping its casual tone, replaced with a quiet, razor-sharp focus. He tossed the cloth aside, stepping toward her. "What has happened, lass?"

Nandag stopped beside the rim of the fountain, watching a splash of clear water ripple across the stone basin. "The merchants from the eastern pass arrived an hour ago," she said, her voice strained as she forced the words past the tight lump in her throat. "They bring poison, Fearchar. Malcolm is quietly fanning the flames among the visiting lairds in the lower hall. The rumor is spreading like wildfire through the border glens."

Fearchar’s jaw set, his brow drawing down into a dark line. "What rumors?"

"They say ye stole the Farquharson inheritance by force," Nandag whispered, her dark eyes looking up to meet his fierce grey gaze. "They say ye locked me away and forced a false marriage tae claim me faither's lands. And they say... they say I betrayed Mòrag. That I took her place as yer bride, tae steal her birthright. I cannae bear people thinking I would dae that tae her. And what if she believes it?" She swallowed hard, her chest heaving. "Several of our own elders are already meeting in the lower guardroom, questioning whether ye have the legal right tae rule Strathglass without a formal gathering of the clan heads."

Fearchar didn't explode into a rage. Instead, a profound, chilling stillness settled over him. He turned back to the fountain, resting his heavy, damp palms against the stone edge, staring down into his own reflection in the clear water.

"It isnae a march of spears," Fearchar murmured, the pieces clicking into place behind his eyes with terrifying speed. "Robert kens he cannae break our walls, and he kens he lost the MacRaes. So, he attacks our honor instead. He turns our own people's doubts into a weapon, bleeding our legitimacy dry before the winter sets in."

"It is working," Nandag said softly, stepping closer until her sleeve brushed his bare arm. "If the elders refuse tae acknowledge the union, the lower glens will withhold their grain."

Silence fell over the courtyard, save for the steady, soothing trickle of water spilling from the fountain’s carved stone mouth.

Nandag stared at the clear water, her eyes drifting down to the unbuttoned collar of Fearchar’s shirt. Nestled deep within an inner pocket of his leather doublet resting on the stone bench nearby, a small sliver of faded, frayed silk peeked out—a familiar, forgotten object she had caught him staring at more than once in the quiet hours of the night.

"Fearchar," she asked quietly, her hand reaching out to touch the heavy leather of his discarded doublet. "The ribbon. The faded blue silk ye keep hidden in yer vest, what is it?"