Page 72 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Malcolm scrambled to his feet, clutching the dripping parchment to his ribs like a shield. "Ye dinnae understand! The elders saw the summons! Fearchar saw us turn back at the pass because he went to hold the King’s peace! If we attack now, the clan willnae follow us. Old Fraser will lock the lower gates against us himself!"

"Then I will break the gates over Fraser’s head!"

"Listen tae reason!" Malcolm shouted, his voice cracking into a high, desperate squeak as he grabbed Robert's sleeve. "We take what silver we have left. We buy passage across the Firth tae the Low Countries. We wait a year… two years, until the Crown’s attention turns back tae the borders, and then⁠—"

Robert grabbed him before he could finish the sentence.

His fingers dug into the soft linen of Malcolm's collar, slamming his back against the stone hearth. Malcolm choked, his hands flying up to tear at Robert's wrist, his eyes bulging as he stared into his face.

"Ye weak, sniveling turncoat," Robert hissed, leaning in until his nose nearly touched Malcolm's. "Ye were quick enough tae carry me letters when ye thought I was going tae hand ye a pocketful of Farquharson gold and a warm seat at the council table. Now a clerk writes a Latin word on a piece of skin and ye wet yer trousers?"

"Robert... please..." Malcolm gasped, his fingers uselessly clawing at the iron gauntlet.

"I am the laird of that keep," Robert whispered, the rage settling deep into his chest, cold and clean as winter ice. "Nae Nandag. Nae the Chisholm bastard that wants tae claim the bride. Strathglass is mine. I took it fairly when I married Morag, and nay royal ink is taking it from me."

Robert shoved him sideways. Malcolm stumbled, coughing violently as he clutched his neck.

Robert didn't look back at him. He turned toward the heavy oak door leading to the courtyard and threw it wide open.

"Gavin!" Robert roared into the dark, wet courtyard. "Brodie! Get up here!"

Two men stepped out of the shadow of the stable overhang—heavy-set, dark-faced mercenaries from the eastern glens, their leather jacks stained with mud and grease, their broadswords clattering against their boots as they trotted up the stone steps.

"Me laird?" Gavin asked, wiping rain from his brow with a leather-clad forearm.

"The King’s court is done," Robert said, his voice carrying clean over the rush of the rain in the gutters. "Pack the saddlebags. Get any steel we have and pull the horses out of the stalls."

Gavin hesitated, his dark eyes flicking past Robert's shoulder toward Malcolm, who was still kneeling in the hearth soot, shivering and pale. "Are we riding south, then?"

"We ride north," Robert said, stepping out onto the wet timber of the porch, his boots crunching over the loose gravel. "We take the high pass through the timber woods before the sunrise."

Brodie frowned, leaning his broad hand against his belt. "Strathglass? Fearchar’s got sixty broadswords behind those walls, Robert. If the Crown isnae backin' us⁠—"

"Fearchar thinks he won," Robert interrupted, a low, bitter smile twisting the corner of his mouth as he looked north toward the dark, jagged shape of the mountains. "He thinks because he walked out of Stirling with a royal paper in his saddlebag, he can sleep soft."

Robert reached down, unsheathing six inches of dark steel from his belt, the cold iron singing as it cleared the scabbard.

"He thinks he’s the laird," Robert muttered, sliding the blade back home with a hard, metallic click. "We’ll show him how Strathglass changes hands when the ink dries."

The roar of the royal Great Hall—the booming voices of the magistrates, the scrape of iron scabbards against stone, and the heavy thud of the Chancellor's gavel—finally faded behind thick wooden doors.

Nandag let her chin drop slightly, taking her first deep, quiet breath in hours.

The air in the inner courtyard garden was sweet and cool, smelling of wet earth, crushed lavender, and blooming white roses. Tall stone walls shielded the gravel path from the bustling streets of Stirling below, casting long, purple shadows across the flowerbeds as the late afternoon sun dipped behind the castle ramparts.

Beside her, Fearchar walked with a slow, deliberate stride, his heavy boots crunching softly on the fine gravel. He had left his broadsword and iron gauntlets behind in the guardhouse, wearing only his dark wool doublet and the muted grey-and-green plaid of his clan draped over his broad shoulder. For the first time since they had ridden south from Strathglass, the hard, defensive tension in his broad chest seemed to yield, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch.

Nandag unpinned her heavy wool shawl, folding it over her forearm to let the garden breeze cool her skin. She glanced sideways at his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his temple, and the tired, dark circles under his grey eyes.

"Ye look tired," she said softly, her voice breaking the quiet rustle of rose leaves.

Fearchar let out a low, gravelly huff that almost sounded like a laugh. "I would rather clear twenty miles of shale than sit on a wooden bench while six men in velvet robes decide if I am allowed tae keep me own castle."

They turned a corner in the path, where the stone wall bowed out to frame a small, sheltered alcove. A low stone bench sat nestled beneath an arbor of late-blooming honeysuckle, its pale blossoms spilling sweet fragrance over the grey rock.

Nandag slowed her pace, looking up at him through the light filtering through the arbor. "Are ye relieved, then? Now that the Lord Chancellor’s clerk has pressed the royal crest intae the wax?"

Fearchar stopped. He turned his body toward her, the rough edge of his plaid brushing against her skirt. His grey eyes searched her face, tracking the dark curve of her lashes and the steady, quiet calm in her expression.