Page 29 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"Ye are a terrible liar, Fearchar Chisholm," she said, her voice steadying. "Ye arenae inspecting any eastern wall."

Fearchar smiled, turning toward the stables. "Nay. I'm getting two mares, and ye're going tae show me where the fast paths are before Malcolm realizes we've gone."

Nandag pushed off the stone wall, a small, genuine smile finally breaking across her face as she fell into step beside him. "Then ye'd better move fast, Laird Chisholm. I ride faster than ye dae."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The morning mist was still clinging to the heather on the lower slopes as their horses picked their way down the rocky trail toward the village below.

The air was sharp, tasting of damp pine and woodsmoke, a welcome relief after the suffocating heat of the Great Hall. Fearchar rode half a pace ahead of Nandag on a deep-chested bay mare, his broad shoulders relaxed under his plaid, his gaze constantly sweeping the tree line with effortless vigilance.

As they crossed the narrow wooden bridge spanning the roaring river, the village of Strathglass opened up before them. It was a cluster of stone cottages with thick thatched roofs, where blue smoke curled lazily into the pale sky. The smell of baking bannocks and drying peat drifted on the breeze.

A boy carrying a bucket of well water stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes going wide. He set the bucket down so fast the water sloshed over the rim, soaking his wool stockings, before he turned and bolted into the nearest cottage.

"Laird Chisholm!" he shouted, his voice cracking with youth. "The laird and lady are coming!"

Within moments, doors creaked open along the dirt track. Men in worn working plaids stepped out from the forge and the carpenter's shed. Women wiping flour from their hands on their aprons emerged into the sunlight, talking in hushed whispers.

Nandag reined her mare in slightly, her hand tightening on the leather straps. For years, the villagers had watched her race past their fence lines, a wild girl with untamed hair and torn hems. She was used to their fond, indulgent smiles—the kind reserved for a laird’s second daughter who didn't carry the weight of the clan's future on her shoulders.

Now, she was dressed in the silver-pinned tartan of a married lady, riding beside the golden-haired warrior who had upended the entire Council. Her skin felt pricklish and warm under their heavy gazes.

An old woman with a stooped back and a faded shawl stepped into the center of the track, her gnarled hands clasped tightly against her chest. It was Widow Elspeth, whose youngest son had died in the Western war.

Fearchar didn't wait for her to bow, nor did he pull his horse up with a display of grand authority. The moment he saw her, he swung his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground with a soft thud of leather boots against dirt. He looped the reins loosely over his arm and walked toward her, his stride easy and unhurried.

"Elspeth," he said, his voice dropping into that low, warm rumble that seemed to carry straight through the morning chill.

The old woman blinked, her pale eyes widening as she looked up into his face. "Ye... ye remember me, Laird Fearchar?"

"I remember ye gave me a pocket full of dried plums seven years ago when I passed through on me way tae Edinburgh," Fearchar replied, a genuine, slow smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "And I remember ye told me tae stay out of the river so I wouldnae catch the cold. I took yer advice."

A soft, watery chuckle escaped the old woman's throat, the deep lines around her eyes crinkling. "And ye brought back our Nandag," she whispered, her gaze drifting past his shoulder to where Nandag sat atop her horse. "We heard what happened in the courtyard. We heard how Cameron’s men tried tae lay hands on her, and how ye stood between them."

"Naebody touches a daughter of Strathglass while I draw breath," Fearchar said, his tone turning quiet and solid as granite. "Nae Robert Cameron, nor anyone else."

Elspeth reached out, her weathered, trembling fingers pressing against Fearchar's forearm. He didn't pull away. He stood there in the mud, letting her hold onto his sleeve, listening intently as she began to tell him about the poor barley harvest on the northern ridge and how her roof needed fresh thatch before the winter rains set in.

He didn't interrupt her. He didn't nod absentmindedly or glance toward the castle as if he had more pressing matters of state to attend to. He listened, his head tilted down, his broad hand coming up to rest gently over hers.

Further down the track, a group of blacksmiths and woodcutters had gathered near the village green. Fearchar moved between them with the same quiet ease.

When the smith, a towering man named Cormac, with arms like tree trunks, began to complain about the quality of iron coming from the southern border, Fearchar didn't offer empty promises. He asked specific questions about the forge furnaces, discussed the temper of local steel, and spoke of trade routes as a man who had worked with his own hands rather than a laird who merely commanded from a solar.

Nandag sat on her mare a few paces back, her hands resting lightly on the pommel of her saddle, watching him.

There was no bluster in him. No booming declarations of his right to rule, no posturing like Malcolm’s, no fragile pride like her father’s cousin Malcom. In the council hall, he fought with legal decrees and sharp wit; here, among the people who actually fed the clan, he gave them his time. He earned their eyes by giving them his own.

A sudden burst of high-pitched giggles broke through the hum of conversation.

Near the timber fence that bordered the village garden, four small children had crept out from behind a peat stack. The boldest of them, a barefoot boy of six with dirt smudged across his nose, was pointing at the massive broadsword sheathed at Fearchar’s hip.

Fearchar turned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Instead of shooing them away, he strolled over to the split-rail fence and swung his heavy boot up onto the bottom bar, leaning his elbows on the top wood.

"That’s a big sword, sir," the small boy squeaked, backing up half a step before curiosity won out over fear. "Is it heavy?"

"Heavier than a sack of turnips," Fearchar said, leaning in as if sharing a great secret. "If ye try tae lift it before ye eat yer pottage, yer arms will turn intae cooked noodles."