Page 30 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

The children dissolved into a chorus of delighted shrieks.

"I eat all me pottage!" the boy insisted, puffing out his small chest.

"Is that so?" Fearchar reached down, catching the boy under his arms, and hoisted him effortlessly into the air.

The boy squealed with laughter as Fearchar set him perched atop the wooden fence post. Before the mothers could hurry over to apologize, Fearchar had lifted two more children onto the fence beside him, where they sat lined up like little sparrows, their bare legs swinging back and forth against the wood.

He stood beside them, resting his arms on the rail, pointing out the different horses in the lane and letting the small girl reach out with a hesitant finger to touch the polished brass buckle of his plaid.

Nandag watched the way the sunlight caught the gold in his hair, the absolute lack of pretense in his posture, and something deep in her chest—a tight, guarded knot she hadn't realized she was carrying—slowly unraveled.

For seven years, she had thought of leadership as a cage built of contracts, dancing lessons, and public speeches. She had watched Mòrag prepare for it like a soldier preparing for a sacrifice. But watching Fearchar among the folk of Strathglass, Nandag saw something entirely different.

He didn't demand loyalty; he cultivated it, by standing grounded right in the middle of it.

Fearchar glanced over his shoulder, catching her gaze. The playful smirk he held for the children melted into something softer, quieter, intended for her alone. He gave her a small, questioning tilt of his head.

Nandag pushed her heels into the mare's sides, bringing her forward until she stood beside him at the fence.

"Ye're neglecting yer duties, Laird Chisholm," she said, her voice laced with a gentle, teasing warmth as she looked down at him. "The blacksmith is still waiting tae tell ye about his charcoal pit."

"The blacksmith can wait," Fearchar said, his hand reaching up to smooth a thumb over her horse's nose before his fingers brushed lightly against her knee. His eyes met hers, steady and bright under the morning sky. "I’m currently busy defending the northern border against these terrifying raiders."

The little boy on the fence puffed out his chest again. "We arenae raiders! We're Farquharsons!"

"Aye," Fearchar murmured, his gaze never leaving Nandag's face, his thumb lingering against the fabric of her gown. "The fiercest folk in the Highlands."

The laughter of the children echoed across the muddy village long before Nandag could offer another word of warning to her husband.

"Catch the lady! Catch the laird!" the little boy on the fence shrieked, sliding down the wooden post and dashing into the tall grass. Within heartbeats, three more barefoot children swarmed the lane, formlessly establishing the boundaries of a tag game with loud, delighted shouts.

Nandag took a small step back on her mare, but Fearchar was already moving. He turned toward the children with a dramatic, exaggerated scowl, spreading his broad arms wide as if he were a beast emerging from the hills.

"Ye think ye can outrun a Chisholm in these fields?" he bellowed playfully, charging two paces forward while the children shrieked and scattered like startled pheasants.

"Ye're too slow, Laird Fearchar!" the smith’s daughter taunted from near a peat stack, dancing on her toes. "Ye have too much iron on yer belt!"

Nandag swung her leg over her saddle and slid down to the grass, her lips twitching with a faint, irresistible smile. "She isnae wrong, Fearchar. Ye look like a draft horse trying tae hunt rabbits."

Fearchar spun around, his golden hair catching the sunlight, a sharp, competitive spark flashing in his grey eyes. "Is that a challenge, Lady Chisholm?"

"It’s an observation," she said, taking a swift step backward as he pivoted toward her. "And a warning. I spent years outrunning every guard in this village."

"Then let's see it."

He lunged. Nandag gathered the heavy folds of her tartan gown into one hand and bolted.

The chill mountain air whipped against her cheeks as her leather shoes bit into the turf. Behind her, she heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of Fearchar’s boots closing the distance, accompanied by the wild cheering of half the village children running alongside them. She cut sharply to the right around a row of drying linen, her heart hammering against her ribs with a sudden, intoxicating rush of pure freedom. She hadn't run like this since before the wedding chapel, before the soldiers, before the King's decree.

"He's right behind ye, Lady Nandag!" the little boy yelled.

Nandag glanced over her shoulder, her breath coming fast. Fearchar was only a stride away, his long legs eating up the ground, his face flushed with exertion and a dark, triumphant grin. He reached out a broad hand, his fingers brushing the fluttering edge of her plaid.

"Got ye."

A sudden dip in the uneven turf caught his lead boot. Fearchar’s ankle gave way with a sharp grunt, his heavy frame pitching forward into the damp clover.

Nandag tried to twist away to avoid him, but his outstretched hand caught the fringe of her sash. The momentum dragged her down instantly. She let out a breathless gasp as her knees buckled, the world spinning in a blur of green grass and pale blue sky before she crashed straight onto his chest.