Page 36 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Nandag worked for several more minutes, her fingers moving with swift, practiced confidence. The initial teasing gave way to absolute concentration as she dragged the edge of the charcoal stick down the page, smudging a shadow near the throat, catching the exact, quiet intensity of his grey eyes.

Finally, she blew a soft puff of air across the paper to clear the black dust. She stared down at the finished page, her heart thumping against her ribs.

It was him. Not the chief, not the warrior of the Western wars, but the man who had sat with her in the middle of the night by the window, the man who had lifted children onto a fence and smiled at her across a muddy track.

"Is it finished?" Fearchar asked softly.

Nandag hesitated. A sudden wave of embarrassment washed over her. She pressed her lips together, her hands gripping the edges of the book as if she might close it and hide it away forever.

"It's... it's just a rough thing," she whispered, her voice dropping.

Fearchar stood up from the chest. He stepped slowly across the narrow space, stopping behind her.

Nandag looked up into his face, saw the absolute absence of mockery in his eyes, and slowly lifted the leather book into his grip.

Fearchar took the paper carefully by its edges, avoiding the dark charcoal smudges. He held it up to the dying golden light of the window.

Silence fell over the room, long and heavy.

Fearchar’s eyes moved over the drawing, tracing every line, every shadow, every soft stroke that mapped his features. His expression shifted from quiet curiosity to profound, unreadable stillness. The muscle in his jaw twitched once, his thumb tightening slightly against the leather binding.

"Nandag..." he breathed, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. He looked down from the paper to her face, his grey eyes shining with something intense and unguarded. "There isnae a mirror in all of Scotland that sees me like this."

Nandag felt a warm flush spread up her neck to her cheeks, but she didn't look away. "Ye... ye like it?"

"I've never seen anything like it," he said honestly, turning his gaze back to the parchment. He let out a quiet, breathless huff, a small, genuine smile touching his mouth. "Ye'll have tae teach me."

Nandag let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, the lingering tension breaking instantly. "Teach ye? Fearchar, ye have hands the size of spade heads! Ye'd snap the charcoal in two before ye even touched the board."

"I am remarkably delicate when I choose tae be," he insisted, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he sat down beside her on the wide sill, setting the drawing carefully on his knee. "I can hold a quill without breaking it. Charcoal cannae be much harder."

"The image of the Laird of Chisholm riding intae battle with a sword in one hand and a bundle of willow sticks in the other," Nandag teased, her shoulder pressing against his arm as she shook her head. "Malcolm would die of an apoplexy."

"Then I’ll definitely dae it," Fearchar declared smoothly.

Nandag laughed again, the sound light and clear in the quiet room. Fearchar reached out, his broad hand coming up to rest gently over hers where it lay on her lap. His thumb brushed over the black charcoal smudges on her skin, rubbing them away with a slow, deliberate warmth that made her breath hitch once more.

Before either of them could speak, the heavy oak door creaked open without a knock.

Duncan stood in the threshold, his face pale and grim, his hand resting tightly on the hilt of his dirk. He took in the sight of the two of them sitting close on the windowsill, but he didn't offer an apology.

"Me laird," Duncan said, his voice flat and urgent. "Ye need tae come down tae the hall."

Fearchar’s hand went still over Nandag’s. His posture straightened instantly, the warmth in his eyes flattening into the hard, vigilant calm of a chief. "What's happened?"

"Four Farquharson elders have just ridden through the gates," Duncan reported, his gaze shifting briefly to Nandag before returning to Fearchar. "MacRae, Fraser, and two others from the upper glen. They arenae armed, but they've brought their sons. They’re demanding tae speak with ye and Lady Nandag immediately."

Nandag felt the chill of the evening air return to the room all at once. She looked at Fearchar, her fingers tightening against his.

Fearchar stood up smoothly, setting the drawing book gently on the sill behind her. He didn't look panicked; he reached down, took Nandag’s hand, and pulled her gently to her feet beside him.

"Let them speak," Fearchar said quietly, his voice solid as mountain granite as he turned to face the door.

The Great Hall was cold, the evening torches casting long, flickering shadows against the soot-stained stone walls.

Four Farquharson elders sat along the heavy trestle table, their wool plaids damp from the mountain fog, their weathered faces carved into hard lines of suspicion. Beside them stood their adult sons, hands resting near dirk hilts, posture rigid and wary.

Fearchar entered the hall without a guard, his hand held loosely in Nandag’s as he guided her to the High Table. He didn't take the laird’s high-backed chair. Instead, he pulled out a simple wooden bench, motioned for Nandag to sit beside him, and sat facing the elders at eye level.