Page 37 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

To their left, Malcolm stood in the shadows by the hearth, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes tracking every movement.

Old MacRae, his white beard flowing over his chest like frosted heather, cleared his throat.

"Laird Chisholm," MacRae began, his voice thin but sharp. "We come from the upper glen. Word reached our hearths that the King's Accord was sealed in the chapel, and that a Chisholm now sits at the head of Farquharson land."

Fearchar didn't interrupt. He rested his forearms on the oak table, his fingers loosely clasped, his grey eyes fixed steadily on the old man's face. He didn't reach for a sword hilt; he didn't raise his voice to command respect. He leaned in, listening.

"We have buried sons in the Western war, Chisholm," Fraser spoke up, his broad shoulders hunched forward. "We spent years standing shoulder-tae-shoulder on those bloodied battlefields, only tae return home and watch Chisholm steel turn against Farquharson steel in our own glens. Now ye expect us tae pay taxes tae yer house and trust ye with our winter stores?"

Nandag’s fingers tightened against her gown, her jaw setting, but Fearchar placed a broad, reassuring hand gently over hers beneath the table, his composure entirely unruffled.

"I dinnae expect yer trust, Fraser," Fearchar said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carried cleanly across the quiet hall. "Trust isnae written on parchment, nor is it born in a chapel. It’s built over a winter." He turned his gaze to MacRae. "Tell me of the upper glen. How are the barley yields after the late frost?"

MacRae blinked, caught off guard by the question. He shifted his weight, exchanging a glance with his son. "The harvest was lean. The lower mills took more than their share, and three families near the ridge are burning turf because they've no wood fer the hearths."

Fearchar nodded slowly. "The timber rights on the eastern ridge belong to Clan Chisholm. Tomorrow, I'll have twenty cords of dried pine hauled down tae the upper glen. Nay tax and nay charge on the milling until the spring thaw."

The four elders went still. Fraser’s son slowly let his hand drop away from his dirk hilt.

"And the southern border?" the third elder, a grizzled man named Brodie, asked quietly. "Robert Cameron sits at Glen Cannich with three hundred blades. If he marches on our fields, will Chisholm steel defend Farquharson sheep?"

"Me grandfaither," Fearchar replied, his eyes narrowing slightly, solid as mountain granite, "taught me that blood daesnae stop at a border line. I rode tae Strathglass tae enforce a law, but I stand in this hall tae defend me wife and her people. If Robert Cameron crosses the burn, he answers tae me broadsword before he reaches a single farm in this glen."

Nandag watched the subtle shift across the table. The defensive posture of the old men unraveled inch by inch. MacRae’s tight jaw relaxed; Fraser let out a long, heavy breath, his head nodding in quiet, grudging respect.

"Aye," MacRae murmured, his fingers tracing a groove in the oak table. "He speaks like a laird, Fraser."

"Aye," Fraser agreed, looking directly at Nandag before turning back to Fearchar. "He listens like one, too. The clan stands in good hands beside our Nandag."

A low murmur of assent rippled down the table. The tension that had choked the hall since twilight dissolved into the quiet rustle of wool plaids and relaxed shoulders.

From the shadows near the hearth, Malcolm stepped forward.

His boots made no sound against the flagstones, but his sudden movement drew every eye in the room. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't challenge Fearchar’s offer of timber or his promise of steel. He rested his hand casually on the back of MacRae’s chair, his face a smooth, unreadable mask.

"It is a fine thing tae see the upper glen provided fer," Malcolm said, his voice dripping with smooth, measured authority. "Fearchar has proven himself a generous host in his new home."

He paused, letting the word host hang subtly in the chill air before continuing.

"We must remember, though," Malcolm added softly, looking around the table at the four elders, "that while Fearchar and Nandag hold the Accord today, Mòrag remains the laird's eldest daughter."

Nandag’s posture went instantly rigid.

"Mòrag was raised tae lead this clan from the cradle," Malcolm continued, his tone filled with gentle, mournful affection. "She sits in Glen Cannich nae because she abandoned Strathglass, but because she was wed tae Robert Cameron. We dae well tae honor our new laird, aye... but a true Farquharson never fergets the eldest line, nor the daughter who remains in the south."

The silence returned to the Great Hall, cold and sharp as winter frost.

MacRae’s eyes flickered toward the floorboards, a shadow of hesitation returning to his face. Fraser rubbed his chin, his mouth setting into a troubled line as he nodded slowly.

"Aye," MacRae whispered into the quiet. "Mòrag is still the eldest."

Malcolm offered a small, respectful bow to the table, stepping back into the dim torchlight near the hearth. A faint, almost invisible smile touched the corner of his mouth as he watched the elders fall silent, the seed of doubt planted deep into the quiet room.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall closed behind them, cutting off the low hum of lingering murmurs and the faint clatter of iron tankards.

The cool evening air hit Fearchar's face. Beside him, Nandag let out a long, slow breath, her shoulders dropping two inches as the stiffness left her spine. The tension of Malcolm’s quiet poison still hung in the back of his mind, but looking down at her—at the soft line of her throat, the small smudge of charcoal still faint on the side of her palm—the weight of clan politics seemed to recede into the shadows of the courtyard.