Page 38 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Without a word, Fearchar took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and steered her away from the busy inner ward toward the narrow archway that led to the lower gardens.

"Ye stood yer ground well back there," he murmured, keeping his pace slow as they stepped onto the gravel path.

Nandag glanced up at him, a quick, wry tilt to her lips. "I didnae say a word, Fearchar. Ye did all the talking with yer timber and yer free milling."

"Aye, but ye didnae throw a goblet at Malcolm's head when he brought up Mòrag," Fearchar countered, nudging her shoulder with his. "That showed remarkable restraint fer a woman who threatened tae draw me with a boar's snout."

She let out a soft laugh, the sound bright and clear against the evening quiet. "I was tempted. The man moves through the hall like a ghost looking fer a funeral."

"He’s playing a long game," Fearchar said, his voice dropping as they walked deeper into the garden. The walled enclosure was cool and green, smelling of damp earth, blooming heather, and wild thyme. "He wants the elders looking south toward Glen Cannich every time they take a bite of bread. But taenight, he didnae win."

"Nay," she agreed quietly, her thumb tracing the back of his knuckles as they walked. "Taenight, ye gave them firewood and a chief who listens. That counts fer more than Malcolm’s ancient memories."

They followed the winding path past the tangled stone rose arches, where the last light of the sun caught the edges of the crimson petals. The garden sloped gently downward, terminating at a wide, moss-draped stone bench tucked beneath the spread of a massive, ancient oak tree that leaned out over the edge of the curtain wall.

Below them, the valley stretched out in deep blues and shadows, the river a ribbon of silver catching the fading twilight.

Nandag sat first, tucking her wool skirts around her knees, and Fearchar settled down beside her on the cold stone. The space was narrow, forcing their thighs to align, the heat of her body pressing against his side through the thick tartan of his plaid.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke. The silence was easy, filled only with the rustle of oak leaves overhead and the distant call of an eagle returning to the high crags.

Nandag leaned her head back against the rough bark of the tree, closing her eyes. The golden hour light painted her skin in warm tones of rose and amber.

"Ye look exhausted," Fearchar said softly, resting his forearm on his knee as he turned to face her.

"I am," she admitted without opening her eyes. "Between sketching lairds who willnae hold still and listening tae elders worry about winter stores, me head is spinning."

"I held remarkably still," Fearchar reminded her, a faint grin touching his mouth. "I was a monument of patience."

She opened one eye, peering at him with a lazy, affectionate skepticism. "Ye talked the entire time. Ye complained about yer ears, and ye nearly ruined me clean parchment with yer broad shoulders."

"And yet," Fearchar murmured, leaning in a fraction closer, "ye captured me better than any mirror in Scotland, Lady Chisholm."

Her eye snapped open completely at that, her cheeks taking on a sudden, lovely shade of pink that had nothing to do with the setting sun. She sat up straight, turning her body toward him.

She huffed a breathless laugh, reaching out to cuff him lightly on the arm, but Fearchar caught her wrist in mid-air. Her skin was warm, her pulse fluttering soft and quick under his thumb.

Her breath caught in her throat. The light teasing evaporated between them in a single heartbeat, replaced by a thick, quiet weight that made the air feel suddenly scarce.

Nandag’s eyes widened slightly, her dark irises searching his. She didn't pull her wrist away. Instead, her fingers softened in his grip, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

A stray lock of dark hair had loosened from her braid, resting against the curve of her cheek. Slowly, deliberately, Fearchar let go of her wrist and raised his hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against her skin as he tucked the soft strand behind her ear.

His fingers lingered at her jaw, feeling the fine, delicate trembling of her breath.

"Nandag," he whispered, the name rough in his throat.

She didn't answer with words. She leaned into the touch of his hand, her lips parting slightly.

Fearchar closed the distance between them, moving slowly, giving her every second to pull back. She didn't. She tilted her chin up, her eyes fluttering shut as her hand came up to rest flat against his chest, right over the heavy thudding of his heart.

Their faces were inches apart. He could feel the warm stroke of her breath against his lips, smell the faint scent of charcoal and dried lavender lingering on her skin. Fearchar shifted his weight, leaning in to close the tiny gap left between them…

"Me laird! Laird Fearchar!"

The harsh, panicked shout shattered the silence.

Nandag gasped, jumping back as if scalded. Fearchar pulled his hand away, his jaw clenching tight as he turned to look up the gravel path.