Page 41 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

The smith blinked up at him, dazed and bloody. "Me laird?"

"Can ye ride?" Fearchar asked softly.

"I... I think so, me laird."

Fearchar turned to his men. "Put the women and children up on the spare mounts. Bring the wounded behind us. We arenae leaving anyone out here in the dark fer Cameron's wolves tae pick over."

"Castle Strathglass?" Duncan asked.

"Aye," Fearchar said, looking back toward the high stone towers visible against the darkening northern sky. "They come with us taenight. We have grain in the storehouses and fires in the Great Hall."

Fifteen minutes later, the procession formed up on the narrow track. Children were wrapped in heavy wool plaids, resting in front of Chisholm riders; the wounded were strapped securely to spare saddles. Fearchar walked at the front, leading his own stallion so an elderly woman and her young grandson could ride in his seat.

As they neared the castle gates, the horn sounded from the watchtower, two clear, sharp blasts signaling the laird’s return.

The heavy iron-studded oak doors swung inward, revealing the warm, golden glow of torchlight spilling across the courtyard. Standing at the top of the stone steps, a thick woolen shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, was Nandag.

She took one look at the procession—the soot-stained faces, the wounded, the crying children—and didn't waste a second asking questions. She immediately turned and began barking orders to the household servants, sending them running for clean linens, boiling water, and hot broth.

Fearchar stopped his stallion at the base of the steps, looking up at her through the flickering torchlight.

Nandag met his eyes, seeing the blood on his coat and the dark frustration in his face. She walked down the steps, stopping right in front of him, her hand coming up to touch his arm.

"Ye brought them home," she said quietly.

"They have nowhere else to go," Fearchar replied, his voice rough with fatigue. "And we have a serpent on our border who leaves nay tracks."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Great Hall was transformed into a bustling sanctuary within minutes of the heavy oak gates closing behind the procession.

Fearchar stood near the high stone hearth, leaning heavily against a carved pillar as he washed dried blood from his hands in a basin of lukewarm water. His broad shoulders ached with the residual fatigue of the ride, but his grey eyes remained fixed on the center of the hall.

Nandag moved through the chaotic room.

She had tossed her fine wool shawl aside, her sleeves rolled past her elbows, a faint smudge of ash tracing the line of her collarbone. She wasn't standing on the dais giving grand commands, nor was she issuing orders from a distance like a highborn lady avoiding mud. She knelt directly on the cold flagstones beside an old woman whose hands were shaking so violently she couldn't hold a clay bowl of barley broth.

Nandag wrapped her own hands around the woman’s, steadying the vessel, speaking in a low, gentle murmur that Fearchar couldn't hear over the noise of the hall, but he saw the exact moment the old woman’s shoulders relaxed, her tears drying as she took a slow sip.

Across the room, the castle healer was tending to the blacksmith’s slashed arm. The man groaned, flinching away from the sharp bite of the needle and thread. Before the healer could struggle, Nandag was there. She placed a cool, steady palm against the blacksmith’s brow, her voice smooth and even as she distracted him, asking about his forge, about his young apprentice, keeping his eyes locked on hers until the final knot was tied.

She moved next to the children gathered near the hearth. A small girl, no older than five, sat huddled under a borrowed plaid, her eyes wide and glassy with lingering terror, her small body trembling beneath the heavy wool.

Nandag didn't offer empty platitudes, nor did she tell the child not to cry. Instead, she sank quietly onto the cold flagstones beside her, reached deep into her apron pocket, and pulled out a small, blackened stick of soft willow charcoal she had kept from her afternoon sketching.

"Look here, lass," Nandag murmured, holding up a smooth, pale piece of scrap wood she had picked up near the hearth.

The little girl didn't speak, but her dark eyes flicked down to the wood.

Nandag pressed the charcoal against the pale timber, her hand moving in two swift, gentle arcs. "A line up, and a curve down... and there’s a wing." She tilted the scrap toward the child, offering her a faint, encouraging smile. "See? A bird catching the wind over the glen."

The girl swallowed hard, her breath coming in a small, shaky hitch.

Nandag carefully turned the charcoal and pressed the clean end into the girl’s tiny, cold fingers, wrapping her own hand gently over the child's to guide her.

"Now ye try," Nandag whispered, her voice a steady, warming anchor against the night. "Start here, sweep it wide. Show me where he flies."

The girl’s hand trembled for a fraction of a second before she pressed the charcoal to the wood. A dark, wobbly curve appeared beside Nandag’s.