Page 43 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

She nodded once, her eyes fluttering shut as she sank back into the soft feather mattress.

Fearchar stood up, blowing out the candle, leaving only the soft red glow of the hearth fire to light his way. He picked up his sword belt, buckled it around his waist with a practiced touch, and quietly opened the door, stepping out into the cool, silent hallway to watch over his house.

The heavy iron latch had clicked into place as the bedchamber door closed behind Fearchar, leaving the room in deep, shadowy quiet.

Nandag stood up. Her body ached with a bone-deep weariness, every muscle heavy from hours of hauling water, tearing linens, and kneeling on cold flagstones. She walked slowly toward the small vanity table near the window, the soft rustle of her linen shift the only sound in the silent room.

She reached up to loosen the ribbon binding her hair, letting the dark waves tumble over her shoulders. Reaching for her wooden comb, her eyes caught the leather sketchpad resting on the sill, its corner still smudged with charcoal from the afternoon. The memory of Fearchar sitting on the low chest—his broad shoulders stiffened into a ridiculous pose, his grey eyes glinting with suppressed humor—brought a faint, tired smile to her lips.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

Nandag froze. The sound was faint, barely louder than the settle of the stone walls, but it came from the threshold, not the window.

"Fearchar?" she called out softly, turning as she unlaced her sleeve. "Did ye ferget⁠—"

The word died in her throat.

Standing in the shadow of the heavy bedpost was a man. He wore the soot-stained wool tunic of a villager, a bandage wrapped awkwardly around his forearm, one of the men she had helped carry up from the lower ford. She had noticed he had kept to himself all evening. His eyes were not wide with terror or dazed with pain. They were cold, flat, and tracking her every move with terrifying precision.

In his hand, half-hidden by the folds of his cloak, gleamed a narrow, unsheathed iron dirk.

"Ye shouldnae have brought us inside, Lady Chisholm," the man said, his voice a low, raspy whisper that carried no regional accent of the glen.

Nandag’s heart slammed into her ribs, her blood going ice-cold. "Ye..." Her fingers instinctively reached backward, searching the surface of the vanity. "Ye're Robert's man."

"Robert sends his regards tae the daughter of Strathglass," he hissed, stepping forward with lethal swiftness.

Before Nandag could open her mouth to scream, the man lunged.

Instinct took over. Nandag snatched the heavy bronze candlestick off the table and swung it with all her strength. The heavy metal struck the man's forearm with a dull thud, knocking his blade off course. The sharp iron grazed her shoulder, slicing clean through the linen shift and stinging like fire, but the blow missed her chest.

The assassin grunted, his shoulder crashing into her as he drove her backward. Nandag hit the edge of the washstand, the ceramic basin shattering on the stone floor with a deafening crash. Water and broken pottery sprayed across the room.

"Guard!" Nandag screamed, her throat raw, but the man’s heavy hand slammed over her mouth, pinning her back against the wooden frame.

She bit down hard into the meat of his thumb. He cursed, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second, and Nandag drove her elbow upward into his sternum. He stumbled back, gasping, and she scrambled across the wet floorboards toward the heavy oak door, her lungs burning, her feet slipping in the water.

He recovered instantly, grabbing a handful of her dark hair and yanking her backward. Nandag cried out as her head snapped back, her hands tearing frantically at his thick wrists. He dragged her away from the door, spinning her around and pinning her against the side of the heavy carved bedstead.

He raised the dirk high, the iron catching the faint amber glow of the dying hearth fire.

Nandag grabbed his wrist with both hands, her teeth grit, every ounce of her strength focused on keeping the point of the blade from sinking into her throat. The iron quivered inches above her collarbone. His weight pressed down on her, the smell of damp wool and copper thick between them. Her arms shook violently, her fingers slipping against his sweaty skin.

"Die quietly, girl," he growled into her ear, pressing his body harder against hers, driving the blade down quarter-inch by quarter-inch.

Bang.

The heavy oak door didn't just open, it exploded inward, smashing against the stone wall with a crack like thunder.

Fearchar stood in the doorway.

In a single glance, his eyes took in the shattered basin, the blood on the floorboards, and the blade pressed against Nandag’s throat. A sound escaped his chest, not a shout, but a low, guttural roar of pure, lethal fury that sounded barely human.

Fearchar crossed the room in two terrifying strides.

Before the assassin could turn, Fearchar’s broad hand clamped around the back of the man's neck like a steel vise. With a surge of brute force, he ripped the assassin off Nandag, launching him across the chamber. The man crashed heavily into the vanity table, shattering the wood into splinters before hitting the floor.

Nandag collapsed against the bed frame, gasping for air, her hand clutching her bleeding shoulder.