Page 51 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

He saw the exact moment the suffocating tension left her frame.

Nandag closed her eyes and tilted her head back toward the sky, taking a deep, long breath that expanded her chest. Her shoulders dropped two inches, the sharp, defensive stiffness in her posture melting away under the warm sun. She opened her eyes, looking down at the meadow, and slowly sank onto her knees beside the stream.

She dipped her right hand into the icy mountain water, cupping it, and brought it to her face, washing away the dust and sweat of the keep. She let out a sound—halfway between a sigh and a quiet, breathless laugh—that Fearchar hadn't heard since before the attack.

She reached out, her fingers gently trailing over the soft petals of a patch of wild heather growing near the bank, her face softening into an expression of pure, unburdened peace.

Fearchar felt a knot in his own chest loosen, a profound, quiet warmth spreading through his veins as he watched her. The fierce, terrifying leader who had shouted down the council elders was gone; the haunted woman who had wept in his lap in the dark had receded. Here, surrounded by the high peaks of her birthplace, she was simply Nandag—vibrant, beautiful, and alive.

She turned her head to look at him, her dark hair framed by the gold of the sun, a faint, genuine smile touching her lips.

He walked towards her.

"It is quiet here," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the valley’s magic.

"Aye," Fearchar replied softly, his grey eyes lingering on her face, tracing the soft color returning to her cheeks. "The Camerons dinnae ken these high paths, and the elders' bickering cannae reach over these ridges."

"Thank ye, Fearchar. I... I dinnae realize how heavy the air had grown inside."

"Ye carry the weight of the whole glen on yer shoulders, lass. But as long as I draw breath, ye'll never have tae carry it alone. Take all the time ye need."

Fearchar unclasped the heavy leather buckle of his broadsword belt, setting the iron-sheathed steel down upon the sun-warmed grass beside him. He stretched his long legs out into the thick clover, his back propped against the flat face of a granite boulder. A few yards down the slope, his iron-grey stallion and Nandag’s bay mare grazed peacefully, their heads lowered, their tails flicking lazily against the midday flies.

Nandag remained on her knees by the small burn, her dark hair tumbling unconfined down her back. She dipped her fingers into the clear, icy water once more, watching the ripples break the sunlight into shimmering gold.

"If ye keep staring into that stream, lass, the trout will think ye’re trying tae challenge them," Fearchar said, his rough voice carrying a lazy, teasing lilt.

Nandag turned her head, a slender brow arched high above her dark eyes. "And if they dae? I’ll have ye ken I have far more patience than any fish in Strathglass."

"Aye, that ye dae," Fearchar chuckled, a low rumble deep in his chest. He reached down, plucked a dry stalk of mountain grass, and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. "Though I pity the poor trout if ye give it the same look ye gave Old MacRae in the hall yesterday. The creature would flip right onto the bank and hand over its scales out of sheer terror."

A sudden, breathtaking sound broke across the quiet meadow, a real, unbidden laugh from Nandag’s lips. It was light and musical, sweeping away the last lingering shadows of the dark castle corridors. She shook her head, a faint, lovely rose flush coloring her high cheekbones as she wiped her wet hands against her skirts.

"MacRae deserved every word, and ye ken it," she said, though the sharp edge was gone from her tone, replaced by a warm, quiet playfulness.

"I didnae say he didnae," Fearchar murmured, his grey eyes softening as he held her gaze. "I'm only saying I was glad I was standing on yer side of the table."

Nandag’s smile lingered, softening the lines of her face. She stood up slowly, her movements unhurried, gathering the front of her skirts as she walked back across the lush grass. The sharp, defensive stiffness that had locked her shoulders for four straight days had vanished, melted by the quiet heat of the glen. She sank beside him in the thick clover, her side resting lightly against his hip.

She looked out over the quiet valley, watching the scouts posted on the far ridges—tiny, motionless silhouettes against the pale blue sky.

"Thank ye, Fearchar," she whispered after a long moment, her voice dropping into a tender, hushed rhythm. "Fer this. Fer bringing me somewhere I can breathe without feeling twenty pairs of eyes tracking me every move."

Fearchar reached out, his broad, calloused hand sliding over the grass to wrap around her warm fingers. His thumb traced the small, delicate curve of her knuckles, feeling the slight tremor that still lingered deep beneath her skin.

"Ye dinnae have tae carry it all the time, Nandag," he said softly, his tone turning serious, rich with a quiet, fierce conviction. "Ye dinnae have tae play the invincible lady of the keep every second of the day. Nae with me."

Nandag looked down at their joined hands. She swallowed hard, her thumb rubbing against his rough skin. "In the keep... if I show a single crack, the elders will tear at it. Malcolm will use it. The villagers will see me shake and lose heart."

"The keep is miles behind us," Fearchar interrupted gently. He squeezed her hand, pulling her slightly closer to his side. "Here, ye're just Nandag. Me wife. The lass who draws wild birds on scrap wood tae quiet a frightened child."

Nandag let out a long, shuddering breath—not of fear, but of profound, bone-deep relief. She shifted her weight, leaning her head sideways until it rested securely against the broad, solid angle of Fearchar’s shoulder. The rough wool of his doublet pressed against her cheek, smelling of leather, mountain air, and the faint, familiar trace of woodsmoke.

Fearchar turned his head slightly, resting his chin against the crown of her dark head. He lifted his free arm, wrapping his heavy plaid over her shoulders to shield her from the cool ridge wind, and pressed a quiet, lingering kiss into the soft tresses of her hair.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke. The wind murmured through the golden grass, the horses stomped their hooves down by the burn, and the high sun bathed the hidden meadow in a deep, peaceful warmth. The looming threat of Robert Cameron, the poison of the castle spies, and the endless political jockeying over the King's Accord felt millions of miles away, stripped of their power by the sheer expanse of the mountains.

Nandag shifted against his chest. She lifted her head from his shoulder, her dark eyes searching his face with an intensity that made Fearchar’s breath catch in his throat.