Page 52 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

She didn't wait for him to lean down. She reached up, her slender fingers resting against the rough stubble of his jaw, and pulled him down toward her, pressing her lips to his first.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative and sweet, born of a deep, silent gratitude. But as Fearchar let out a low, rough murmur against her mouth, his broad hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, the kiss deepened into something fierce and desperate—a hunger born from the terror of almost losing one another.

Fearchar shifted, turning his body toward her, pulling her flush against his chest. His fingers tangled into the thick waves of her dark hair, anchoring her to him. He felt the rapid, fluttery beating of her heart against his ribs, matched only by the heavy, thundering pulse in his own throat. He kissed her deeply, his lips warm and demanding, tasting the fresh mountain water on her mouth, feeling the small, soft gasp she gave as his arm tightened around her waist like an iron band.

When she finally pulled back a fraction of an inch, their foreheads remained pressed together, their breaths mingling hot and fast in the crisp air. Her dark eyes were bright, liquid with emotion, her hand clutching tightly to the leather lapels of his doublet.

Fearchar smiled against her lips, his thumb gently stroking the soft skin of her cheekbone.

"Ye're a dangerous woman, Lady Chisholm," he murmured, his voice thick and husky. "Sending yer laird into a daze when he should be watching the ridges."

Nandag let out a soft, breathless laugh, her lips brushing his once more as she spoke. "Then I shall let ye watch and behave."

Fearchar’s laugh rumbled through his chest, deep and true, as he pulled her back down into the grass beside him. He kept his plaid wrapped securely around them both, his chest supporting her head as she lay against him, their fingers intertwined in the clover.

They lay together in the high meadow while the sun tracked slowly across the sky, holding tight to the sanctuary they had built, letting the quiet strength of the glen heal them both before the storm returned.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The amber light that had filled the high meadow began to fade as shadows stretched long and blue across the grass. High above the stone crags, the sky turned the color of bruised slate, the heavy cloud front rolling in swift and silent over the western peaks.

Fearchar stood beside his stallion, tightening the leather girth of the saddle. He looked up at the sky, his eyes narrowing as a sudden sharp chill cut through the warm valley air.

"We need tae move, lass," Fearchar said, his voice carrying over the rising murmur of the wind. "The mountain weather turns fast when the wind shifts out of the west. Those clouds arenae carrying a drizzle."

Nandag swung up into her saddle with a fluid grace, her dark hair still hanging loose around her shoulders. She gathered the reins in her hands, looking up at the darkening sky with a quiet reluctance. The peace of the high glen was vanishing fast, swallowed by the oncoming storm. "How long before we reach the postern gate?"

"An hour if the path stays dry," Fearchar replied, mounting his iron-grey stallion in one smooth movement.

They started down the winding deer path, the horses picking their way carefully over the loose shale and granite outcroppings. The air grew thick and heavy, smelling sharp with the copper scent of ozone and wet stone.

They had barely cleared the upper basin when the sky opened.

It did not begin with a gentle mist.

A jagged flash of lightning illuminated the high crags, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder that reverberated off the valley walls. Then came the deluge. The rain hit them like a wall of icy needles, driven hard and sideways by a howling mountain gale.

Nandag pulled her woolen plaid tighter around her shoulders, but within seconds the thick fabric was saturated, heavy and cold against her skin. Water poured off the brim of her leather riding cap, streaming down her forehead and cheeks.

She turned her face into the stinging gale, trying to wipe the water from her eyes with her sleeve, and burst into a sudden, clear laugh. It was a breathless, wild sound, carried away by the rushing wind.

"Is this the dry mountain air ye promised me, Laird Chisholm?" she called out over the roar of the downpour, her dark eyes flashing with fierce amusement through her soaked lashes.

Fearchar kicked his stallion into a fast trot, closing the gap between them until his iron-grey horse was riding boot-to-boot with her bay mare. He reached out, his broad hand catching the wet leather of her reins near the bit to steady her mount as the mare shied away from a sudden gush of muddy water streaming across the track.

"Keep her head up, Nandag!" Fearchar yelled back, his voice cutting through the thundering sheets of rain. "Stay right beside me! Dinnae let her step off the hard stone!"

Within five minutes, both of them were soaked to the bone. Fearchar’s heavy wool plaid felt like a leaden weight across his shoulders, water dripping continuously from his chin and the broad brim of his leather coat into his collar.

The path beneath them was rapidly transforming into a treacherous river of slick mud and churning water. Small stones loosened by the torrential rain tumbled down the hillside, clattering against the rock faces.

Nandag’s bay mare snorted loudly, tossing her head violently as a sharp bolt of lightning split the black sky directly above the ridge. The horse danced sideways, her hooves slipping on a patch of wet slate near the steep edge of the ravine.

"Steady, lass!" Fearchar growled, leaning far out of his saddle to grip Nandag’s arm, his heavy fingers anchoring her safely to her seat.

The stallion beneath him stomped hard, nostrils flaring as the smell of lightning and wet earth rattled the animals' nerves. The stream they had crossed so easily an hour ago was already a torrent of churning white water, threatening to wash out the narrow wooden bridge leading toward the castle road.

"We willnae make the lower ford before the trail washes out!" Fearchar shouted, his mind working fast through the topography of the glen.