Page 56 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"Tae the solar?" she asked softly, her posture instantly smoothing into the composed, unyielding posture of the lady of the keep.

"Aye," Fearchar replied, his voice dropping into its low, gravelly timbre. "Duncan will be waiting."

They walked side by side up the stone staircase toward the inner keep. The quiet sanctuary of the mountain shieling was already slipping behind them, replaced by the heavy, familiar weight of clan politics and looming war.

Fearchar pushed open the door to his private office—a low-ceilinged room off the main hall filled with the scent of dried parchment, old oak, and tallow.

Duncan stood by the hearth, leaning over a long trestle table littered with wax-sealed scrolls and rough-drawn maps of the surrounding glens. The captain of the guard looked as though he hadn't slept; his dark hair was unkempt, his leather doublet spattered with dried mud, and a thick parchment scroll was clutched tightly in his right hand.

He looked up as the door closed, his sharp eyes sweeping over Fearchar and Nandag. A faint, knowing look flickered across his rugged face before his expression hardened into serious military discipline.

"Ye took yer time, me laird," Duncan said, unrolling the parchment across the center of the oak table and weighing down its corners with two heavy iron inkwells. "The storm slowed me scouts, but the news from the south came through before dawn."

Fearchar crossed the room with heavy, measured steps, leaning his large hands against the edge of the table. Nandag moved to his left, stepping close enough that the wool of her sleeve brushed his arm as she leaned over the map.

"What has Cameron done now?" Fearchar asked, his grey eyes fixing on the sprawling map of Strathglass and the neighboring territories.

Duncan tapped a scarred finger against a section of land marked along the eastern border, near the lands of Clan Chisholm and Clan MacRae.

"Robert’s riders have been moving under the cover of dusk. He’s nae just buying arms anymore; he’s buying men. His emissaries have visited Laird Grant and the lesser chieftains of the upper pass. He’s promising them land grants, exemption from the King’s tax, and direct influence in the border trade once he takes Strathglass."

Fearchar’s jaw tightened, a hard muscle leaping in his cheek. "The Grants are weak-willed, but they have two hundred spears. If Robert secures their allegiance, he cuts off our eastern supply route entirely."

"He’s playing on their fear of the King's Accord," Duncan added, pulling two smaller slips of parchment from his tunic and laying them beside the map. "He tells them Strathglass is preparing tae surrender traditional Highland grazing rights tae the Crown, and that his faction is the only one willing tae fight fer the old ways."

Nandag reached out, her slender fingers picking up one of the slips. She scanned the tight, hurried handwriting, her brow furrowing in deep concentration.

"He is targeting the wrong weakness," she said quietly, her voice ringing clear and authoritative in the small room.

Fearchar turned his head to look at her. "What dae ye see, lass?"

Nandag laid the slip back on the table and pointed to three specific crests drawn along the western border of the map.

"Laird Grant may be tempted by gold, but MacRae of Glen Moriston and the chieftains of the lower valley will never ally with a Cameron. They remember the blood feud forty years ago. More importantly, these three families owe their current grazing rights tae our clan."

She looked up at Fearchar, her dark eyes sharp with strategic clarity. "Robert is offering promises of land he daes nae yet own. But me faither signed ironclad deeds with the MacRaes twenty years ago. They are bound tae the Farquharson lineage by oath and blood, nae just political convenience. If Robert approaches them, they will view it as an insult, unless we leave them long enough tae think we have abandoned them."

Duncan let out a low whistle, leaning back on his heels. "She’s right. If we move fast, we can cut the legs out from under Cameron’s northern strategy before his gold even reaches their halls."

"We cannae rely on sentiment alone," Fearchar growled, leaning deeper over the map, his broad finger tracing the mountain passes between Strathglass and Glen Moriston. "Oaths fade when winter approaches and food runs scarce. If we want their spears, we give them terms they cannae refuse."

He looked directly at Duncan. "We offer renewed trade agreements through the Strathglass pass, duty-free passage fer their cattle drives before the winter snows hit the high roads. And we offer Chisholm protection along their southern border. If Cameron so much as breathes on their crofts, me riders march."

"That will cost us grain from the lower vaults," Duncan noted, though his eyes brightened with approval.

"Grain is cheaper than blood," Fearchar replied flatly. He turned to his captain. "Duncan, ye take four men and ride out before noon. Ye make first contact with MacRae directly. Ye tell him Fearchar Chisholm offers steel and trade, but he expects his answer before the moon waxes full."

"Consider it done," Duncan said, straightening his posture and strapping his leather gauntlets back onto his hands. "I'll take the high deer paths to avoid Cameron's scouts."

"Good," Fearchar said, nodding once.

As Duncan gathered his gloves and turned toward the door, Nandag stepped toward the small writing desk in the corner of the office. She pulled a stack of fresh vellum toward her, unsheathing an inkwell and dipping a fresh quill.

"I will draft the letters tae the lesser chieftains meself," she said, her ink-stained fingers already moving smoothly across the page. "They’ve kenned me since I was a girl. A formal seal from Castle Strathglass carrying me faither’s family mark will mean more tae the elders than a standard summons from the Council."

Fearchar walked over to the desk, standing beside her chair. He looked down at the fluid, elegant script taking shape on the parchment, watching the quiet, fierce determination that filled her face. The exhaustion that had weighed her down two days ago had transformed into a razor-sharp purpose.

He reached down, his thumb brushing lightly against the top of her shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity that drew a faint, brief smile to her lips before she returned her focus to the ink.