Page 58 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Mairi stood up from the floor, her heavy wool skirts rustling as she stepped over to Nandag’s chair. She pulled Nandag’s hands away from her face, taking them firmly into her own, squeezing until Nandag was forced to look up into her face.

"Listen tae me, Nandag," Mairi said, her voice clear and stern. "Ye carry the weight of the whole world on yer shoulders, but ye cannae carry Mòrag's troubles fer her."

"She is me sister," Nandag pleaded softly.

"Aye, she is yer sister, and ye love her with every breath ye draw," Mairi agreed gently.

Mairi leaned down, her dark eyes searching Nandag’s with unyielding intensity. "Ye are building a sanctuary here with Fearchar. Ye are protecting the people who look tae ye for bread and safety. Ye have nae abandoned her. Ye must have a strong house standing ready tae welcome her when she’s rescued."

Nandag looked into Mairi’s steady gaze, the hard, frantic knot in her chest slowly loosening. She took a deep, steadying breath, letting the clean scent of the dried lavender ease the tightness in her throat.

"A strong house," Nandag repeated softly, testing the words on her tongue.

"Aye," Mairi said, releasing her hands. "A strong house. Now, pick up yer needle before Fearchar returns and thinks ye've spent the whole afternoon pining."

Nandag let out a quiet, genuine breath of laughter, picking up the embroidery hoop once more as the heavy footsteps of her husband echoed up the outer stone stair.

The Great Hall was alive with a roar of voices during supper, the sharp clatter of pewter plates, and the scent of roasted venison, dried thyme, and burning oak log fires. Flames danced in the vast stone hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the high rafters where old battle banners hung still and dark against the timber.

Nandag sat at the head trestle table beside Fearchar, her heavy wool plaid pinned at her shoulder with a silver brooch. Though the hall was filled with the warm, reassuring bustle of Clan Chisholm—men laughing over horn mugs of ale, women passing wooden trenchers of thick root stew—a cold knot of tension remained tight beneath her ribs.

She picked absently at her venison, her gaze drifting over the crowded benches. Fearchar sat broad-shouldered beside her, his dark head inclined slightly as he listened to an older crofter detail the state of the barley harvest. Yet even as he spoke, his heavy hand rested near hers on the rough oak grain of the table, his thumb brushing her knuckle in a silent, grounding touch every few moments.

When the crofter finally bowed his head and moved down the dais, Nandag leaned closer to Fearchar, her voice dropping beneath the din of the room.

"Fearchar," she murmured, her dark eyes catching the amber glow of the firelight.

He turned to her instantly, his attention shifting away from the hall to fix entirely on her face. "What is it, lass? Ye’ve barely touched yer trencher."

Nandag hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "I was speaking with Mairi earlier in the solar." She swallowed hard, the dark shadow that had haunted her all afternoon rising back to the surface. "We spoke of Mòrag."

Fearchar’s expression softened, the sharp line of his jaw losing its guarded edge. He shifted his chair slightly, shielding her from the view of the main hall with his broad frame. "Tell me."

"I cannae rest knowing she is in Robert’s camp," Nandag said, her voice trembling slightly before she forced it steady. "If Robert realizes he is losing the support of the eastern glens, he will become desperate. Mòrag believes she is there by her own choice, but he sees her as naething more than a bargaining piece..." She broke off, looking into Fearchar's grey eyes with an unyielding plea. "Is there a way, Fearchar? Can we bring her home safely before he uses her tae burn us both?"

Fearchar didn't offer a quick, empty comfort. He reached out, his large, warm hand covering hers entirely, squeezing until the coldness in her fingers retreated.

"I will nae let him harm her, Nandag," Fearchar said, his voice low, heavy, and absolute. "Mòrag is yer sister. Whatever lies Robert has poured intae her head, she is family. Since he is holding her against her will, I will tear his camp apart meself tae bring her back tae these gates."

The sheer certainty in his voice hit her like a wave of warm light. The tight knot in her chest slowly yielded, easing a breath from her lungs that felt lighter than any she had drawn all day. "Ye promise me?"

"On me steel, and on me name," Fearchar answered softly, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the temple near her hairline, his breath warm against her skin. "I promise ye, lass."

Before the heavy silence could settle between them, a sudden rustle beneath the High Table caught Nandag’s attention.

A small, grimy hand snaked out from beneath the linen tablecloth near Fearchar’s boots, snatching a dropped piece of crusty crust from the floorboards. A suppressed, high-pitched giggle echoed from the shadows beneath the trestle, followed by a soft, scuffling sound of wool skirts and small knees sliding across the rushes.

Nandag looked down, peering over the edge of her plate. Three of the castle’s younger children—a dark-haired boy no older than five and two little girls with tangled curls—were huddled beneath the dais table, completely oblivious to the chieftains above them. They were playing a secret game, passing a stale heel of oatbread back and forth like a stolen treasure, trying to shove it into each other's hands without making a sound.

The boy, emboldened by his success, reached up again, his small fingers feeling blindly along the surface of the top table for another prize.

His hand brushed the heavy pewter cup sitting right beside Fearchar’s elbow.

"Watch out—" Nandag started to whisper, but it was too late.

The little hand snagged the base of the cup, tipping it sideways. Dark, rich ale flooded across the oak table, streaming toward the edge in a sudden wave.

Fearchar leaped back with a dark growl, his hands coming up just fast enough to keep the sticky ale from soaking into his heavy wool plaid.