Page 6 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Robert let go of Mòrag’s hand entirely, stepping to the edge of the dais and resting his palm on his sword hilt.

"Ye are seven years late, Chisholm. The western war took ye, and everyone kent it. I heard it said the Crown had let the accord die with ye. Mòrag is me wife. The priest has spoken."

Fearchar did not reach for his blade. Instead, he reached inside his mud-stained tunic, pulled out a thick, folded piece of parchment heavy with red wax seals, and tossed it onto the high table directly in front of Laird Alasdair.

It landed with a wet thud beside the old man's silver goblet.

"Ye heard wrong, then," Fearchar said softly, looking Robert straight in the eyes. "King James has nae abandoned it. The Accord stands, sealed and signed, and I never renounced it. Under royal law, Cameron, ye are standing in me place."

CHAPTER THREE

Great Hall and Courtyard of Castle Strathglass

The parchment sat between them on the oak table, its thick red wax seal glinting under the flickering torchlight like fresh blood.

Malcolm was the first to move. He took a heavy step toward the high table, his sleeve brushing a silver goblet, sending it clattering across the floor. Ale splashed over the floorboards, but no one reached to pick it up.

"A piece of paper signed seven years ago by a boy who disappeared into the Isles!" Malcolm roared, pointing a thick, scarred finger at Fearchar’s chest. "Me nephew stands here as Mòrag’s lawful husband, consecrated before God and this entire clan. Ye bring mud and ancient decrees into Strathglass and expect us tae bow?"

Fearchar didn't flinch. He didn't even look at Malcolm. His amber eyes remained locked on the aging laird sitting in the High Chair.

"The Accord was signed by the King's own hand," Fearchar said, his voice cutting through the rising murmur of the hall with cold, measured precision. "It daes nae expire because a war lasted longer than yer patience. I never broke the contract. I never renounced me claim. The marriage performed ten minutes ago is void under royal law."

"Void?" Robert Cameron took two fast steps down the dais, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Ye dare step into me laird's hall and say the marriage is void? I have bled fer this clan while ye were hiding in the western bogs!"

Behind Fearchar, four Chisholm warriors stepped forward in unison, their boots thudding against the floorboards, their hands resting on the hilts of their claymores. On the outer perimeter, twenty Farquharson guards drew their blades, the sharp shhh-t of steel against leather echoing through the vaulted ceiling.

"Silence!" Laird Alasdair pushed himself upright, his ancient knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table. A harsh, rattling cough tore through his chest, doubling him over until Nandag rushed to catch his elbow. He shoved her hands away with weak, trembling fury, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "I will have... order in this hall! Councilors, take yer seats!"

"There is nay order tae be had!" Robert shouted over the old man's wheezing. He didn't look back at the chief. He whirled, grabbing Mòrag’s wrist in a grip that made her wince. "The Chisholms think they can walk in and steal Strathglass with a royal signature! I am taking me wife!"

"Yer wife," Fearchar said, "or yer claim tae that chair yer faither-in-law is dying in?"

Robert's grip on Mòrag's wrist didn't loosen. "Careful, Chisholm. Ye came here tae marry a Farquharson daughter. That's all this ever was fer ye too."

"Aye. It is." Fearchar didn't deny it, didn't so much as blink. "But I'll nae stand here and let ye drag one out the door like a sack of grain tae keep yer hold on it."

"Robert, wait…" Mòrag stumbled as he yanked her down the steps of the dais.

"Ye take nay one!" Fearchar’s voice dropped an octave, rough and lethal. He surged forward, reaching out to intercept them, but Malcolm barked a sudden command.

"Block him!"

Three Farquharson swordsmen threw themselves into Fearchar’s path with drawn steel.

Fearchar didn't bother drawing his broadsword. He caught the first guard’s wrist, twisted it until the bone popped, and slammed his heavy leather bracer directly into the second man’s nose. Blood sprayed across the rushes as the guard collapsed, but the third man lunged, shoving a heavy wooden bench into Fearchar’s knees, slowing his momentum.

Chaos tore the room apart.

Tables were shoved aside, spilling platters of mutton and heavy iron candlesticks onto the floor. Shouts, the clash of steel, and the screaming of women filled the hall as Chisholm warriors collided with Farquharson guards.

Nandag's eyes caught on Fearchar for half a second, gold hair dark with sweat, blade flashing as he drove a guard back into the hearth stones, and something in her chest snagged on the sight of him before she made herself look away. This was not the time. She didn't have time.

Her eyes fixed on her sister instead.

Robert was half-dragging Mòrag toward the heavy oak side-doors that led to the outer servants' passage. Mòrag was pulling back, her face pale, her free hand clutching her ripped velvet sleeves as she tried to plant her slippered feet against the stone floor.

"Robert, stop! Let me talk tae Faither!" Mòrag cried out, her head snapping back as he yanked her forward.