Page 62 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

The combination of his thick manhood pounding into her and his own fingers on her clit was too much. With a cry that was half-sob, half-moan, she shattered. Her orgasm ripped through her, her inner muscles clamping down on him like a vice, waves of pleasure crashing over her, leaving her gasping and trembling.

Fearchar groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as her folds spasmed around him. "I cannae hold it," he gritted out, his jaw clenched tight. "Nandag⁠—"

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside her and let go. She felt him pulse, hot jets of his cum filling her, marking her as his from the inside out. He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the bed, his face buried in the crook of her neck as they both struggled to catch their breath.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were their ragged breaths and the distant hoot of an owl. Nandag ran her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her release.

Fearchar lifted his head, his eyes soft as they met hers. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, then to the tip of her nose, before capturing her lips in a tender, lingering kiss.

"Ye are mine," he whispered against her lips, the words a vow. "Now and ferever."

Nandag smiled, her heart feeling so full it might burst. "And ye are mine, me laird."

He shifted, pulling her into his lap as he sat back, wrapping his plaid around them both to ward off the cooling night air. They sat there in the darkness, holding each other close, the scent of sex heavy in the air around them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The faint smell of iron and horse sweat hung heavy in the solar as Fearchar stood by the narrow arrow-slit window, running a soft whetstone along the broad edge of his dirk. Below in the lower courtyard, the rhythmic clack of iron shoes against cobblestones signaled the changing of the gate guard.

The heavy oak door swept open without a knock.

Fearchar turned, the blade arresting mid-stroke. Nandag stood in the threshold, her breathing shallow, her cheeks pale beneath the warm glow of the wall torches. She held a small, crumpled square of parchment pinched tightly between her fingers, the pale wax of a broken seal still clinging to the edge of the fiber.

She didn't speak until she had pushed the heavy door shut, dropping the iron latch into place with a sharp thud.

"It came through the kitchens," she whispered, her voice tight, vibrating with a high, strained tension. "A boy from the lower glen delivered a basket of dried trout. This was tucked beneath the damp salt cloth."

Fearchar set the dirk and whetstone down on the edge of the trestle table. He crossed the room, his boots silent over the rushes, and stopped directly in front of her. He reached out, his fingers taking the parchment from her hand. His knuckles brushed hers, they were ice-cold.

His grey eyes dropping to the jagged, frantic handwriting across the slip.

"Mòrag," Nandag said, stepping close beside his shoulder as he unrolled the quiet warning. "Read it."

Fearchar held the paper toward the torchlight. The ink was thin, smeared in places as if written in haste on a knee:

Nandag,

Dinnae trust the quiet in the glen. Robert moves under cover of night. He has met twice with MacLeod’s emissaries and sent three riders south tae the High Court. He gathers men-at-arms near the Red Ford, but he daesnae intend tae scale your walls. He buys lawyers and lords. He claims Fearchar took ye by shadow and blade, that our faither’s hand was forced, and that yer union is an illegal theft of the Farquharson title. He carries signed depositions tae the King’s magistrates in Stirling. Be ready. He means tae strip the chieftainship by royal decree before the winter snows close the pass.

Fearchar stared at the dark ink until the letters blurred into heavy black lines. The quiet, simmering rage that usually ignited in his gut didn't come; instead, a cold, hard clarity settled over his mind.

He looked down at Nandag. Her dark eyes were fixed on the letter, her thumb nervously tracing the silver brooch at her shoulder.

"He isnae going tae fight us on the field," Fearchar said, his gravelly voice dropping into the quiet register he used when drawing battle lines. "The bastard knows he cannae breach Strathglass steel. So he’s turned tae the ink-stained skirts of the King's court."

Nandag looked up, her jaw setting into the hard, unyielding line he had come to rely on. "If he reaches Stirling first with sworn depositions from corrupted lairds, the Regent can issue a writ of treason against ye, Fearchar. They will declare our marriage void by coercion, freeze the trade routes, and grant Robert legal right taea march intae the glen with royal troops behind him."

"Aye," Fearchar growled, rolling the parchment tight and thrusting it into the inner pocket of his leather doublet. "He turns a Highland blood feud intae a dispute fer crown bailiffs."

He strode to the heavy oak door, threw up the latch, and barked into the echoing stone corridor: "Duncan! Get in here. Now."

Within a dozen heartbeats, the heavy footsteps of his captain thundered up the spiral stairs. Duncan burst into the solar, his gauntlets tucked into his belt, his eyes darting instantly between Fearchar’s hard face and Nandag’s pale composure.

"Me laird?" Duncan asked, his hand instinctively hovering near his basket-hilt.

"Robert’s changed his angle," Fearchar said flatly, leaning his palms against the edge of the trestle map table. "He’s gathering steel at the Red Ford, but it’s a distraction. His real strike is heading south tae Stirling with a packet of lies fer the King’s judges. He claims I stole Nandag and usurped the Farquharson lands without clan consent."

Duncan swore beneath his breath, a sharp Highland curse. "The King’s lords love nothing more than an excuse tae meddle in mountain land rights. If they sign an order of outlawry⁠—"