Page 63 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"They willnae get the chance," Fearchar interrupted, pointing a broad finger at the map. "Double the watch on the curtain wall. Pull the scouts back from the outer glens and choke the main road. If any man attempts tae cross the lower ford without Strathglass iron on his breast, hold him. I want nay more of Cameron's messengers slipping past our perimeter."

"And the men at the Red Ford?" Duncan asked.

"Let them sit there," Fearchar replied, his grey eyes cold. "They’re a shadow intended to draw our spears away from the road. Keep sixty men inside the courtyard, armed and ready. Move."

Duncan gave a sharp nod, turned on his heel, and hurried out, his heavy boots fading down the stairwell.

Fearchar turned back to the room. Nandag had already moved to the small writing desk near the hearth. She had pulled out three fresh sheets of heavy, cream-colored vellum, unstopped the dark ink pot, and was carefully trimming the tip of a goose-quill feather with a small ivory knife.

He walked over, stopping behind her chair, his broad shadow falling across the blank parchment. "What are ye writing, lass?"

Nandag didn't look up, her hands working with calm, deliberate speed. "Robert builds his case on shadow and hearsay. He relies on the King believing I am a helpless captive weeping in a tower." She dipped the quill into the black ink, her dark eyes flashing with a fierce, brilliant intellect. "We hit him with steel he cannae bend. I am writing directly tae the Lord Chancellor in Stirling. I will tell him me faither is ill and that I write fer him and me both. I will have him sign it too."

She looked up at him, the quill hovering over the vellum. "I will detail the precise lineage of the Farquharson deeds. I will attach me faither’s original seal. More than that, I am drafting a formal declaration of consent—signed in me own hand, witnessed by the clan elders—stating that our marriage was entered freely, witnessed under Highland law, and sealed by sacred choice."

Fearchar looked down at her small, ink-stained fingers, a profound heat swelling in his chest that had nothing to do with war. He reached down, his heavy, calloused hand resting over the curve of her shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath.

"It must be airtight, Nandag," Fearchar murmured, his low voice thick with pride. "The crown lawyers look fer any tear in the parchment tae claw their way intae local holdings."

"It will be seamless," she answered, her quill already touching the page, leaving a dark, elegant line of script behind it. "If Robert wants tae fight us with parchment and seals, I will show him that a daughter of Clan Chisholm knows how tae handle a quill just as well as he handles treachery."

Fearchar pulled up a heavy wooden chair, sitting close beside her as the fire crackled in the hearth. He watched her work, supplying names of old border chieftains who could verify his own lineage, his broad hand occasionally reaching out to steady the edge of the parchment as she wrote.

Outside, the first dark shadows of evening began to creep up the high stone walls of Castle Strathglass, but inside the small room, the fire burned bright, casting their unified shadows long and unbroken against the rough stone walls.

The morning sun cut through the river mist in sharp, golden spears, glinting off the rushing waters of the Glass. The air smelled of damp pine needles, crushed fern, and the deep, rich earth of early autumn.

Fearchar kept his bay stallion at a slow walk along the elevated ridge above the water, his eyes constantly moving—scanning the dense treeline, tracing the rocky ledges across the river, and measuring the depth of the muddy banks.

Beside him, four of his best scouts rode a hundred paces ahead, their steel caps gleaming faintly through the high hazel brush as they checked the ground for iron-shod hoofprints or snapped branches.

Nandag rode right beside his left stirrup on her dark mare. Her wool plaid was wrapped tight against the river chill, her dark hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, though a few stray curls fluttered around her face in the breeze.

Fearchar pulled his stallion to a halt near an old ash tree, looking down at the wide curve of the river.

"The water is low enough tae ford here," he murmured, turning his head to look at her. "The timber on the eastern side gives too much cover fer an advancing party. It’s dangerous fer ye tae be out in the open like this, lass."

Nandag didn't even blink. She gathered her reins slightly, bringing her mare half a head past his, her dark eyes locking onto his with a look that would have withered a lesser man where he stood.

"I am nae going back tae sit in a drafty solar while ye scout me faither's lands, Fearchar," she said evenly, her voice carrying that quiet, stubborn edge he had come to know all too well. "I ken these glens better than yer scouts. If Robert comes through the eastern pass, he willnae use the main trail. He’ll use the sheep tracks."

Fearchar stared at her for a long moment, trying to hold a hard, unyielding expression, but he saw the utter lack of fear in her face. He let out a low huff of breath and shook his head.

"Ye are the most stubborn woman in the Highlands," he muttered.

"And ye are repeating yerself, me laird," she replied, a faint, victorious spark lighting her eyes.

Up ahead, the scouts signaled with a raised arm before dipping over a grassy rise, following the outer bend of the river toward the lower marsh. They would be out of sight for at least half an hour while they searched the far bank.

Fearchar dismounted, his heavy boots sinking slightly into the soft turf. The stallion gave a low snort, shaking his mane as Fearchar tied his reins loosely to a low ash branch.

"We wait here until Duncan’s men clear the bend," Fearchar said, stepping over to her mare and offering his hand.

Nandag placed her small palm in his, slipping down from the saddle with an easy, practiced grace. The heat of her body brushed against his for a brief second before she untied her own mount and let the mare graze beside the stallion.

The quiet roar of the river filled the gap between them. Fearchar walked down to the water’s edge, where the current slowed into a deep, clear pool beneath an overhang of smooth river stones. Shadows of fat, speckled trout hovered near the rocky bottom, flicking their tails against the fast water.

"We have an hour," he said, unbuckling a thin leather pouch from his belt. Inside was a coiled length of horsehair line and a small bone hook he always carried in his kit. "And the men will need more than salted beef fer taenight’s trencher."