Page 64 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Nandag followed him down the muddy bank, gathering her wool skirts in one hand to keep them out of the wet silt. "Ye expect tae catch dinner with a bit of thread and a twig?"

"It’s nae a twig, lass," Fearchar growled playfully, cutting a straight hazel switch from a nearby bush with his dirk. "It's patience and craft. Something ye ken naething about."

He bound the line to the end of the flexible rod, baited the hook with a fat grub dug from beneath a mossy stone, and stepped carefully onto a flat rock jutting out over the pool. He lowered his center, flicking the line out with a soft plop right into the eddy where the big trout waited.

"Hold yer breath," he instructed quietly over his shoulder, keeping his eyes fixed on the water. "Trout can feel the vibrations of a loud tongue on the bank."

Behind him, he heard the soft crunch of her boots.

"Is that so?" Nandag whispered.

Suddenly, a small pebble splashed into the pool directly over his line.

The shadowed trout darted away in a flash of silver, disappearing into the dark weeds near the center of the river.

Fearchar froze, slowly lifting his gaze from the empty water to look back over his shoulder. Nandag was standing two paces away, holding her hands innocently behind her back, her face a picture of solemn, pure concern.

"Oh dear," she said softly, her lips twitching. "Was that a fish?"

"Nandag," Fearchar warned, narrowing his eyes at her. "That was our dinner."

"It looked like a stone tae me," she teased, taking a step back toward the high grass.

He re-baited the hook, turned his back to her, and cast out again into a fresh ripple. "Dinnae move. Dinnae speak."

A second later, a sharp, heavy tug pulled at the hem of his wool plaid from behind. He stumbled back off the wet rock, his boot splashing ankle-deep into the cold river water as the hazel rod jerked sideways, snapping the line clean off against a submerged root.

Fearchar turned around, dripping wet, to find Nandag holding the corner of his plaid, her dark eyes sparkling with unholy amusement. She dropped the wool, turned on her heel, and let out a bright, melodic laugh as she took off running up the grassy bank.

"Ye thieving little lass!" Fearchar bellowed, a roar of genuine laughter ripping from his chest as he scrambled out of the river and took off after her.

His long legs closed the distance easily, but she was fast, twisting through the high ferns and darting around the trunks of the old oak trees like a deer. Her laughter echoed through the quiet valley, bright and wild, completely stripping away the heavy pall of war and politics that had weighed on them for weeks.

She ducked around a large moss-covered boulder, but Fearchar anticipated the turn. He lunged forward, his arms wrapping around her waist just as her foot caught a soft patch of moss.

They went down together, tumbling over the crest of the grassy hill and rolling into a thick, sun-warmed bed of wild clover and flowers.

He caught her against his chest as they came to a stop, taking the brunt of the fall on his shoulder. She landed flush on top of him, her hair spilling out of its pins in a dark, glorious tangle across his chest, her cheeks flushed bright red, her chest heaving as she laughed until she was breathless.

"Ye... ye missed the fish, me laird," she panted, her fingers clutching the linen of his shirt as she looked down at him.

"I caught something far more troublesome," Fearchar growled, looking up into her wide, dark eyes.

His heart was hammering against his ribs, not from the short sprint up the hill, but from the raw, overwhelming sight of her smiling down at him in the open sunlight. The playful spark in her eyes softened into something warm, deep, and fiercely loyal.

He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, brushing away a blade of grass stuck to her temple. She rested her weight against him, her forehead dropping to touch his, their breaths mingling in the warm afternoon air.

"We should get back to the horses," she whispered, though she made no move to pull away.

"Aye," Fearchar murmured, his hand resting over the curve of her back, holding her tight against him for a few heartbeats longer. "In a moment."

The air between them, previously charged with the sharp wit of their banter, suddenly thickened into something far heavier.

Fearchar’s grip on her hand wasn't a polite restraint; it was an anchor, firm, the heat of his palm searing through her hand. He didn't pull her roughly, but he didn't let go, his thumb pressing deep into the center of her palm, sending a jolt of electricity up her arm that settled low in her belly.

Nandag stopped. She turned back to him, her breath hitching as she took in the sudden, stark shift in his posture. The laughter had died in his eyes, replaced by a dark, hungry glint that made her knees tremble.

"Let go, Fearchar," she whispered, though her fingers curled around his, holding on just as tight.