Page 66 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"Sweet as heather wine," he muttered.

Then, he grabbed her hand and pressed it flat against the front of his kilt. He was hard as iron, the thick length of him straining against the wool, throbbing with a life of its own. He was huge, and the heat radiating from him was scorching.

"Ye did that tae me," he said, his voice strained. "Feel what ye dae tae me."

Nandag stared at him, her chest heaving. She curled her fingers around the shape of him through the fabric, feeling the heavy, thick pulse of his manhood. Fearchar hissed, his hips bucking involuntarily into her touch.

"Touch me," he commanded, his head falling back. "Take me out."

With trembling fingers, Nandag lifted the heavy wool of his plaid. She undid the leather belt, the buckle clinking softly in the grass. When his manhood sprang free, it slapped against his stomach, thick, the head wet with pre cum.

She wrapped her hand around him, her fingers barely meeting around his girth. He was velvety soft over steel, burning hot in her palm. She spread the bead with her thumb, making him shudder.

"Like this?" she whispered, stroking him from root to tip, squeezing him tightly.

"Yes," he gritted out.

Her hand moved up and down his shaft, establishing a rhythm. She watched his face—the way his eyes squeezed shut, the way his breath hitched in his throat, the way his hands gripped her hips hard.

She reached down with her other hand to cup his heavy sac, rolling the sensitive balls in her palm.

"Christ, Nandag," he groaned. "I'm close."

She sped up her strokes. She could feel him swelling, getting even harder in her grasp.

With a guttural roar, he exploded. His manhood jerked violently in her hand, thick ropes of hot seed spurting out, coating her fingers. He bucked against her, his whole body rigid as the orgasm tore through him, emptying him.

Nandag drew out every last drop until he was spent, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. They stayed there for a long moment, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the distant rush of the river.

Fearchar reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping her hand clean with a tenderness that belied the violence of their passion. Then, he tucked himself away and refastened his belt, though his eyes never left her face.

He cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing her swollen lips.

When they finally moved, brushing the dry grass and clover from their clothes, they walked back down toward the tethered horses, her hand tucked comfortably into his.

As they approached the ash tree, Fearchar's eyes drifted away from the riverbank, looking past the grazing mounts toward the steep, rocky crags that guarded the western side of the castle valley.

His gaze caught a break in the heavy hazel brush. A subtle, narrow depression in the earth that cut between two massive granite boulders, almost completely hidden by hanging wild briars. It didn't lead to the main road or the lower ford. It angled sharply upward, snaking through the shadow of the ridge directly toward the weak, unfortified rear wall of Strathglass Keep.

His smile vanished. The warmth of the afternoon gave way instantly to the cold, sharp instinct of a commander.

Fearchar released Nandag's hand and walked toward the rocks, pushing aside the thick curtain of thorns with the hilt of his dirk. The earth beneath the briars was soft, carrying the old, faint impression of small deer hooves—and a single, sharp rut left by a heavy iron-tipped boot.

Nandag stepped up beside him, her light mood fading as she read the sudden hardness in his face. "What is it?"

"A goat track," Fearchar said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rasp as he peered up the hidden slope. "It cuts right through the dead ground where our sentries cannae see from the gate tower."

He turned back to look at her, his jaw set tight.

"If Robert sends a strike team under cover of a moonless night, this is the path he’ll use tae bypass the gates entirely." He drew his dirk, stepping up to the nearest oak tree at the mouth of the hidden track, and carved a deep, jagged X into the thick bark. "We fortify this gap tomorrow, or Strathglass falls from within."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The smell of crushed straw, leather oil, and fresh dung hit Nandag before she even reached the open stable doors. Shadows stretched long across the dirt aisle, thrown by the low late-afternoon sun cutting through the roof slats.

Fearchar stood near the middle stall, his leather doublet thrown over a wooden post, leaving him in his linen shirt with the sleeves rolled past his forearms. He was tightening the cinch on a heavy traveling saddle, his shoulder muscles flexing beneath the cloth with every tug.

Nandag paused in the doorway, adjusting her wool plaid over her shoulders, before stepping into the cool dimness. Her boots made little sound in the loose straw, but the bay stallion in the end stall tossed its head, the brass buckles on its halter jingling.