Page 67 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

The stallion’s ears flicked forward.

"Ye have a way with frightened things," she said quietly. She tilted her chin up, looking him dead in the eye. "And are ye frightened, Fearchar?"

He didn't answer right away. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers catching a stray lock of dark hair that had fallen near her temple, tucking it gently behind her ear. His knuckles brushed the skin of her cheek, warm and rough against the autumn chill.

"Aye," he murmured, stepping closer until his boots touched hers, forcing her to tilt her head back even farther. His thumb slid down to rest along the curve of her jawline. "The thought of losing ye frightens me tae the bone."

Before she could form a reply, he leaned down and covered her mouth with his.

The kiss was slow, heavy, and hot, tasting of dust and cold afternoon air. Nandag’s hand slipped off the stallion’s neck, her fingers tangling into the dark, thick linen of Fearchar’s shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. He backed her gently against the wooden partition of the stall, his broad arm coming around her waist to hold her flush against his chest.

The stallion gave a quiet, contented snort beside them, dipping its head to chew on a stray piece of hay.

Fearchar’s mouth shifted against hers, his breath coming faster, his hand sliding up her spine to cup the back of her head, anchoring her to him. Nandag let out a soft sound in the back of her throat, her feet lifting slightly off the straw as he bore his weight into her.

A sharp, heavy knock rattled the wooden stall door.

"Me laird!"

Fearchar broke the kiss instantly, his forehead dropping against hers, his chest heaving as he closed his eyes and let out a low, dangerous curse beneath his breath. Nandag’s lips felt swollen and hot in the cool air, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs as she gripped his forearms to steady herself.

Duncan stood outside the stall, his hand resting on the wooden latch, looking completely unbothered by what he had clearly interrupted.

"The gates are held, Duncan," Fearchar growled without turning around, his hand still resting on Nandag’s waist. "Unless the keep is on fire, ye’re about three seconds from mucking out these stalls yerself."

Duncan lifted a rolled piece of thick parchment, heavy with red wax that bore the sharp, pressed seal of the Royal Crown.

"The messenger just crossed the lower drawbridge," Duncan said flatly. "Rode two horses from Stirling. The King’s summons has arrived."

The red wax of the royal seal crumbled between Fearchar’s thumb and forefinger, flaking onto the dark oak of the council table.

Outside the solar, the royal messenger’s horse was still blowing in the courtyard, its lungs whistling through wet nostrils after the mad gallop from Stirling.

Fearchar flattened the heavy parchment against the wood, his smooth palm pressing the creases down. His eyes traced the tight, formal script of the Crown clerk. Robert’s name appeared three lines down, bound up in Latin legalities and ornate claims of theft, coercion, and unlawful seizure of Clan Farquharson lands.

"Read it aloud, me laird," Duncan said, his voice flat. He leaned against the high stone hearth, his thumb restlessly pushing the brass hilt of his broadsword back and forth in its frog.

"He’s done it," Fearchar said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet grate. "Robert stands before King James’s magistrates in Stirling. He’s presented a signed petition claiming our union was forced at blade-point, that Nandag was dragged tae the altar under duress, and that the Farquharson title belongs tae him through Mòrag."

The door to the solar opened with a quiet creak.

Nandag stepped across the threshold, her wool plaid pinned tightly at her collar, her face pale in the grey afternoon light filtering through the narrow windows. She didn't ask what the parchment was. Her dark eyes went straight to the broken wax on the table, then up to Fearchar's face.

"How long dae we have?" she asked, her voice steady, carrying no tremor.

"The King’s Council convenes in six days," Fearchar replied, sliding the parchment toward her. "If we are nae in Stirling tae answer the summons, the Crown rules in default. They will issue a writ of outlawry against me and grant Robert royal authority to march a garrison into Strathglass."

Nandag didn't touch the paper. She stood beside his chair, her small hand coming down flat on the edge of the oak table, her knuckles whitening slightly against the wood. "Then we ride."

"I ride," Fearchar corrected, turning his head to look at her. "Ye stay behind these walls with Duncan and sixty broadswords. Stirling is a nest of royal vipers, Nandag. Robert will have bribed every bailiff from the Forth tae the gates."

Nandag’s eyes narrowed, a sharp, fierce heat flaring in her gaze that made the words freeze in Fearchar's throat. She leaned down slightly, bringing her face close to his.

"Dae ye think the King’s judges will take the word of a Chisholm laird fighting fer Farquharson lands?" she whispered, her words cutting clean through the quiet room. "Robert tells them I am a prisoner. A frightened lass locked in a tower, weeping fer her sister. If ye walk intae that hall alone, ye prove his lie. I stand beside ye before the King, Fearchar. I answer his questions meself."

Duncan let out a low huff from the hearth. "She’s right, me laird. A silent bride is Robert’s strongest witness. A living, breathing Lady Chisholm staring the Lord Chancellor in the face ruins his whole petition."

Fearchar stared at her for three long heartbeats, searching her face for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of fear. There was none. Just that unyielding Highland granite he had come to rely on.