Page 68 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

He let out a slow breath through his nose and nodded once. "Duncan, summon the council elders. Every man who sat in this hall when the vows were spoken."

Within half an hour, the solar was thick with the smell of damp wool, pipe smoke, and stale ale. Old Fraser, Malcolm’s shadow, sat near the corner with his heavy hands folded over his walking staff, while the rest of the elders crowded around the map table.

"Parchment willnae be enough," Fraser grumbled, shaking his grey head. "The King’s court runs on seals and signed witness. Robert has three lairds from the east swearing our clan never agreed tae the Accord."

"Then we give them truth until their ink runs dry," Nandag said, stepping into the center of the ring. She pulled a heavy leather-bound portfolio from under her arm and set it down in front of the elders.

She unbuckled the straps, spreading the contents across the table. "Here is the original Highland Marriage Accord of 1597, bearing me faither’s wax and the royal crest. Here is the parish ledger signed by the priest who wed us in the chapel. And here," she added, her fingers tapping a fresh stack of cream-colored vellum, "are sworn statements from the village."

Fearchar reached out, turning one of the sheets over. The handwriting was neat, dark, and precise—Nandag’s hand—but at the bottom were rough, ink-stained thumbprints and crude, jagged marks.

"The villagers?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Old Abigail," she said, her eyes meeting his with quiet pride. "The smith. The weavers whose homes Robert’s men burned near the lower ford. They have all marked their names. They swear that Robert brought bloodshed tae Strathglass, that ye brought food and safety, and that I hold this keep as its rightful lady by me own choice."

Duncan leaned over the table, studying the thumbprints with a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his scarred face. "That’s a heavy weight of dirt and blood to throw on a lawyer’s polished desk."

"It’s what wins a King’s ear," Nandag replied, picking up the quill and handing it to Fearchar. "Write yer own deposition, Fearchar. Detail every spear Robert raised against this gate."

For two hours, the solar was silent save for the scratching of iron quills and the murmur of elders signing their names at the bottom of the vellum. Fearchar organized the documents into an oiled leather saddlebag, binding them tight with hemp twine to keep the damp out—the Accord, the ledger, the village marks, and the written account of Robert’s ambush.

When the last seal was pressed into red wax, Fearchar stood up and pushed his chair back.

"Duncan," he commanded.

"Me laird?"

"Pick twenty of our best riders. Heavy iron, and fresh mounts. We travel light and fast. Avoid the main drove roads through Cameron territory. We take the high passes through the hills."

"Aye, me laird," Duncan said, turning toward the door. "The horses will be saddled before the sun touches the western crags."

The fire in the hearth had died down to glowing red embers, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

Fearchar walked over to the table where the leather saddlebag lay fully packed. He picked it up, feeling its weight in his hands, before turning to face Nandag.

She was standing near the window, watching the grooms in the courtyard below throw heavy wool blankets over the horses. Her hands were tucked into her plaid, her shoulders set square.

Fearchar stepped up behind her, his chest brushing the edge of her plaid. He reached down, taking her hand out of her wool wrap, his calloused thumb running over her cool knuckles.

"Ye dinnae have tae dae this, lass," he said softly, the rough edge fading from his voice. "Once we cross the river, there’s nay turning back. Robert will be waiting in Stirling with every venomous tongue he can buy."

Nandag didn't pull her hand away. She turned her head, looking up at him in the dim light, her chin lifting with that familiar, stubborn pride.

"Let him wait," she whispered, her fingers closing tight around his. "He thinks he’s playing a game of chess with paper and ink. It’s time we showed him how Strathglass answers a challenge."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The stone courtyard was slick with early evening damp when the side postern gate rattled against its iron chain.

Nandag was stepping out of the hall doors, a heavy wool shawl wrapped around her elbows, when the low screech of ungreased hinges cut through the quiet. A lone figure stumbled through the narrow opening, draped in a mud-splattered grey mantle that dragged through the dirt. The cloak’s hood was pulled far forward, but as the figure caught its foot on a cobble and nearly fell, a stray lock of pale, honey-blonde hair whipped into the torchlight.

Nandag froze. Her hand dropped from her shawl, her fingers curling into the wool.

"Mòrag?"

The hooded figure snapped its head up. Pale, hollowed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and skin as grey as tallow met her gaze. The woman took one trembling, unsteady step forward before her knees gave out completely, her fingers clutching at her wet hem.

Nandag didn't think. She didn't look for guards or call for a torch. She sprinted across the slick courtyard, her heavy skirts gathering the mud as she threw herself down into the dirt beside her sister.