Page 69 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Nandag threw her arms around Mòrag’s trembling shoulders, pulling her hard against her chest. The cold, wet wool of Mòrag’s mantle reeked of swamp mud, lathered horse sweat, and stale panic.

Mòrag didn't hug her back at first. She sat frozen, her breath coming in sharp, whistling gasps against Nandag’s neck. Then, with a jagged, choking sound that tore from her chest, her hands clawed into the back of Nandag’s plaid. She buried her face into Nandag’s shoulder, her whole frame shuddering violently as her composure cracked to pieces.

"Nandag... oh, God, Nandag," Mòrag sobbed, her words muffled, slick with tears against Nandag’s skin. "I couldnae… I couldnae stop him. I tried tae, but he⁠—"

"Shh," Nandag murmured, her hands moving up to cup the back of Mòrag’s head, her fingers tangling in the damp, matted hair. "Ye’re here. Ye’re inside the walls. Hold fast, Mòrag ."

"Ye dinnae understand," Mòrag choked out, pulling back just enough to look into Nandag’s face. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely keep her grip on Nandag’s sleeves. "The legal summons, the King’s magistrates, it’s all a front. Robert daesnae care what King James writes on a piece of vellum."

Nandag’s hands stilled on her sister’s back. "What are ye saying?"

"He’s gathering men," Mòrag whispered, her wide, bloodshot eyes darting toward the dark shadows of the courtyard walls as if expecting spears to sprout from the stone. "Three hundred broadswords from the eastern glens. Mercenaries from the coast. He’s paying them with Farquharson silver, silver he took from our faither’s chest. If the King rules fer Fearchar, Robert isnae backing down. He’s going tae march straight intae Strathglass and burn it tae the bedrock."

Nandag felt a cold, sharp stillness settle into her gut, cutting right through the heat of the embrace. She reached up, gently wiping a streak of dried mud from Mòrag’s cheekbone with her thumb.

Mòrag flinched away from the touch, her chin trembling, her head dropping in shame. "It’s worse than that. Malcolm... Malcolm’s been in his pocket since midsummer."

Nandag’s eyes narrowed slightly. "I’m nae surprised…"

"He’s been carrying letters between Robert and the clan elders in the south," Mòrag squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears spilling over her lashes. "Feeding Robert information about yer grain stores, yer guard shifts, how many men Fearchar keeps at the lower ford. Malcolm helped him forge the signatures on the petition; he made it look as though the clan elders had rejected yer marriage." She pressed her forehead against Nandag’s collarbone, her shoulders heaving. "I kenned... I saw the letters on his desk, and I said naething because I was afraid. I was so afraid of him, Nandag. I let him use me tae hurt ye."

The wind swept through the courtyard, rattling the dry iron rings on the hitching posts.

Nandag looked down at the crown of her sister’s head—at the faint, purple bruise dark against the hairline near her temple, and the thin, raw scrapes lining her wrists where heavy wool had rubbed the skin raw. The anger that had simmered in Nandag’s chest for weeks didn't flare into fire. It evaporated, leaving behind a hard, quiet clarity.

Nandag slid her arms tighter around Mòrag’s waist, pulling her flush against her, shielding her from the wind.

"I’m sorry," Mòrag wept, her voice breaking into a ragged whisper. "I’m so sorry..."

"Listen tae me," Nandag said softly, her chin resting firmly against Mòrag’s damp hair. "Look at me, Mòrag."

Mòrag slowly lifted her head, her face pale and devastated in the dim torchlight.

"None of this is yer fault. This is all Robert’s daeing. Ye brought the truth," Nandag said, her voice steady and unyielding. "Ye rode through the night, through Robert’s patrol lines, tae stand here and tell me. That is all that matters. There isnae anythin’ ye could have done. Ye’re safe now."

Mòrag stared at her, her breath catching in her throat, before she let out another shaky sigh and collapsed back against Nandag’s shoulder, clinging to her.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed across the damp stones.

Fearchar stepped out of the shadow of the barbican, his hand resting casually on the brass pommel of his broadsword. His grey eyes swept over the two women kneeling in the dirt, taking in Mòrag’s muddy mantle and the red, panicked stains on her face. He didn't speak immediately. He stepped closer, his broad frame blocking the worst of the glen wind, his shadow falling over them both.

"She came from the eastern road," Nandag said, keeping one arm firmly around Mòrag’s shoulders as she looked up at him. "Robert isnae waiting fer Stirling."

Fearchar’s jaw tightened, the muscle along his cheek working silently. "Tell me."

"He’s raised three hundred men," Nandag said, her words dropping clear and precise between them. "Paid mercenaries and eastern clansmen. Malcolm’s been feeding him our guard rotations and grain counts. Robert isnae coming tae argue law before the King’s magistrates, Fearchar. He’s using the summons tae draw ye away from the keep. The moment ye ride south fer Stirling, he marches on Strathglass."

Fearchar stood motionless for three long heartbeats. His gaze drifted off toward the dark, jagged silhouette of the eastern mountains, his eyes narrowing into cold, calculating slits.

He didn't swear. He didn't kick the stone or reach for his steel. Slowly, his hand slid off the pommel of his sword, and his fingers curled into a tight, quiet fist at his side.

"Malcolm," Fearchar muttered, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying grate that barely carried over the wind.

He turned his head, looking back toward the brightly lit windows of the main hall where the council elders were still drinking ale and debating saddlebags.

"He wanted us looking at parchment," Fearchar whispered, his eyes shifting back to Nandag, dark and hard as flint. "He wanted me head turned toward royal seals while he laid the timber fer a siege."

He reached down, extending his broad, calloused hand toward Mòrag.