Page 70 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"Get up, lass," Fearchar said, his tone devoid of anger, replaced by an icy authority. "Get inside to the hearth." He looked down at Nandag, his gaze locking onto hers with a fierce, unspoken understanding. "Call Duncan. We arenae just packing documents fer Stirling anymore and goin’ tae see the King. We're arming the walls as well."

The heavy iron gates of Castle Strathglass creaked shut behind them with a hollow, echoing thud that resonated deep in Nandag’s chest.

Rain had turned the dirt track into a churning ribbon of dark mud, slick beneath the iron-shod hooves of twenty warhorses. Fearchar rode at the head of the column on his tall grey stallion, his broad shoulders squared against the driving mist, his dark wool plaid soaked through and clinging heavy to his chest. Beside him, Nandag pulled her oil-treated cloak tighter around her throat, her knuckles white where she gripped the rain-slick reins of her mare.

Just behind them, Mòrag rode in silent, tense composure, flanked on either side by Duncan and three broad-chested Chisholm guards. Duncan’s eyes never stopped moving, his gaze sweeping the dark tree line of the narrow glen with rhythmic, practiced caution.

The column pushed south through the high pass, where the steep mountain walls squeezed the trail into a tight, rocky throat. The only sounds were the squelch of mud, the jingle of bit-chains, and the hard, heavy breathing of horses climbing the incline.

A spray of gravel rattled down the steep embankment to their left.

Duncan’s hand dropped instantly to the brass hilt of his broadsword, his horse dancing sideways as he pulled up. High above the trail, a lone rider picked his way down the slippery shale, sliding to a halt in the high heather before trotting his lathered horse into the middle of the path.

It was one of Fearchar’s forward scouts, his plaid caked in grey dirt, his mount blowing hard with white froth dripping from its bit.

Fearchar raised a gauntleted hand, bringing the column to a halt. "Report."

The scout leaned forward over his saddle horn, his chest heaving as he wiped rain from his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "A mile behind us, me laird. Thirty horsemen, maybe more. They’re moving fast through the lower ford. Nay banners, nay clan tartans—just steel, dark cloaks, and heavy iron."

Duncan let out a low huff, his horse tossing its head. "Robert."

Fearchar’s jaw set hard, the muscle along his cheek pulsing beneath his skin. He reined his stallion around, turning the beast to face the narrow mouth of the glen they had just crossed. His grey eyes narrowed into cold, dangerous slits as he looked down the mud-slick track. His right hand drifted toward the leather grip of his sword, his fingers closing tightly over the crossguard until his knuckles turned as pale as bone.

"We turn back," Fearchar growled, his voice dropping into that rough, terrifying grate. He pulled his stallion’s head round, his boots digging into the horse’s flanks. "Thirty men in a narrow neck. We hold the high rock and cut them tae pieces before they cross the burn."

"Laird, nay," Duncan warned, though his own hand remained glued to his hilt. "We have the women."

"The women are safer behind thirty dead mercenaries," Fearchar spat, his horse snorting as it sensed his sudden, violent heat.

Nandag kicked her mare forward, crowding her horse right against Fearchar’s grey stallion until their stirrups banged together. She reached out, her gloved fingers catching the thick leather of his reins just below his hand, pulling back with all her weight.

"Look at me, Fearchar," she said, her voice cutting sharp and quiet through the rush of the rain.

Fearchar didn't turn right away. His shoulders were rigid, his chest rising and falling in heavy, jagged breaths, his eyes fixed on the dark trail behind them.

"Fearchar," she repeated, her fingers tightening on the wet leather until the brass buckle bit into her palm.

He snapped his head toward her, his gaze blazing with a dark, primal rage that would have made a weaker woman step back. Nandag didn't flinch. She held his glare, her chin lifting, her eyes unblinking in the freezing drizzle.

"He wants ye tae turn around," she said, her words deliberate and clean. "He daesnae need tae defeat Chisholm broadswords in this glen. He only needs ye tae strike the first blow."

Fearchar’s fingers twitched on his sword hilt, but he didn't pull the blade.

"Remember the King’s summons," Nandag pressed, leaning closer over her saddle horn so only he could hear her over the wind. "The Crown strictly forbade private warfare while the decree is under review. If ye draw blood here—if ye leave thirty bodies in this pass—Robert goes tae Stirling and tells the Lord Chancellor that ye’re a bloodthirsty outlaw who defies the King's peace. He is provoking ye, Fearchar. He is begging ye tae make a mistake."

Fearchar stared at her, the dark heat in his eyes clashing against her steady, unyielding calm. A thick knot of tension held his shoulders high, his chest heaving as the seconds ticked by. Slowly, agonizingly, the white strain in his knuckles faded. His hand slid an inch off the brass pommel of his sword, though he didn't let go entirely.

He let out a long, shuddering breath through his nose, steam rising from his nostrils into the cold mountain air.

"He plays a filthy game," Fearchar muttered, his voice thick with suppressed violence.

"And we are going tae beat him at it," Nandag replied softly, letting go of his reins. "In Stirling. Before the King."

Fearchar turned his head, looking back toward Duncan and the waiting guards. The rage was still there, settled deep in his eyes, but it was clamped down now, governed by iron will.

"Duncan," Fearchar barked.

"Aye, me laird?"