Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
The hearth fire had died down to a dull mound of embers, casting long, bruised shadows across the stone floor of the bedchamber.
Nandag shifted beneath the heavy wool blankets, the cool air striking her bare shoulders as the coverlet fell away.
The space beside her was empty, the sheets cold to the touch where Fearchar should have been.
She blinked against the dimness, her eyes tracing the outline of the room until she spotted him.
He sat by the tall, arched window, a shadow carved against the blue-black glass of the night.
His shirt was unlaced at the throat, his bare feet resting flat against the floorboards, hands resting motionless on his knees.
He was staring out into the dark glens, so still he might have been made of the same stone as the castle walls.
Nandag slid her legs out from beneath the furs.
The chill of the floor sent a sharp shiver up her spine, but she did not reach for her robe.
She moved quietly across the room, the hem of her shift brushing softly against the grain of the wood.
Fearchar did not turn, but his shoulders lifted slightly—a single, quiet intake of breath that told her he had registered her presence before her feet even reached the window recess.
She did not force herself into his line of sight. Instead, she leaned her hip against the stone frame, pulling one knee up to rest her weight against the sill.
"The Chisholm laird rests, it seems, only when forced by an army," she said softly, her voice still thick with sleep.
A slow, wry curve touched the side of his mouth, though his eyes remained fixed on the distant, dark silhouette of the hills. "The bed was too soft. I’m used tae a saddle or a patch of wet heather."
"A terrible affliction fer a laird," she murmured, resting her chin on her hand. "Shall I have the servants throw dirt on the floorboards tomorrow tae make ye feel at home?"
He let out a low huff of a laugh, the sound dark and warm in the quiet room. "I’d ask fer naething less, lass."
Silence settled over them again, but the sharpness had bled out of it. The wind howled faintly through the outer courtyard, rattling the heavy leaded panes of glass, yet inside the window alcove, the air felt thick, safe, and untouched by the rest of the fortress.
Nandag watched his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar running along the edge of his cheekbone, the way his knuckles tightened once, then relaxing back onto his knee.
"Ye were staring at the hills like ye expected Robert tae ride through them taenight," she said quietly, her banter giving way to something gentler.
Fearchar turned his head slowly, his grey eyes catching the faint twilight gathering at the edge of the glass.
"I spent four years waking every two hours tae the sound of men dying or horses screaming.
When the Western war ended, I thought the quiet would feel like a victory.
" He paused, his throat working as he swallowed.
"It just feels like an ambush waiting tae happen. "
Nandag’s fingers twitched against her knee, but she kept her posture easy, letting him set the pace. "The Accord was supposed tae fix that."
"Aye." He leaned his head back against the stone wall, looking up at the vaulted ceiling.
"When King James had us sign that parchment in Edinburgh seven years ago, I was twenty.
I thought it was simple. A signature, a bride, a border drawn on a map, and peace secured fer me faither's people.
I thought I would marry fer the clan, dae me duty, and live out me days building barns instead of burning them. "
His hand reached up, brushing back a stray lock of golden hair from his forehead before falling back to his lap.
"And then the war came," Nandag said softly.
"And then the war came," he agreed, his voice dropping an octave.
"By the third year in the west, after we lost the high pass, I stopped thinking about peace. I stopped believing I’d ever come back tae Strathglass at all, let alone tae stand in a chapel and take a wife.
I accepted that me future was buried in the mud somewhere near Lochaber. "
He turned his full gaze on her then, intense and unblinking. "When I rode through those gates three days ago, I wasnae coming fer a marriage, Nandag. I was coming tae enforce a law because it was all I had left tae hold ontae."
Nandag held his gaze, her chest tightening. She did not reach out to touch him, though the urge pulled at her fingers. Instead, she shifted her legs, tucking her feet under her shift as she looked out at the fading night.
"Mòrag was the one who was supposed tae heal all of that," Nandag said, her tone level, devoid of bitterness, but heavy with truth.
Fearchar watched her closely. "Nandag."
"Nay, listen tae me," she interrupted gently, raising a hand.
She looked down at her own fingers, tracing the small calluses on her palm.
"Fer seven years, every lesson in this castle was fer her.
How tae sit, how tae speak tae lairds, how tae carry the weight of two clans without bending.
Even if I was there, she was the main focus.
Mòrag was the eldest. She was the one meant tae stand beside a chief and make him whole. "
She let out a small, self-deprecating breath, a quick quirk of her lips that didn't reach her eyes.
"I was just the sister who ran too fast through the gardens and tore her hems," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.
"When Faither signed that paper, everyone in Strathglass knew I was the backup plan.
The girl who would be married off tae a minor border captain once Mòrag secured the real alliance.
I spent me entire life expecting tae stay in her shadow.
I never once believed anyone would ever look at this clan and choose me first."
The room grew so quiet that the ticking of the dying embers sounded like striking iron.
Fearchar did not offer a grand declaration. He didn't offer a smooth, hollow apology for the way her family had raised her. Instead, he reached across the small space between them. His broad hand covered hers on the stone sill, his thumb brushing over the skin of her wrist, steady and warm.
"I didnae choose a shadow," he said, his voice rough, stripped of all lairdly pretension.
"I saw a girl in a garden seven years ago who had more fire in her than the entire royal court combined. And I saw a woman in the Great Hall two days ago who brought a brass sconce down on a man’s head rather than let her life be stolen from her. "
Nandag looked up, her pulse fluttering beneath his thumb. She didn't pull her hand away.
"Ye’re stubborn, Nandag Farquharson," he added, a faint, genuine smile touching his eyes. "And ye’re vastly more dangerous than yer sister ever was."
"Is that supposed tae be a compliment, Fearchar Chisholm?"
"It’s the absolute truth."
She looked down at their joined hands, feeling the heat of his skin seeping into hers, pushing away the lingering chill of the stone. She leaned her head back against the window frame, letting her eyes close for a long moment as a deep, quiet breath filled her lungs.
Outside, the thick blackness of the night began to turn into a soft, pale slate grey. The highest peaks of the Glen started to catch the faint, golden crest of dawn, pushing the shadows back toward the treeline.
Neither of them moved to go back to bed. They sat together in the quiet alcove, their hands laced together on the cold sill, watching the light slowly fill the room.
The morning sun cut through the narrow slits of Castle Strathglass, throwing long bars of pale gold across the trestle tables of the Great Hall. The smell of roasted oats, dried fish, and stale ale hung heavy in the air, mixed with the damp chill that never quite left the stone walls.
Fearchar sat at the head of the High Table, the weight of his plaid draped heavily over his shoulder. Beside him, Nandag sat stiffly, her posture rigid, her fingers tearing a hunk of dark bread into small, precise crumbs she had no intention of eating. Her silver goblet sat untouched.
Across the table, Laird Alasdair slouched in his high-backed chair, wrapped in his customary heavy furs despite the morning heat rising from the hearth. His pale, rheumy eyes moved slowly between Fearchar and Nandag.
To Alasdair's right, Regent Malcolm stood with his hands resting on the pommel of his broadsword, his jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line.
"The priest’s mark is on the parchment," Malcolm said, his voice grating against the quiet of the hall. "The union is registered under royal seal. The Crown’s mandate is met."
Fearchar didn't reach for his cup. He kept his hands flat on the oak table, his gaze fixed on Malcolm. "Which means Clan Chisholm and Clan Farquharson stand bound under the King's Accord. Me presence here isnae an intrusion, Malcolm. It is the law."
A few elders along the council table shifted, exchanging low, hushed glances. Old Laird Alasdair raised a hand, thin and spots of age mottling his skin, silencing the murmur before it could grow.
"The Accord is satisfied," Alasdair rasped, his voice thin but carrying the weight of undisputed authority.
"Fearchar Chisholm sits at this table nae as a guest, nor as a rival, but as a son of this house through marriage. The land rights, the high passes, and the alliance stand under his and Nandag’s names. "
Malcolm’s knuckles turned white against his sword hilt, but he gave a curt, tight nod. "So ruled."
The formal recognition settled over the table like a lead weight.
Fearchar felt the shift in the room, the subtle drop in hostility from the older councilmen, replaced by the heavy expectation of leadership.
He glanced sideways at Nandag. She hadn't looked up.
Her eyes remained fixed on the pile of breadcrumbs, her jaw clenched so tight the small muscle near her ear twitched.