Chapter 10 #2
Before Fearchar could speak, the heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall burst open, banging violently against the stone wall.
A scout, soaked to the waist in mud and river water, stumbled into the hall. His chest heaved, his breathing coming in ragged, desperate gasps as he halted before the high table.
"Me laird!" the scout called out, his voice echoing off the vaulted rafters. "Scouts from the south border!"
Malcolm stepped forward immediately, his hand tightening on his weapon. "Speak, man."
"Robert Cameron," the scout panted, wiping grease and sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "He’s nae running fer the coast. He’s stopped at Glen Cannich. He’s flying the Cameron banner and calling in every favor owed tae his faither.
Three minor houses have already sent men to his camp. "
A sharp collective intake of breath swept through the council table. Men sat up, hands dropping instinctively to dirk hilts.
"He’s gathering an army," Alasdair exclaimed. "He means tae march back here before the month is out and claim what he lost."
"He has nay legal standing," an elder spat from down the table. "The King's Accord supersedes his claim!"
"Robert daesnae care fer the King’s paper!
" another one of the elders barked, slamming his fist onto the table, making the pewter tankards rattle.
"He has Mòrag, he has Cameron steel, and now he has three hundred men gathering at his back.
We must ride out today, raise the levies, and burn Glen Cannich tae the ground before he can cross the river! "
The hall erupted into noise. Councilmen shouted over one another, arguing logistics, clan honor, and defensive borders. The air grew thick, suffocating with the sudden threat of war.
Fearchar didn't join the shouting. He leaned back slightly, his eyes tracking the sudden stillness in his bride.
Nandag had stopped tearing the bread. Her hands had gone completely still on the table, her skin paling until she looked almost translucent in the morning light.
Her eyes darted rapidly between Malcolm’s reddening face and her father’s frail, sunken expression.
Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths, her shoulders rising higher with every raised voice in the room.
She was drowning in it—the politics, the sudden threat of her sister’s captor, the terrifying speed at which her life was being carved up by men with loud voices.
Fearchar shifted his weight. Underneath the heavy oak table, where the councilmen couldn't see, he reached out. His broad fingers brushed against her knee, steady and firm.
Nandag flinched slightly at the contact, then dropped her gaze to him.
Fearchar didn't offer a dramatic speech. He held her eyes, letting his thumb press once, reassuringly, against her fabric-covered knee. He leaned in close, his shoulder brushing hers, his voice dropping into a low, smooth murmur that carried only to her ear beneath the din of the arguing council.
"The horses havenae been fed yet," he said softly. "And this room smells of old fish and older men."
Nandag blinked, caught off guard. A tiny, almost invisible crack appeared in her rigid composure. "What?"
"I'm taking a horse out," Fearchar murmured, a faint, fleeting smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "The western ridge has open air and nay councilmen shouting about burnings. Come with me."
Nandag looked from him back to Malcolm, who was currently waving a map violently in the air, then back to Fearchar.
"They are discussing a war, Fearchar," she whispered, her voice tight, though her pulse fluttered visibly at her throat.
"They've been discussing wars fer fifty years," Fearchar replied smoothly, pushing his chair back an inch, the wooden legs scraping quietly against the stone. "They'll still be discussing it when we get back. But if I sit here another five minutes, I’m going tae throw Malcolm intae the hearth."
A tiny, breathless sound escaped her throat, not quite a laugh, but the first genuine breath she had taken all morning. The color returned to her cheeks in a quick, warm rush.
She slipped her hand beneath the table and gave his fingers a brief, hard squeeze.
Fearchar stood up smoothly, his large frame blocking the view of Nandag as she rose beside him. Malcolm was mid-sentence, bellowing about mountain passes, when Fearchar bowed his head respectfully to Laird Alasdair.
"Me laird," Fearchar said, his voice easily cutting through the noise with calm authority. "The Chisholm men will inspect the eastern perimeter wall tae ensure Strathglass is secure while ye debate the southern border."
Alasdair waved a hand in quiet dismissal, too tired to argue, while Malcolm merely glared as Fearchar turned.
Without waiting for permission, Fearchar guided Nandag out of the High Table’s shadow. They moved quickly down the side aisle, slipping past the shouting men and out the side door into the crisp, cold morning air of the courtyard.
The moment the heavy door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the roar of the hall, Nandag let out a long, shuddering breath. She leaned her back against the cool stone wall, her eyes closing as she tilted her face up to the open sky.
Fearchar stood a few paces back, giving her space, his hands resting easily on his belt. He didn't ask if she was alright. He watched the tension slowly leave her shoulders as the mountain wind pulled a few dark curls from her pinions.
After a long moment, she opened her eyes and looked at him, the sharp, intelligent spark returning to her gaze.
"Ye are a terrible liar, Fearchar Chisholm," she said, her voice steadying. "Ye arenae inspecting any eastern wall."
Fearchar smiled, turning toward the stables. "Nay. I'm getting two mares, and ye're going tae show me where the fast paths are before Malcolm realizes we've gone."
Nandag pushed off the stone wall, a small, genuine smile finally breaking across her face as she fell into step beside him. "Then ye'd better move fast, Laird Chisholm. I ride faster than ye dae."