Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The morning mist was still clinging to the heather on the lower slopes as their horses picked their way down the rocky trail toward the village below.
The air was sharp, tasting of damp pine and woodsmoke, a welcome relief after the suffocating heat of the Great Hall.
Fearchar rode half a pace ahead of Nandag on a deep-chested bay mare, his broad shoulders relaxed under his plaid, his gaze constantly sweeping the tree line with effortless vigilance.
As they crossed the narrow wooden bridge spanning the roaring river, the village of Strathglass opened up before them. It was a cluster of stone cottages with thick thatched roofs, where blue smoke curled lazily into the pale sky. The smell of baking bannocks and drying peat drifted on the breeze.
A boy carrying a bucket of well water stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes going wide. He set the bucket down so fast the water sloshed over the rim, soaking his wool stockings, before he turned and bolted into the nearest cottage.
"Laird Chisholm!" he shouted, his voice cracking with youth. "The laird and lady are coming!"
Within moments, doors creaked open along the dirt track. Men in worn working plaids stepped out from the forge and the carpenter's shed. Women wiping flour from their hands on their aprons emerged into the sunlight, talking in hushed whispers.
Nandag reined her mare in slightly, her hand tightening on the leather straps.
For years, the villagers had watched her race past their fence lines, a wild girl with untamed hair and torn hems. She was used to their fond, indulgent smiles—the kind reserved for a laird’s second daughter who didn't carry the weight of the clan's future on her shoulders.
Now, she was dressed in the silver-pinned tartan of a married lady, riding beside the golden-haired warrior who had upended the entire Council. Her skin felt pricklish and warm under their heavy gazes.
An old woman with a stooped back and a faded shawl stepped into the center of the track, her gnarled hands clasped tightly against her chest. It was Widow Elspeth, whose youngest son had died in the Western war.
Fearchar didn't wait for her to bow, nor did he pull his horse up with a display of grand authority.
The moment he saw her, he swung his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground with a soft thud of leather boots against dirt.
He looped the reins loosely over his arm and walked toward her, his stride easy and unhurried.
"Elspeth," he said, his voice dropping into that low, warm rumble that seemed to carry straight through the morning chill.
The old woman blinked, her pale eyes widening as she looked up into his face. "Ye... ye remember me, Laird Fearchar?"
"I remember ye gave me a pocket full of dried plums seven years ago when I passed through on me way tae Edinburgh," Fearchar replied, a genuine, slow smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "And I remember ye told me tae stay out of the river so I wouldnae catch the cold. I took yer advice."
A soft, watery chuckle escaped the old woman's throat, the deep lines around her eyes crinkling.
"And ye brought back our Nandag," she whispered, her gaze drifting past his shoulder to where Nandag sat atop her horse.
"We heard what happened in the courtyard. We heard how Cameron’s men tried tae lay hands on her, and how ye stood between them. "
"Naebody touches a daughter of Strathglass while I draw breath," Fearchar said, his tone turning quiet and solid as granite. "Nae Robert Cameron, nor anyone else."
Elspeth reached out, her weathered, trembling fingers pressing against Fearchar's forearm.
He didn't pull away. He stood there in the mud, letting her hold onto his sleeve, listening intently as she began to tell him about the poor barley harvest on the northern ridge and how her roof needed fresh thatch before the winter rains set in.
He didn't interrupt her. He didn't nod absentmindedly or glance toward the castle as if he had more pressing matters of state to attend to. He listened, his head tilted down, his broad hand coming up to rest gently over hers.
Further down the track, a group of blacksmiths and woodcutters had gathered near the village green. Fearchar moved between them with the same quiet ease.
When the smith, a towering man named Cormac, with arms like tree trunks, began to complain about the quality of iron coming from the southern border, Fearchar didn't offer empty promises.
He asked specific questions about the forge furnaces, discussed the temper of local steel, and spoke of trade routes as a man who had worked with his own hands rather than a laird who merely commanded from a solar.
Nandag sat on her mare a few paces back, her hands resting lightly on the pommel of her saddle, watching him.
There was no bluster in him. No booming declarations of his right to rule, no posturing like Malcolm’s, no fragile pride like her father’s cousin Malcom.
In the council hall, he fought with legal decrees and sharp wit; here, among the people who actually fed the clan, he gave them his time.
He earned their eyes by giving them his own.
A sudden burst of high-pitched giggles broke through the hum of conversation.
Near the timber fence that bordered the village garden, four small children had crept out from behind a peat stack. The boldest of them, a barefoot boy of six with dirt smudged across his nose, was pointing at the massive broadsword sheathed at Fearchar’s hip.
Fearchar turned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Instead of shooing them away, he strolled over to the split-rail fence and swung his heavy boot up onto the bottom bar, leaning his elbows on the top wood.
"That’s a big sword, sir," the small boy squeaked, backing up half a step before curiosity won out over fear. "Is it heavy?"
"Heavier than a sack of turnips," Fearchar said, leaning in as if sharing a great secret. "If ye try tae lift it before ye eat yer pottage, yer arms will turn intae cooked noodles."
The children dissolved into a chorus of delighted shrieks.
"I eat all me pottage!" the boy insisted, puffing out his small chest.
"Is that so?" Fearchar reached down, catching the boy under his arms, and hoisted him effortlessly into the air.
The boy squealed with laughter as Fearchar set him perched atop the wooden fence post. Before the mothers could hurry over to apologize, Fearchar had lifted two more children onto the fence beside him, where they sat lined up like little sparrows, their bare legs swinging back and forth against the wood.
He stood beside them, resting his arms on the rail, pointing out the different horses in the lane and letting the small girl reach out with a hesitant finger to touch the polished brass buckle of his plaid.
Nandag watched the way the sunlight caught the gold in his hair, the absolute lack of pretense in his posture, and something deep in her chest—a tight, guarded knot she hadn't realized she was carrying—slowly unraveled.
For seven years, she had thought of leadership as a cage built of contracts, dancing lessons, and public speeches. She had watched Mòrag prepare for it like a soldier preparing for a sacrifice. But watching Fearchar among the folk of Strathglass, Nandag saw something entirely different.
He didn't demand loyalty; he cultivated it, by standing grounded right in the middle of it.
Fearchar glanced over his shoulder, catching her gaze. The playful smirk he held for the children melted into something softer, quieter, intended for her alone. He gave her a small, questioning tilt of his head.
Nandag pushed her heels into the mare's sides, bringing her forward until she stood beside him at the fence.
"Ye're neglecting yer duties, Laird Chisholm," she said, her voice laced with a gentle, teasing warmth as she looked down at him. "The blacksmith is still waiting tae tell ye about his charcoal pit."
"The blacksmith can wait," Fearchar said, his hand reaching up to smooth a thumb over her horse's nose before his fingers brushed lightly against her knee.
His eyes met hers, steady and bright under the morning sky.
"I’m currently busy defending the northern border against these terrifying raiders. "
The little boy on the fence puffed out his chest again. "We arenae raiders! We're Farquharsons!"
"Aye," Fearchar murmured, his gaze never leaving Nandag's face, his thumb lingering against the fabric of her gown. "The fiercest folk in the Highlands."
The laughter of the children echoed across the muddy village long before Nandag could offer another word of warning to her husband.
"Catch the lady! Catch the laird!" the little boy on the fence shrieked, sliding down the wooden post and dashing into the tall grass. Within heartbeats, three more barefoot children swarmed the lane, formlessly establishing the boundaries of a tag game with loud, delighted shouts.
Nandag took a small step back on her mare, but Fearchar was already moving. He turned toward the children with a dramatic, exaggerated scowl, spreading his broad arms wide as if he were a beast emerging from the hills.
"Ye think ye can outrun a Chisholm in these fields?" he bellowed playfully, charging two paces forward while the children shrieked and scattered like startled pheasants.
"Ye're too slow, Laird Fearchar!" the smith’s daughter taunted from near a peat stack, dancing on her toes. "Ye have too much iron on yer belt!"
Nandag swung her leg over her saddle and slid down to the grass, her lips twitching with a faint, irresistible smile. "She isnae wrong, Fearchar. Ye look like a draft horse trying tae hunt rabbits."
Fearchar spun around, his golden hair catching the sunlight, a sharp, competitive spark flashing in his grey eyes. "Is that a challenge, Lady Chisholm?"
"It’s an observation," she said, taking a swift step backward as he pivoted toward her. "And a warning. I spent years outrunning every guard in this village."
"Then let's see it."