Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The late afternoon sun cast long, amber bars through the leaded window of Nandag’s chamber, painting the stone floor in deep shades of honey and rust.
Nandag sat cross-legged on the wide stone sill, her back braced against the wall, the fresh smell of charcoal and river-pressed parchment surrounding her.
The quiet of the room was broken only by the soft, rhythmic scratch of willow against paper.
Her sleeve was pushed up past her elbow, a faint smudging of black dust coating the side of her palm as she shaded the curve of a jawline.
A low knock sounded against the heavy oak door.
Before she could speak, the latch lifted, and Fearchar stepped into the room.
Nandag’s heart gave a sudden, ridiculous flutter. Her fingers reacted instantly, almost by instinct, slamming a blank sheet of heavy parchment over the open drawing book in her lap before he could take two steps past the threshold.
Fearchar paused, his broad frame framed by the doorway, one hand resting easily against the lintel. His sharp grey eyes dropped to her hands, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I didnae mean tae startle ye, Lady Chisholm," he said, his voice a warm, quiet rumble that filled the quiet chamber.
Nandag smoothed her skirt over her knees, forcing her fingers to relax as she leaned back against the stone recess. "Ye enter like a ghost when ye arenae wearing iron, Fearchar. A little noise would be polite."
"I'll wear loud boots next time," he murmured, stepping further inside and closing the heavy door behind him. He walked over to the window, his long stride unhurried, stopping just beside the sill.
He leaned down slightly, his gaze falling on the scattered charcoal sticks and the visible edge of the blank parchment covering her lap. "Are ye going tae let me see, or is it a secret of state?"
Nandag hesitated for half a second before carefully sliding the blank sheet aside, ensuring the drawing beneath remained covered by her hand.
She tilted the book slightly toward him, revealing the outer edge of the page.
A sweeping, delicate sketch of the pine-covered ridge above the river, the needle-fine strokes capturing the way the afternoon mist clung to the lower trees.
Fearchar let out a quiet breath, leaning in closer. His shoulder brushed against hers, the warmth of his body seeping straight through the wool of her sleeve.
"Ye have a fine hand, Nandag," he said softly, his tone completely stripped of teasing. "Ye can see the wind in those trees."
"It's just pine and rock," she said, her cheeks growing warm under his close attention. She traced the edge of the charcoal stick between her thumb and forefinger to hide the tremor in her hands.
Fearchar leaned his elbow against the stone window frame, looking down at her with quiet curiosity. "Dae ye ever sketch people?"
The question hung in the air between them, sharp and sudden.
Nandag’s throat went dry. Beneath her right palm, tucked three pages back in the binding of her leather book, were dozens of sketches drawn over seven long years.
Sketched in secret, late at night by candlelight—the sharp line of a young warrior’s jaw, the way he held a broadsword in the Edinburgh court, the faint scar running along his cheek, the golden hair catching the sunlight near the garden wall.
"Nay," Nandag said quickly, her voice a fraction too fast, a fraction too level. "Trees are far more patient."
Fearchar watched her face, his thumb absently rubbing his chin. A subtle, dangerous glint of humor sparked in his grey eyes, as if he suspected her lie even if he couldn't prove it.
"Well," he said smoothly, shifting his weight and dropping himself down onto the low wooden chest directly opposite her windowsill. He sat back, crossing his heavy arms over his broad chest, resting his head against the wall, and striking a stiff, exaggerated pose. "I can stay still."
Nandag blinked at him. "What are ye daeing?"
"I am posing," Fearchar declared, his mouth twitching with a suppressed grin. "I am being a patient tree fer the lady artist."
A breathless laugh escaped Nandag’s throat before she could catch it. "Ye look ridiculous, Fearchar."
"A laird never looks ridiculous," he corrected, keeping his head perfectly still while his eyes tracked her face. "He looks majestic. Begin yer work, me lady."
Nandag bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She looked down at her lap, her fingers moving slowly as she flipped past the hidden pages of her past, stopping on a fresh, clean sheet of pale parchment. She picked up a stick of soft willow charcoal.
"If ye move a single inch," she warned, raising her eyes to meet his, "I’ll draw ye with a snout like a boar."
"I wouldnae dare," he murmured.
For the next several minutes, the room fell into a quiet, comfortable cadence.
The afternoon sun dipped lower, casting a deep crimson glow across the chamber walls.
Nandag lifted her gaze to his face, letting her eyes linger on the strong bridge of his nose, the fine lines around his eyes from years of squinting into the Highland wind, the solid, unyielding set of his jaw.
Each time she looked up, Fearchar was watching her. He didn't look away or strike a grand pose; he sat in the quiet light, his gaze steady, warm, and entirely focused on her.
"Ye're staring," Nandag murmured, her charcoal hovering over the paper.
"I’m supposed tae be looking at ye," Fearchar replied easily. "How else are ye going tae capture me majestic broadsword-swinging countenance?"
"I am currently drawing yer ears," she countered, her lips curving into a wicked little smile. "They're remarkably large. Like a donkey’s."
Fearchar let out a dark, low huff of a laugh, though he kept his head still. "Ye're a cruel woman, Nandag Farquharson."
"Nandag Chisholm," she corrected absently, her hand sweeping smooth, dark shading across the paper to capture the angle of his cheekbone.
The words slipped out so naturally that she didn't realize what she had said until the charcoal stopped moving. The room went very still. Nandag felt her breath catch in her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the paper, her pulse hammering wildly at her throat.
Opposite her, Fearchar’s posture softened. The teasing spark in his eyes gave way to something deep, quiet, and profoundly gentle. He didn't speak, nor did he break the silence with a joke. He watched her as she worked, the air between them growing thick with an unspoken, heavy warmth.
Nandag worked for several more minutes, her fingers moving with swift, practiced confidence. The initial teasing gave way to absolute concentration as she dragged the edge of the charcoal stick down the page, smudging a shadow near the throat, catching the exact, quiet intensity of his grey eyes.
Finally, she blew a soft puff of air across the paper to clear the black dust. She stared down at the finished page, her heart thumping against her ribs.
It was him. Not the chief, not the warrior of the Western wars, but the man who had sat with her in the middle of the night by the window, the man who had lifted children onto a fence and smiled at her across a muddy track.
"Is it finished?" Fearchar asked softly.
Nandag hesitated. A sudden wave of embarrassment washed over her. She pressed her lips together, her hands gripping the edges of the book as if she might close it and hide it away forever.
"It's... it's just a rough thing," she whispered, her voice dropping.
Fearchar stood up from the chest. He stepped slowly across the narrow space, stopping behind her.
Nandag looked up into his face, saw the absolute absence of mockery in his eyes, and slowly lifted the leather book into his grip.
Fearchar took the paper carefully by its edges, avoiding the dark charcoal smudges. He held it up to the dying golden light of the window.
Silence fell over the room, long and heavy.
Fearchar’s eyes moved over the drawing, tracing every line, every shadow, every soft stroke that mapped his features. His expression shifted from quiet curiosity to profound, unreadable stillness. The muscle in his jaw twitched once, his thumb tightening slightly against the leather binding.
"Nandag..." he breathed, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. He looked down from the paper to her face, his grey eyes shining with something intense and unguarded. "There isnae a mirror in all of Scotland that sees me like this."
Nandag felt a warm flush spread up her neck to her cheeks, but she didn't look away. "Ye... ye like it?"
"I've never seen anything like it," he said honestly, turning his gaze back to the parchment. He let out a quiet, breathless huff, a small, genuine smile touching his mouth. "Ye'll have tae teach me."
Nandag let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, the lingering tension breaking instantly. "Teach ye? Fearchar, ye have hands the size of spade heads! Ye'd snap the charcoal in two before ye even touched the board."
"I am remarkably delicate when I choose tae be," he insisted, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he sat down beside her on the wide sill, setting the drawing carefully on his knee. "I can hold a quill without breaking it. Charcoal cannae be much harder."
"The image of the Laird of Chisholm riding intae battle with a sword in one hand and a bundle of willow sticks in the other," Nandag teased, her shoulder pressing against his arm as she shook her head. "Malcolm would die of an apoplexy."
"Then I’ll definitely dae it," Fearchar declared smoothly.
Nandag laughed again, the sound light and clear in the quiet room.
Fearchar reached out, his broad hand coming up to rest gently over hers where it lay on her lap.
His thumb brushed over the black charcoal smudges on her skin, rubbing them away with a slow, deliberate warmth that made her breath hitch once more.
Before either of them could speak, the heavy oak door creaked open without a knock.