Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall closed behind them, cutting off the low hum of lingering murmurs and the faint clatter of iron tankards.
The cool evening air hit Fearchar's face. Beside him, Nandag let out a long, slow breath, her shoulders dropping two inches as the stiffness left her spine. The tension of Malcolm’s quiet poison still hung in the back of his mind, but looking down at her—at the soft line of her throat, the small smudge of charcoal still faint on the side of her palm—the weight of clan politics seemed to recede into the shadows of the courtyard.
Without a word, Fearchar took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and steered her away from the busy inner ward toward the narrow archway that led to the lower gardens.
"Ye stood yer ground well back there," he murmured, keeping his pace slow as they stepped onto the gravel path.
Nandag glanced up at him, a quick, wry tilt to her lips. "I didnae say a word, Fearchar. Ye did all the talking with yer timber and yer free milling."
"Aye, but ye didnae throw a goblet at Malcolm's head when he brought up Mòrag," Fearchar countered, nudging her shoulder with his. "That showed remarkable restraint fer a woman who threatened tae draw me with a boar's snout."
She let out a soft laugh, the sound bright and clear against the evening quiet. "I was tempted. The man moves through the hall like a ghost looking fer a funeral."
"He’s playing a long game," Fearchar said, his voice dropping as they walked deeper into the garden.
The walled enclosure was cool and green, smelling of damp earth, blooming heather, and wild thyme.
"He wants the elders looking south toward Glen Cannich every time they take a bite of bread. But taenight, he didnae win."
"Nay," she agreed quietly, her thumb tracing the back of his knuckles as they walked. "Taenight, ye gave them firewood and a chief who listens. That counts fer more than Malcolm’s ancient memories."
They followed the winding path past the tangled stone rose arches, where the last light of the sun caught the edges of the crimson petals.
The garden sloped gently downward, terminating at a wide, moss-draped stone bench tucked beneath the spread of a massive, ancient oak tree that leaned out over the edge of the curtain wall.
Below them, the valley stretched out in deep blues and shadows, the river a ribbon of silver catching the fading twilight.
Nandag sat first, tucking her wool skirts around her knees, and Fearchar settled down beside her on the cold stone. The space was narrow, forcing their thighs to align, the heat of her body pressing against his side through the thick tartan of his plaid.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke. The silence was easy, filled only with the rustle of oak leaves overhead and the distant call of an eagle returning to the high crags.
Nandag leaned her head back against the rough bark of the tree, closing her eyes. The golden hour light painted her skin in warm tones of rose and amber.
"Ye look exhausted," Fearchar said softly, resting his forearm on his knee as he turned to face her.
"I am," she admitted without opening her eyes. "Between sketching lairds who willnae hold still and listening tae elders worry about winter stores, me head is spinning."
"I held remarkably still," Fearchar reminded her, a faint grin touching his mouth. "I was a monument of patience."
She opened one eye, peering at him with a lazy, affectionate skepticism. "Ye talked the entire time. Ye complained about yer ears, and ye nearly ruined me clean parchment with yer broad shoulders."
"And yet," Fearchar murmured, leaning in a fraction closer, "ye captured me better than any mirror in Scotland, Lady Chisholm."
Her eye snapped open completely at that, her cheeks taking on a sudden, lovely shade of pink that had nothing to do with the setting sun. She sat up straight, turning her body toward him.
She huffed a breathless laugh, reaching out to cuff him lightly on the arm, but Fearchar caught her wrist in mid-air. Her skin was warm, her pulse fluttering soft and quick under his thumb.
Her breath caught in her throat. The light teasing evaporated between them in a single heartbeat, replaced by a thick, quiet weight that made the air feel suddenly scarce.
Nandag’s eyes widened slightly, her dark irises searching his. She didn't pull her wrist away. Instead, her fingers softened in his grip, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
A stray lock of dark hair had loosened from her braid, resting against the curve of her cheek. Slowly, deliberately, Fearchar let go of her wrist and raised his hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against her skin as he tucked the soft strand behind her ear.
His fingers lingered at her jaw, feeling the fine, delicate trembling of her breath.
"Nandag," he whispered, the name rough in his throat.
She didn't answer with words. She leaned into the touch of his hand, her lips parting slightly.
Fearchar closed the distance between them, moving slowly, giving her every second to pull back. She didn't. She tilted her chin up, her eyes fluttering shut as her hand came up to rest flat against his chest, right over the heavy thudding of his heart.
Their faces were inches apart. He could feel the warm stroke of her breath against his lips, smell the faint scent of charcoal and dried lavender lingering on her skin. Fearchar shifted his weight, leaning in to close the tiny gap left between them…
"Me laird! Laird Fearchar!"
The harsh, panicked shout shattered the silence.
Nandag gasped, jumping back as if scalded. Fearchar pulled his hand away, his jaw clenching tight as he turned to look up the gravel path.
A young castle servant was sprinting toward them, his wool tunic disheveled, his face flushed red and dripping with sweat. He stumbled to a halt a few paces from the bench, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as he fought to catch his breath.
"Me laird..." the lad wheezed, pointing back toward the inner courtyard. "A rider from the lower ford. Duncan sent me, ye must come at once, me laird."
Fearchar stood up, the warmth of the moment vanishing instantly, replaced by the sharp, cold instinct of a laird.
He reached down, offering Nandag his hand to help her up from the stone bench.
Her fingers were trembling, but her face was set in a firm, watchful expression as she smoothed down her skirts.
"What is it, lad?" Fearchar demanded, his voice dropping into the hard command tone. "What rider?"
"A runner from the smithy near the lower burn," the boy panted, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "He says unfamiliar men were seen near the woods three miles out."
"How many?"
"Five or six, me laird. Mounted. Heavy cloaks, nay clan tartans showing." The lad swallowed hard. "They were asking the charcoal burners about the castle patrol times and about Lady Nandag's riding habits."
A cold, lethal flame ignited in the pit of Fearchar's stomach.
"Where is Duncan?" Fearchar asked, stepping past the servant and heading briskly back up the path toward the main yard.
"At the stables, me laird," the lad called out, jogging to keep pace behind them. "He's having the horses saddled."
Nandag walked fast beside Fearchar, her light footsteps keeping up with his long stride. "Fearchar, who would be asking about me movements? The Camerons?"
"Robert Cameron daesnae send six men in plain cloaks tae ask questions," Fearchar said grimly, as they burst out of the garden archway into the bustling courtyard. "He marches three hundred blades with banners flying. This is something else."
The courtyard was already transformed. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls as men moved in swift, disciplined order. Duncan was near the stable doors, shouting orders to two young guards who were buckling on steel breastplates.
"Duncan!" Fearchar called out.
His kinsman turned, his face dark as a thundercloud. "Ye heard?"
"Aye," Fearchar said, stopping beside Duncan's mount. "Double the wall guard immediately. I want four men on the eastern gate tower and three on the river watch. Nay one enters or leaves the castle gates without me explicit word or yers."
"Already done," Duncan replied, checking the girth on his stallion's saddle. "I've pulled eight men from the lower barracks tae reinforce the outer ward."
"Good," Fearchar said. "Saddle me horse. We ride fer the lower ford now."
"Fearchar, wait."
Nandag stepped into the center of the stable ring, her eyes bright and defiant in the torchlight. She looked between Fearchar and Duncan, her chin lifted high. "I'm coming with ye."
Fearchar stopped, turning to look at her fully. "Nay."
"I ken every track and sheep path between here and the lower burn," she insisted, stepping closer to him, her voice low so the surrounding guards wouldn't hear. "If these men are lurking near the Chisholm border, I can identify where they might be hiding better than yer Strathglass men."
"Nandag, they are asking fer ye," Fearchar said, taking her by the shoulders, his grip firm and unyielding. "They are scouting yer movements. I am nae riding out intae the twilight with the very prize they're looking fer hanging on me hip."
"I am nae a prize tae be locked in a tower!" she snapped, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce spark that made him respect her all the more. "I am the daughter of this hall!"
"And ye are me wife," Fearchar countered, his voice dropping into a low, fierce rumble that cut through her defiance. "And as laird of this house, I am telling ye that yer place taenight is behind two feet of Chisholm oak and thirty broadswords."
She stared up at him, her chest heaving, fighting the urge to argue further. But as she looked into his face, seeing the cold, absolute certainty in his eyes, her shoulders softened just a fraction.
"Fearchar..." she whispered, her voice losing its edge, filled now with a quiet, sharp worry. "If it's an ambush..."