Chapter 16 #2
Nandag lay beneath the thick wool quilt, staring up at the dark timber rafters of the bed canopy.
The hearth fire had burned down to a pile of soft, orange embers that cast long, swaying shadows across the stone walls.
Beside the bed, Fearchar sat on the heavy carved chair he had dragged over from the window.
He hadn't removed his leather doublet or his sword belt.
His long legs were stretched out, his hands resting heavily on his knees, his broad frame a solid, unmoving silhouette in the dim glow.
Every time she closed her eyes, the room dissolved.
She didn't see the dark rafters. She felt the rough, grease-stained wool of the assassin's tunic against her face.
She felt the crushing, suffocating weight of his body pinning her to the floorboards, the iron smell of stale sweat and wet copper thick in her throat.
She felt her fingers slipping—useless and weak—against his bloodied wrist as the tip of the dirk sank quarter-inch by quarter-inch toward her throat.
A sharp, involuntary gasp tore from her chest, and her hand flew to her neck, her fingernails digging into the linen shift.
"Nandag."
Fearchar's voice was instantly there, low and gravelly, breaking through the dark memory. The chair scraped softly against the floorboards as he shifted closer, resting one heavy forearm on the edge of the mattress.
"I'm here, lass," he whispered. "I'm right beside ye."
Nandag turned her head toward him, her chest heaving in quick, shallow hitches. She forced her hand away from her throat, clutching the edge of the quilt until her knuckles turned white.
"I should have seen it, Fearchar," she choked out, the words tasting bitter and sharp on her tongue.
Fearchar's brow furrowed, his grey eyes searching her face in the shadows. "Seen what?"
"He was standing right in front of me in the Great Hall," she said, her voice rising, trembling with a sudden, ugly surge of self-loathing.
"I washed his hands. I wrapped the linen around his arm.
I looked him in the eye and gave him a bowl of broth, and I...
I didnae see a thing. I brought him up the stairs meself. "
"Nandag, stop."
"Nay!" She turned onto her side, her fingers digging into the feather mattress as she looked up at him.
"I am a daughter of this hall! I was raised tae ken me people, tae read their faces, tae guard this house.
And I walked him straight past our guards because I was too blind, too soft-hearted tae question a bloody bandage! "
"He was a trained cutthroat sent by Robert Cameron," Fearchar said, his voice flat and unyielding as granite. "He fooled the smith, he fooled the charcoal burners, and he fooled the guards at the ford. Ye gave bread tae a wounded man, Nandag. That is nae a flaw. That is who ye are."
"I couldnae stop him," she whispered, the anger instantly draining out of her, leaving behind a cold, hollow cavity in her chest. "When he grabbed me hair, when he pinned me against the bed...
I fought him with everything I had, Fearchar.
I used the candlestick, the basin... and it meant nothing.
He was too strong. I was completely helpless. "
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracking hot and silent down her temple into her dark hair. She looked away from him, staring back at the dying embers of the hearth. "I was terrified. I thought... I thought that was how it ended. On the floorboards of me own chamber."
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
Then, the bed shifted under a heavy weight as Fearchar leaned forward. His broad, calloused hand reached out, gently wrapping around her trembling fingers where they clutched the quilt. He didn't pull away, nor did he offer quick, hollow comfort. He held her hand.
"Dae ye ken what I felt when I heard that basin shatter?" he asked quietly.
Nandag turned her head back to look at him.
Fearchar was staring down at their joined hands, his jaw set, his throat working as he swallowed hard. The fierce, unbreakable laird of Strathglass looked suddenly raw, the lines around his eyes deep with a profound, terrifying vulnerability.
"I was halfway down the corridor," he murmured, his rough voice cracking slightly on the words.
"When the scream reached me, me blood went to ice.
I ran, and every step felt like a mile. I thought of the blood on me own sword from the village, and I thought...
if I open that door and find ye cold... if I am too late... "
He stopped, closing his eyes for a long second, his fingers tightening around hers until the grip was almost painful.
"I have faced three hundred Cameron blades in the open glen without me heart missing a beat," Fearchar whispered, opening his eyes to look directly into hers.
"But in those three seconds outside that door, Nandag, I was more terrified than I have ever been in me entire life. I thought I had lost ye."
The sheer weight of his words shattered the last wall holding her together.
A ragged sob tore from her throat, and she sat up, reaching for him blindly.
Fearchar didn't hesitate. In a single fluid motion, he swung his leg over the edge of the mattress and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his massive arms around her. He drew her flush against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin, his plaid wrapping around them both.
Nandag buried her face into the crook of his neck, her hands clutching at the leather of his doublet, and wept.
She wept for the fear that had choked her, for the horror of the dirk at her throat, and for the sheer, overwhelming relief of his arms around her.
Every drop of tension she had held since the sunset poured out of her in heavy, shuddering sobs that shook her entire body.
Fearchar held her through it all. He held her tight against his heart, his hand resting against the back of her head, his fingers gently threading through her dark, loose hair.
"Ye are nae weak, Nandag," he whispered fiercely into her hair, his breath warm against her cheek. "Ye fought a killer with yer bare hands and a bronze stick. Ye bled fer this house, and ye survived. Ye are the strongest woman I have ever known."
He pressed a lingering, tender kiss against the top of her head, then another to her temple, his chin resting atop her head as her sobbing gradually slowed into ragged breaths.
"I willnae let them touch ye again," Fearchar swore softly into the quiet room, his voice a low, absolute vow that vibrated right through his ribs and into hers.
"Nae Cameron, nae his mercenaries, nae a single serpent in this glen.
I will burn every forest in Strathglass before I let anyone hurt ye. "
Nandag leaned heavily against his chest, listening to the slow, steady thudding of his heart beneath her ear. The terrifying memory of the assassin's cold eyes began to recede, pushed back by the solid, unyielding warmth of the man holding her.
Slowly, the exhaustion returned, heavy and suffocating, pulling her eyelids down.
She didn't move from his lap, and Fearchar made no move to put her back on the pillows.
He shifted slightly, settling his back against the heavy oak headboard, keeping his arms locked around her, his plaid draped over them both.
As her breathing finally evened out into the deep, quiet rhythm of sleep, she felt his hand still smoothing her hair, his steady warmth guarding her against the dark.