Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The heavy stone walls of Castle Strathglass had begun to feel less like a fortress and more like a tomb.
For three days, the keep had existed in a state of suffocating lockdown.
The air in the corridors was thick with the reek of tallow candles, unwashed wool, and the sharp, metallic tang of cold iron.
Fearchar stood near the solar window, his hand resting on the stone frame, his grey eyes fixed on his wife.
Nandag sat at the heavy oak table, a ledger of grain stores open before her. Her spine was straight, her dark hair drawn into its usual neat braid, but the signs of deep, bone-weariness were plain to see.
The violet shadows under her eyes had darkened into deep bruises against her pale skin.
Her left shoulder remained stiff, her hand trembling almost imperceptibly every time she dipped her quill into the inkwell.
She had spent every waking hour since the council meeting organizing rations, listening to the grievances of displaced crofters, and pacing the floor whenever Fearchar walked the perimeter.
She was also constantly checking in on her father to make sure he was holding up.
He had been feeling poorly after the two marriages and all that ensued and had taken to his bed.
She spent as much as she could spare time by his side, reassuring him that she and her new husband had full control of the situation.
She was running herself into the dirt, holding the weight of the entire glen on a body that had barely begun to heal from an assassin’s blade.
Fearchar crossed the room with quiet, heavy steps. He didn't speak until he reached the table, taking the quill directly out of her fingers and laying it across the parchment.
Nandag blinked up at him, her dark eyes clouded with sudden confusion. "Fearchar? I am nearly finished with the salt fish tally fer the lower vaults."
"Put it down, lass," Fearchar said, his voice a low, gravelly command that left no room for debate.
"The elders are meeting again at noon," she insisted, reaching for the quill, but Fearchar gently caught her hand, his broad, warm fingers wrapping around her cold knuckles. "If the rations are nae settled, Malcolm will—"
"Malcolm can chew on dry oats fer all I care," Fearchar cut her off gently.
He leaned down, his grey eyes locking onto hers with steady intensity.
"Look at ye, Nandag. Ye havenae seen the sun in four days.
Ye havenae taken a breath of clean mountain air since Cameron's serpent stepped over our threshold. Ye are coming outside."
Nandag hesitated, her shoulders tensing as her eyes darted toward the barred heavy door. "Outside? Fearchar, the gates are sealed fer a reason. The valley isnae safe."
"The main road isnae," Fearchar agreed, pulling her slowly to her feet. "Which is why we arenae taking the road. Trust me."
Ten minutes later, the two of them slipped out through the postern gate on the castle's western flank, away from the bustling main courtyard and the watchful eyes of the Council.
Fearchar’s keen eyes scanned the dense tree line of the lower glen, while he flanked the narrow, winding deer path that cut deep into the shadowed folds of the hills.
Fearchar rode his heavy, iron-grey stallion directly beside Nandag’s bay mare, his horse’s shoulder nearly brushing her stirrup. His left hand held his reins, but his right remained resting on the basket hilt of his broadsword, his gaze constantly sweeping the high ridges above them.
For the first mile, Nandag rode in rigid silence.
Her hand clutched the leather reins so tightly her knuckles were stark white, her head turning at every snap of a dry twig or rustle of heather in the wind.
The bedroom attack hung over her, her body braced for an ambush that could spring from every shadow.
Fearchar kept his stallion close, his broad, solid frame shielding her side, his presence a silent, immovable barrier between her and the wild glen.
As the path climbed higher, leaving the damp spruce woods behind, the trees thinned into an open, sunlit valley hidden deep within the crests of the surrounding hills.
It was a secluded meadow, untouched by the fires of the border raid.
High, craggy peaks rose on all four sides, forming a natural stone basin where the wind whispered through tall, golden grass and clusters of purple bell-heather and yellow buttercups.
Fearchar dismounted first, his heavy boots sinking into the soft turf. He walked over to Nandag’s mare and reached up, placing his broad hands on her waist to help her down, mindful of her injured shoulder.
When her feet touched the earth, Nandag didn't move away immediately.
She stood close to his chest, her breath catching as the sharp, clean scent of crushed pine, peat, and summer wildflowers filled her lungs.
There was no smell of woodsmoke, no iron reek of blood, no damp stone walls pressing in on her.
"Walk, lass," Fearchar murmured into her hair, releasing her waist. "There is nay one here but the wind and the hills."
Nandag took a hesitant step forward, her leather boots sinking into the thick carpet of wild grass.
She walked slowly toward the center of the meadow, where a tiny, crystal-clear burn trickled over smooth river stones. The bright midday sun broke through the silver clouds, bathing the glen in warm, amber light.
Nandag stopped beside the water. She reached up with both hands, unbuckling the silver brooch at her neck, and let her heavy wool tartan plaid drape over a flat, sun-warmed boulder.
Next, she unpinned her tight, severe braid, letting her dark, thick hair fall free over her shoulders, the mountain breeze catching the tresses and blowing them softly across her face.
Fearchar remained near the horses, leaning his arm against his stallion’s saddle, watching her.
He saw the exact moment the suffocating tension left her frame.
Nandag closed her eyes and tilted her head back toward the sky, taking a deep, long breath that expanded her chest. Her shoulders dropped two inches, the sharp, defensive stiffness in her posture melting away under the warm sun.
She opened her eyes, looking down at the meadow, and slowly sank onto her knees beside the stream.
She dipped her right hand into the icy mountain water, cupping it, and brought it to her face, washing away the dust and sweat of the keep. She let out a sound—halfway between a sigh and a quiet, breathless laugh—that Fearchar hadn't heard since before the attack.
She reached out, her fingers gently trailing over the soft petals of a patch of wild heather growing near the bank, her face softening into an expression of pure, unburdened peace.
Fearchar felt a knot in his own chest loosen, a profound, quiet warmth spreading through his veins as he watched her.
The fierce, terrifying leader who had shouted down the council elders was gone; the haunted woman who had wept in his lap in the dark had receded.
Here, surrounded by the high peaks of her birthplace, she was simply Nandag—vibrant, beautiful, and alive.
She turned her head to look at him, her dark hair framed by the gold of the sun, a faint, genuine smile touching her lips.
He walked towards her.
"It is quiet here," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the valley’s magic.
"Aye," Fearchar replied softly, his grey eyes lingering on her face, tracing the soft color returning to her cheeks. "The Camerons dinnae ken these high paths, and the elders' bickering cannae reach over these ridges."
"Thank ye, Fearchar. I... I dinnae realize how heavy the air had grown inside."
"Ye carry the weight of the whole glen on yer shoulders, lass. But as long as I draw breath, ye'll never have tae carry it alone. Take all the time ye need."
Fearchar unclasped the heavy leather buckle of his broadsword belt, setting the iron-sheathed steel down upon the sun-warmed grass beside him.
He stretched his long legs out into the thick clover, his back propped against the flat face of a granite boulder.
A few yards down the slope, his iron-grey stallion and Nandag’s bay mare grazed peacefully, their heads lowered, their tails flicking lazily against the midday flies.
Nandag remained on her knees by the small burn, her dark hair tumbling unconfined down her back. She dipped her fingers into the clear, icy water once more, watching the ripples break the sunlight into shimmering gold.
"If ye keep staring into that stream, lass, the trout will think ye’re trying tae challenge them," Fearchar said, his rough voice carrying a lazy, teasing lilt.
Nandag turned her head, a slender brow arched high above her dark eyes. "And if they dae? I’ll have ye ken I have far more patience than any fish in Strathglass."
"Aye, that ye dae," Fearchar chuckled, a low rumble deep in his chest. He reached down, plucked a dry stalk of mountain grass, and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger.
"Though I pity the poor trout if ye give it the same look ye gave Old MacRae in the hall yesterday.
The creature would flip right onto the bank and hand over its scales out of sheer terror. "
A sudden, breathtaking sound broke across the quiet meadow, a real, unbidden laugh from Nandag’s lips.
It was light and musical, sweeping away the last lingering shadows of the dark castle corridors.
She shook her head, a faint, lovely rose flush coloring her high cheekbones as she wiped her wet hands against her skirts.
"MacRae deserved every word, and ye ken it," she said, though the sharp edge was gone from her tone, replaced by a warm, quiet playfulness.
"I didnae say he didnae," Fearchar murmured, his grey eyes softening as he held her gaze. "I'm only saying I was glad I was standing on yer side of the table."
Nandag’s smile lingered, softening the lines of her face.
She stood up slowly, her movements unhurried, gathering the front of her skirts as she walked back across the lush grass.
The sharp, defensive stiffness that had locked her shoulders for four straight days had vanished, melted by the quiet heat of the glen.
She sank beside him in the thick clover, her side resting lightly against his hip.
She looked out over the quiet valley, watching the scouts posted on the far ridges—tiny, motionless silhouettes against the pale blue sky.
"Thank ye, Fearchar," she whispered after a long moment, her voice dropping into a tender, hushed rhythm. "Fer this. Fer bringing me somewhere I can breathe without feeling twenty pairs of eyes tracking me every move."
Fearchar reached out, his broad, calloused hand sliding over the grass to wrap around her warm fingers. His thumb traced the small, delicate curve of her knuckles, feeling the slight tremor that still lingered deep beneath her skin.
"Ye dinnae have tae carry it all the time, Nandag," he said softly, his tone turning serious, rich with a quiet, fierce conviction. "Ye dinnae have tae play the invincible lady of the keep every second of the day. Nae with me."
Nandag looked down at their joined hands. She swallowed hard, her thumb rubbing against his rough skin. "In the keep... if I show a single crack, the elders will tear at it. Malcolm will use it. The villagers will see me shake and lose heart."
"The keep is miles behind us," Fearchar interrupted gently. He squeezed her hand, pulling her slightly closer to his side. "Here, ye're just Nandag. Me wife. The lass who draws wild birds on scrap wood tae quiet a frightened child."
Nandag let out a long, shuddering breath—not of fear, but of profound, bone-deep relief.
She shifted her weight, leaning her head sideways until it rested securely against the broad, solid angle of Fearchar’s shoulder.
The rough wool of his doublet pressed against her cheek, smelling of leather, mountain air, and the faint, familiar trace of woodsmoke.
Fearchar turned his head slightly, resting his chin against the crown of her dark head. He lifted his free arm, wrapping his heavy plaid over her shoulders to shield her from the cool ridge wind, and pressed a quiet, lingering kiss into the soft tresses of her hair.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke.
The wind murmured through the golden grass, the horses stomped their hooves down by the burn, and the high sun bathed the hidden meadow in a deep, peaceful warmth.
The looming threat of Robert Cameron, the poison of the castle spies, and the endless political jockeying over the King's Accord felt millions of miles away, stripped of their power by the sheer expanse of the mountains.
Nandag shifted against his chest. She lifted her head from his shoulder, her dark eyes searching his face with an intensity that made Fearchar’s breath catch in his throat.
She didn't wait for him to lean down. She reached up, her slender fingers resting against the rough stubble of his jaw, and pulled him down toward her, pressing her lips to his first.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative and sweet, born of a deep, silent gratitude.
But as Fearchar let out a low, rough murmur against her mouth, his broad hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, the kiss deepened into something fierce and desperate—a hunger born from the terror of almost losing one another.
Fearchar shifted, turning his body toward her, pulling her flush against his chest. His fingers tangled into the thick waves of her dark hair, anchoring her to him.
He felt the rapid, fluttery beating of her heart against his ribs, matched only by the heavy, thundering pulse in his own throat.
He kissed her deeply, his lips warm and demanding, tasting the fresh mountain water on her mouth, feeling the small, soft gasp she gave as his arm tightened around her waist like an iron band.
When she finally pulled back a fraction of an inch, their foreheads remained pressed together, their breaths mingling hot and fast in the crisp air. Her dark eyes were bright, liquid with emotion, her hand clutching tightly to the leather lapels of his doublet.
Fearchar smiled against her lips, his thumb gently stroking the soft skin of her cheekbone.
"Ye're a dangerous woman, Lady Chisholm," he murmured, his voice thick and husky. "Sending yer laird into a daze when he should be watching the ridges."
Nandag let out a soft, breathless laugh, her lips brushing his once more as she spoke. "Then I shall let ye watch and behave."
Fearchar’s laugh rumbled through his chest, deep and true, as he pulled her back down into the grass beside him. He kept his plaid wrapped securely around them both, his chest supporting her head as she lay against him, their fingers intertwined in the clover.
They lay together in the high meadow while the sun tracked slowly across the sky, holding tight to the sanctuary they had built, letting the quiet strength of the glen heal them both before the storm returned.