Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The amber light that had filled the high meadow began to fade as shadows stretched long and blue across the grass. High above the stone crags, the sky turned the color of bruised slate, the heavy cloud front rolling in swift and silent over the western peaks.
Fearchar stood beside his stallion, tightening the leather girth of the saddle. He looked up at the sky, his eyes narrowing as a sudden sharp chill cut through the warm valley air.
"We need tae move, lass," Fearchar said, his voice carrying over the rising murmur of the wind. "The mountain weather turns fast when the wind shifts out of the west. Those clouds arenae carrying a drizzle."
Nandag swung up into her saddle with a fluid grace, her dark hair still hanging loose around her shoulders.
She gathered the reins in her hands, looking up at the darkening sky with a quiet reluctance.
The peace of the high glen was vanishing fast, swallowed by the oncoming storm.
"How long before we reach the postern gate? "
"An hour if the path stays dry," Fearchar replied, mounting his iron-grey stallion in one smooth movement.
They started down the winding deer path, the horses picking their way carefully over the loose shale and granite outcroppings. The air grew thick and heavy, smelling sharp with the copper scent of ozone and wet stone.
They had barely cleared the upper basin when the sky opened.
It did not begin with a gentle mist.
A jagged flash of lightning illuminated the high crags, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder that reverberated off the valley walls. Then came the deluge. The rain hit them like a wall of icy needles, driven hard and sideways by a howling mountain gale.
Nandag pulled her woolen plaid tighter around her shoulders, but within seconds the thick fabric was saturated, heavy and cold against her skin. Water poured off the brim of her leather riding cap, streaming down her forehead and cheeks.
She turned her face into the stinging gale, trying to wipe the water from her eyes with her sleeve, and burst into a sudden, clear laugh. It was a breathless, wild sound, carried away by the rushing wind.
"Is this the dry mountain air ye promised me, Laird Chisholm?" she called out over the roar of the downpour, her dark eyes flashing with fierce amusement through her soaked lashes.
Fearchar kicked his stallion into a fast trot, closing the gap between them until his iron-grey horse was riding boot-to-boot with her bay mare.
He reached out, his broad hand catching the wet leather of her reins near the bit to steady her mount as the mare shied away from a sudden gush of muddy water streaming across the track.
"Keep her head up, Nandag!" Fearchar yelled back, his voice cutting through the thundering sheets of rain. "Stay right beside me! Dinnae let her step off the hard stone!"
Within five minutes, both of them were soaked to the bone. Fearchar’s heavy wool plaid felt like a leaden weight across his shoulders, water dripping continuously from his chin and the broad brim of his leather coat into his collar.
The path beneath them was rapidly transforming into a treacherous river of slick mud and churning water. Small stones loosened by the torrential rain tumbled down the hillside, clattering against the rock faces.
Nandag’s bay mare snorted loudly, tossing her head violently as a sharp bolt of lightning split the black sky directly above the ridge. The horse danced sideways, her hooves slipping on a patch of wet slate near the steep edge of the ravine.
"Steady, lass!" Fearchar growled, leaning far out of his saddle to grip Nandag’s arm, his heavy fingers anchoring her safely to her seat.
The stallion beneath him stomped hard, nostrils flaring as the smell of lightning and wet earth rattled the animals' nerves.
The stream they had crossed so easily an hour ago was already a torrent of churning white water, threatening to wash out the narrow wooden bridge leading toward the castle road.
"We willnae make the lower ford before the trail washes out!" Fearchar shouted, his mind working fast through the topography of the glen.
He leaned forward in his stirrups, his sharp grey eyes cutting through the grey sheet of driving rain, scanning the dark hillside above the timberline.
Halfway up a shelter of granite crags on the northern slope, nearly hidden by a thick grove of ancient rowan trees, stood a rough stone structure.
It was an old shieling, a shepherd's summer hut built of dry-stacked fieldstone and roofed with thick sod, used by hill herders during the spring drives.
"There!" Fearchar called out, pointing his heavy leather glove toward the grove. "Up into the rowans!"
He turned his stallion, leading Nandag’s mare off the main track and up a steep, grassy bank. The horses fought for footing in the mud, their iron shoes digging deep as they scrambled up the incline under the relentless pelting of the storm.
As they neared the shelter, Fearchar saw that the sod roof was intact, the thick turf keeping out the worst of the deluge. A small lean-to made of rough pine logs stood beside the main stone wall, providing enough cover for the horses.
"I’ll secure the horses in the lee of the ridge!" Fearchar said, swinging down from his horse before the animal had even fully stopped. His boots splashed deep into the mud.
Then he swung around to Nandag’s side. Water was streaming off her chin and hair, her skirts heavy and drenched, sticking tightly to her legs. She reached for the saddle horn to dismount, her fingers stiff and numb from the sudden mountain cold.
Fearchar didn't wait for her to find her footing. He reached up, caught her around the waist, and lifted her bodily out of the saddle.
Nandag gasped as he pulled her flush against his chest, her wet hands clutching at his shoulders for balance. He held her tight, shielding her body with his own against the driving wind as he turned and hurried toward the low archway of the stone hut.
He kicked open the heavy timber door, which creaked loudly on its rusted iron hinges, and carried her straight inside out of the storm.
The heavy oak door slammed shut, cutting off the deafening roar of the downpour to a steady, muffled thrum against stone and sod.
Nandag stood just inside the threshold, water streaming from her hair and pooling around her leather boots.
Her teeth chattered softly, her body shuddering as the piercing mountain cold settled deep into her bones.
Her injured shoulder throbbed with a sharp, heavy ache beneath her dripping shift, but the quiet darkness of the dry hut felt like a sanctuary.
Fearchar didn't waste a second. He immediately knelt by the stone hearth at the back of the room, his long fingers working with practiced speed.
He reached into a dry stone niche beside the chimney where shepherds kept tinder, pulling out a handful of dry birch bark and pine splints.
He struck his flint against steel; bright sparks showered into the dry tinder, catching instantly.
A thin wisp of sweet-smelling smoke curled upward, followed by a sudden, golden flame that cast long, warm shadows across the rough stone walls.
"Come away from the door, lass," Fearchar growled softly, dropping small oak logs onto the growing blaze.
Nandag took a stiff step forward, her heavy, water-logged wool skirts clinging to her legs. She sank onto a low, wooden bench beside the hearth, holding her trembling hands out toward the crackling heat.
Fearchar turned to her, his own leather coat and heavy wool plaid already discarded in a wet heap near the corner. Stripped to his damp linen shirt and breeches, the broad, powerful contours of his shoulders and chest were illuminated by the amber firelight.
He stepped close, kneeling before her. Without a word, his broad, warm hands reached up to undo the silver brooch at her neck.
He eased her sodden plaid away, then carefully worked the damp bone buttons of her bodice down to her waist. His movements were remarkably gentle, his large fingers mindful of the white linen bandage covering her healing shoulder.
"Help me raise yer arms," he whispered, his grey eyes searching her face.
Nandag lifted her arms, letting out a small, shuddering breath as he pulled the heavy, soaked dress over her head, leaving her in only her light, thin linen shift.
He took a dry wool blanket from the wall rack, shaking it out before wrapping it snugly around her bare shoulders.
He sat down beside her on the bench, pulling another rough blanket over his lap, and gathered her cold hands into his large, calloused palms.
For a long time, the only sound was the crackle of the burning oak and the heavy, rhythmic drumming of the rain on the sod roof above. The warmth gradually seeped through the blanket, chasing the bone-deep chill from her skin.
“It feels safe and cozy in here,” Nandag said quietly.
Fearchar stared into the flames, his jaw set, his grey eyes distant and heavy with a shadow she had seen many times before, but which he had never named.
"It never leaves me, nonetheless" he said quietly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely rose above the pop of the fire.
Nandag didn't interrupt. She shifted closer, her fingers tightening around his warm wrist, letting him speak at his own pace.
"The elders talk of war as if it were a chessboard," Fearchar continued, his eyes fixed on the red embers. "They see flags, land, and prestige. But when the clash comes, it is just blood, mud, and men screaming fer maithers and wives who cannae hear them."
He took a slow, heavy breath, his chest expanding against her shoulder.
"I still wake in the dark, Nandag. I see the faces of the lads from the lower glen I marched with intae the southern pass seven years ago.
Lads who looked at me like I was a god who could keep them safe.
I couldnae save them. I watch them fall in me sleep, night after night. "
Nandag reached up, her palm resting gently against the side of his rough, stubbled jaw, turning his face toward her. The firelight caught the raw, unspoken grief in his grey eyes, the burden of a chief who carried every dead soldier in his soul.
"Ye brought them home in yer heart, Fearchar," she murmured gently. "A lesser man would have fergotten their faces."
Fearchar closed his eyes, leaning his face into her warm palm. "Before I came tae Strathglass, I thought the rest of me life would be nothing but steel, blood, and waiting fer a blade in the dark. I stopped believing I could have a peaceful life. I stopped believing I deserved one."
He opened his eyes, looking directly into hers with a fierce, burning clarity that made her pulse leap.
"Then ye stood up in that hall," he whispered, his fingers coming up to tangle softly into the damp, dark waves of her hair. "And ye looked at me in the dark when the blood was still wet on the floor, and ye made me want tae live again."
Nandag felt a wave of liquid heat blossom deep in her chest, sweeping away the last lingering chill of the storm. She let the blanket slip slightly from her shoulders, moving closer until there was no space between them.
"Then stop fighting the ghost of yesterday, Fearchar," she murmured, her voice thick with sudden, rising heat. "I am here."
She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.
The kiss was slow and deep, tasting of salt and mountain rain. Fearchar let out a low, rough groan against her lips, his heavy arms wrapping tightly around her waist, pulling her off the bench and down onto the thick bed of old wool blankets laid out before the hearth.
He shifted above her, his broad chest blocking out the cold drafts of the room, his warm hands tracing the curves of her ribs through the thin, damp linen of her shift.
Every touch was electric, sending sharp shivers of heat darting down her spine.
He kissed her cheeks, the line of her throat, and the delicate hollow above her collarbone, his breathing harsh and ragged in the quiet hut.
Nandag arched into his touch, her hands sliding up his back, her nails digging gently into the firm muscle of his shoulders. She pulled his head down, her dark eyes wide and heavy with desire.
Fearchar shifted lower down her body. His hands slid beneath the hem of her linen shift, his rough palms tracing up her smooth thighs, gathering the fabric until it rested above her hips. He parted her knees gently, kneeling between them in the soft firelight.
Nandag gasped as his hands smoothed over her inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there until she trembled under his weight. He looked up at her, his grey eyes dark with an unyielding intensity, before lowering his head between her thighs.
When his hot, wet mouth made contact with her skin, Nandag’s breath hitched sharply in her throat.
She gripped the wool blanket beneath her head as a wave of intense, liquid heat crashed over her.
His tongue was deliberate, warm and slow, pressing against her intimate core with an exquisite, rhythmic pressure that made her hips lift unbidden from the blankets.
"Fearchar..." she breathed, her voice a breathless, desperate plea that echoed softly in the small stone room.
He didn't pull away. His hands gripped her hips tightly, holding her steady as he increased the tempo, his tongue sliding over her with expert, relentless strokes.
The heat inside her coiled tighter and tighter, a mounting storm that eclipsed the rain hammering on the sod roof outside.
Every flick of his tongue sent electric shocks through her veins, building a tight, throbbing ache deep in her abdomen.
Nandag’s fingers tangled wildly into his thick, damp hair, anchoring him to her as the sensation spiraled out of control. Her head fell back, her chest heaving, her inner muscles tightening around the intense focal point of his mouth.
With a final, deep flick of his tongue and the warm pressure of his lips, the coil snapped.
A sharp, breathless cry tore from Nandag’s lips as a powerful orgasm rippled through her, her body shuddering violently beneath his hands.
Waves of intense pleasure washed over her in quick, rhythmic pulses, her hips arching up into his face as she surrendered entirely to the sensation.
Fearchar held her firmly, tasting her sweetness, staying with her through every lingering shudder until her hips slowly settled back into the blankets and her ragged breathing began to slow.
Fearchar slid back up her body, his eyes burning with quiet triumph as he looked down at her flushed, radiant face. He pulled her up against his chest, wrapping the heavy wool blankets securely around them both.
Nandag rested her head in the hollow of his neck, her body soft, warm, and entirely relaxed against his solid frame. Outside, the storm continued to rage against the ancient stone walls, but inside, wrapped in the warmth of the fire and each other, there was only peace.