Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
The pale, cool grey of early dawn filtered through the small high window of the shieling, brushing away the shadows of the night.
Nandag woke slowly, cocooned in a heavy, suffocating warmth.
For a floating second, the steady thrum against the stone walls felt like the echo of rain, but as her senses cleared, she realized it was the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of Fearchar’s chest beneath her cheek.
One of his thick arms was draped heavily over her waist, his broad hand resting against the curve of her hip, anchoring her to him.
Then, the memory of the previous night came rushing back in a sudden, blinding flash.
The firelight. The raw honesty of his voice. The heat of his hands moving over her skin, and the overwhelming, shattering intensity of his mouth between her thighs.
A fierce, burning blush erupted across her face, scorching her cheeks and neck. Her pulse gave a nervous, fluttering leap in her chest. She shifted carefully, trying to slip out from under his heavy arm without waking him, her eyes darting instantly toward the stone hearth.
The fire had died down to a bed of glowing, cherry-red embers, casting a soft orange light over the floor. Hanging on the crude wooden rack beside the chimney, their heavy plaid skirts and shirts hung completely dry, smelling faintly of sweet woodsmoke and oak ashes.
She stared intently at the dry wool, willing her cheeks to cool, her hands clutching the rough wool blanket tightly over her bare chest.
A low, gravelly rasp sounded right beside her ear. "If ye stare at those skirts any harder, lass, they're going to catch fire all over again."
Her head snapped around.
Fearchar was looking at her, his grey eyes heavy with lingering sleep, a slow, wicked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He hadn't moved his arm an inch. The amber embers reflected in his gaze, bright with an unmistakable, amused spark.
"I was nae staring," Nandag muttered, her voice coming out smaller and far more breathless than she intended. She tried to pull the blanket higher, but her awkward movement only made the fabric slip, exposing the bare curve of her uninjured shoulder.
Fearchar’s grin widened into a deep, chuckle that vibrated straight through his chest into hers.
"Aye, ye were. Ye were sitting there looking at a pair of wool skirts as if they’d just insulted yer honor.
" He reached up, his thumb casually tracing the fiery red line of her cheekbone.
"Or maybe ye were thinking about what happened before we went tae sleep. "
"Fearchar," she warned, though the heat in her face doubled.
"Ye're red as a rowan berry, Lady Chisholm," he teased softly, his fingers trailing down to tuck a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I dinnae ken the brave daughter of Clan Chisholm could turn so shy in the morning light."
"I am nae shy," she protested, reaching out to push his broad chest, but her palm only slid against the warm, hard muscle of his ribs. A quiet, helpless laugh bubbled up from her throat despite her best efforts to look severe. "Ye are intolerable."
"Aye, but I'm warm," he murmured, his grin softening as he leaned down and pressed a quick, lingering kiss to the corner of her laughing mouth.
He shifted his weight and sat up, letting the blanket drop to his waist. He swung his long legs and stood, completely unbothered by his lack of shirt, and walked over to the hearth. He reached up, testing the heavy wool of her dress with his calloused palm.
"Dry as bone," he declared, turning back to hand her light linen shift.
He knelt beside the bed, his demeanor instantly changing from playfulness to a quiet, attentive care. He helped her pull the shift over her head, his large hands guiding her arms with meticulous slowness so as not to pull on her healing, bandaged shoulder.
Next came the heavy dark dress. He stood behind her as she pulled it over her hips, his broad fingers working their way up her spine, fastening every single bone button with steady, patient precision.
When he reached the top button near her collar, his fingers lingered against the sensitive skin of her neck for a second before he stepped back to pull on his own linen shirt, leather doublet, and heavy wool plaid.
As he tightened his broadsword belt around his waist, settling the heavy basket-hilt steel at his hip, the reality of the outside world began to creep back into the quiet stone room.
The storm had passed, leaving behind a crisp, silent morning.
Beyond the timber door lay Castle Strathglass, the hovering threat of Robert Cameron, and a council of elders waiting to tear at them both.
Fearchar walked toward the heavy oak door, his hand resting on the iron latch. He turned to look at her, waiting.
Nandag stood by the dying hearth, her hands resting over the smooth wool of her skirts. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not with the panic of the castle, but with a strange, terrifying vulnerability that had nothing to do with swords or war.
She took a slow step forward. Then another.
Fearchar paused, his grey eyes watching her with quiet curiosity as she closed the distance between them. She stopped right in front of him. Before her nerve could fail her, she reached up, her fingers gripping the thick leather lapels of his doublet and pulled herself up on her tiptoes.
She pressed her lips to his.
It was sweet, deliberate, and entirely unbidden. She held him there for three long heartbeats, letting the steady, solid warmth of his mouth ground her.
When she pulled back, her cheeks flared hot once more. She quickly dropped her gaze to the brass buckle of his belt, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
"Nandag?" he asked softly, his hand coming up to rest gently beneath her chin, coaxing her face back up.
She swallowed hard, looking at the dark stubble on his jaw rather than directly into his searching grey gaze.
"In the keep... I have spent every day waiting fer the blade tae fall.
I have spent me whole life believing that safety was something ye had tae build out of stone walls, heavy iron bars, and political bargaining. "
She took a soft breath, her fingers tightening against his leather coat before she finally forced herself to look him in the eyes.
"I am beginning tae understand why I feel safe with ye, Fearchar," she admitted quietly, the words stripping away the last shield she possessed. "It isnae the stone. It isnae the castle. It's ye."
A profound, breathless silence settled over the small hut.
Fearchar didn't speak. He didn't offer a witty remark or a boastful laugh. A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his rugged face—a smile so entirely genuine, so fiercely tender, that it transformed his hard, warrior's features completely.
He raised his hand, his knuckles brushing over her cheek one last time, before his long, calloused fingers slid down to weave firmly into hers. He squeezed her hand tight, an immovable anchor against whatever awaited them outside.
"Come on then, lass," Fearchar murmured softly, his voice thick with a quiet promise. "Let's go face the glen."
He lifted the iron latch, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and led her out into the crisp, sunlit morning.
The heavy oak gate of Castle Strathglass groaned shut behind them with a definitive, echoing thud, sealing out the cool morning air of the glen.
The courtyard was already buzzing with grim activity. Stable boys hurried past carrying armfuls of wet straw, men-at-arms sharpened broadswords against grinding stones near the smithy, and the sharp scent of roasting meat mingled with the lingering dampness of last night’s storm.
Fearchar dismounted first, his boots splashing through the shallow puddles in the cobblestones.
He turned and reached up, his broad hands settling securely around Nandag’s waist to lower her from her mare.
For a brief second, as her feet touched the ground, her fingers tightened against the wool of his sleeves, her dark eyes meeting his with a quiet, shared understanding before she stepped back and adjusted her plaid.
"Tae the solar?" she asked softly, her posture instantly smoothing into the composed, unyielding posture of the lady of the keep.
"Aye," Fearchar replied, his voice dropping into its low, gravelly timbre. "Duncan will be waiting."
They walked side by side up the stone staircase toward the inner keep. The quiet sanctuary of the mountain shieling was already slipping behind them, replaced by the heavy, familiar weight of clan politics and looming war.
Fearchar pushed open the door to his private office—a low-ceilinged room off the main hall filled with the scent of dried parchment, old oak, and tallow.
Duncan stood by the hearth, leaning over a long trestle table littered with wax-sealed scrolls and rough-drawn maps of the surrounding glens.
The captain of the guard looked as though he hadn't slept; his dark hair was unkempt, his leather doublet spattered with dried mud, and a thick parchment scroll was clutched tightly in his right hand.
He looked up as the door closed, his sharp eyes sweeping over Fearchar and Nandag. A faint, knowing look flickered across his rugged face before his expression hardened into serious military discipline.
"Ye took yer time, me laird," Duncan said, unrolling the parchment across the center of the oak table and weighing down its corners with two heavy iron inkwells. "The storm slowed me scouts, but the news from the south came through before dawn."
Fearchar crossed the room with heavy, measured steps, leaning his large hands against the edge of the table. Nandag moved to his left, stepping close enough that the wool of her sleeve brushed his arm as she leaned over the map.
"What has Cameron done now?" Fearchar asked, his grey eyes fixing on the sprawling map of Strathglass and the neighboring territories.
Duncan tapped a scarred finger against a section of land marked along the eastern border, near the lands of Clan Chisholm and Clan MacRae.
"Robert’s riders have been moving under the cover of dusk.
He’s nae just buying arms anymore; he’s buying men.
His emissaries have visited Laird Grant and the lesser chieftains of the upper pass.
He’s promising them land grants, exemption from the King’s tax, and direct influence in the border trade once he takes Strathglass. "
Fearchar’s jaw tightened, a hard muscle leaping in his cheek. "The Grants are weak-willed, but they have two hundred spears. If Robert secures their allegiance, he cuts off our eastern supply route entirely."
"He’s playing on their fear of the King's Accord," Duncan added, pulling two smaller slips of parchment from his tunic and laying them beside the map.
"He tells them Strathglass is preparing tae surrender traditional Highland grazing rights tae the Crown, and that his faction is the only one willing tae fight fer the old ways. "
Nandag reached out, her slender fingers picking up one of the slips. She scanned the tight, hurried handwriting, her brow furrowing in deep concentration.
"He is targeting the wrong weakness," she said quietly, her voice ringing clear and authoritative in the small room.
Fearchar turned his head to look at her. "What dae ye see, lass?"
Nandag laid the slip back on the table and pointed to three specific crests drawn along the western border of the map.
"Laird Grant may be tempted by gold, but MacRae of Glen Moriston and the chieftains of the lower valley will never ally with a Cameron. They remember the blood feud forty years ago. More importantly, these three families owe their current grazing rights tae our clan."
She looked up at Fearchar, her dark eyes sharp with strategic clarity.
"Robert is offering promises of land he daes nae yet own.
But me faither signed ironclad deeds with the MacRaes twenty years ago.
They are bound tae the Farquharson lineage by oath and blood, nae just political convenience.
If Robert approaches them, they will view it as an insult, unless we leave them long enough tae think we have abandoned them. "
Duncan let out a low whistle, leaning back on his heels. "She’s right. If we move fast, we can cut the legs out from under Cameron’s northern strategy before his gold even reaches their halls."
"We cannae rely on sentiment alone," Fearchar growled, leaning deeper over the map, his broad finger tracing the mountain passes between Strathglass and Glen Moriston. "Oaths fade when winter approaches and food runs scarce. If we want their spears, we give them terms they cannae refuse."
He looked directly at Duncan. "We offer renewed trade agreements through the Strathglass pass, duty-free passage fer their cattle drives before the winter snows hit the high roads.
And we offer Chisholm protection along their southern border.
If Cameron so much as breathes on their crofts, me riders march. "
"That will cost us grain from the lower vaults," Duncan noted, though his eyes brightened with approval.
"Grain is cheaper than blood," Fearchar replied flatly. He turned to his captain. "Duncan, ye take four men and ride out before noon. Ye make first contact with MacRae directly. Ye tell him Fearchar Chisholm offers steel and trade, but he expects his answer before the moon waxes full."
"Consider it done," Duncan said, straightening his posture and strapping his leather gauntlets back onto his hands. "I'll take the high deer paths to avoid Cameron's scouts."
"Good," Fearchar said, nodding once.
As Duncan gathered his gloves and turned toward the door, Nandag stepped toward the small writing desk in the corner of the office. She pulled a stack of fresh vellum toward her, unsheathing an inkwell and dipping a fresh quill.
"I will draft the letters tae the lesser chieftains meself," she said, her ink-stained fingers already moving smoothly across the page. "They’ve kenned me since I was a girl. A formal seal from Castle Strathglass carrying me faither’s family mark will mean more tae the elders than a standard summons from the Council. "
Fearchar walked over to the desk, standing beside her chair. He looked down at the fluid, elegant script taking shape on the parchment, watching the quiet, fierce determination that filled her face. The exhaustion that had weighed her down two days ago had transformed into a razor-sharp purpose.
He reached down, his thumb brushing lightly against the top of her shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity that drew a faint, brief smile to her lips before she returned her focus to the ink.
"We have little time before Robert realizes his emissaries are speaking tae brick walls," Fearchar said softly, looking out the narrow solar window toward the dark ridges in the distance. "When he finds out, he'll push hard."
"Let him push," Nandag murmured without breaking her stroke, the quill scratching rhythmically against the dry vellum. "He will find Strathglass standing firmer than he thinks."