Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The late afternoon sun slanted through the narrow stone window of the solar, casting long, golden bars across the rushes on the floor.
Nandag sat near the hearth, a wooden embroidery hoop resting forgotten in her lap. Her thumb absently traced the iron head of a silver pin stuck into the linen fabric, her gaze fixed on the heavy oak door that led down to the courtyard.
Fearchar had stepped out only an hour ago to oversee the shoeing of the warhorses in the lower stables, yet the quiet chamber felt strangely empty without the deep rumble of his voice and the solid, reassuring weight of his presence.
Across the low hearth, Mairi knelt beside a wicker basket, methodically sorting through fresh bundles of dried lavender and sweet-gale to lay among the bed linen.
Mairi stopped her work, her sharp hazel eyes cutting across the firelight to catch the distant, lingering look on Nandag’s face. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the woman’s lips.
"Ye dainnae have to stare at the door fer that long, me lady," Mairi said smoothly, shaking out a sprig of dried heather.
Nandag started, her cheeks instantly warming as she snapped her attention back to the embroidery in her lap. She tried to assume a stern, composed expression that fooled neither of them. "I was merely listening for the guards' change of watch."
"Aye, of course ye were," Mairi chuckled, sitting back on her heels and wiping her hands against her apron. "And I suppose it was the change of watch ye were dreaming about when ye let three stitches drop intae that clover leaf?"
Nandag looked down at the uneven thread, letting out a soft, defeated breath. A small, genuine smile broke through her composure. She laid the wooden hoop on the small table beside her chair and leaned back, letting her hands rest in her lap.
"I cannae believe it, Mairi," Nandag confessed quietly, her voice dropping into a tender, hushed rhythm that barely carried across the hearth. "If ye had told me a month ago... when I was brought intae this hall, believing I was tae be nothing more than a replacement bride tae a laird..."
She paused, her gaze drifting back to the hearth, where the dry oak logs crackled softly.
"I feared becoming his unwilling wife above all things.
I swore I would keep me heart behind stone walls.
" She looked up at Mairi, her dark eyes shining with a mixture of wonder and raw honesty.
"And now... now the moment he steps out of the room, the air feels thin.
I find meself listening fer the thud of his boots on the stair. "
Mairi’s face softened into a look of deep affection. She reached out, placing her warm, work-roughened hand over Nandag’s knee.
"The heart is nae a garrison," Mairi said gently.
"Ye cannae defend it against a man who daesnae come tae conquer, but tae stand beside ye.
A man like that daesnae want a captive. He wants his match.
" She winked, a mischievous spark lighting her eyes.
"And in ye he most certainly found it, I never thought I'd see the day the proudest daughter of Clan Chisholm admitted she misses her husband like a moonstruck maiden. "
Nandag let out a breathless, embarrassed laugh, reaching up to touch her flushed cheek. "Mairi, hush! Look at the two of us, suddenly acting like mature women."
"I speak only what I see," Mairi teased, her smile widening as she picked up another bundle of lavender. "And I see a woman who has finally stopped fighting her own shadow."
The warmth of the moment lingered in the small chamber, but as the shadows outside deepened into the deep purple of twilight, the light mood began to drift away. Nandag’s smile slowly faded, replaced by a dark, familiar shadow that pooled in her eyes.
She turned her head to stare into the dying embers, her shoulders tensing beneath her wool dress.
Mairi observed the shift instantly. She set the lavender aside, her tone dropping its teasing edge, becoming steady and grounded. "What is it?"
Nandag swallowed hard against a sudden, tight lump in her throat. She picked up the silver pin from her embroidery lap, her fingers pressing against its sharp point until the metal bit into her skin.
"Mòrag," Nandag whispered, the name hanging heavy in the quiet air.
Mairi didn't break the silence, allowing the name to settle between them.
"I cannae stop thinking about her," Nandag said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to hold it firm. "While I am here, safe within these walls, sitting by a fire with a man who protects me... me sister is out there in the high glens with Robert."
She turned to Mairi, her dark eyes wide with a frantic helplessness. "Is she safe, Mairi? Is he keeping her warm? Or is he using her as a shield, the way he uses everyone else?"
"Mòrag is stubborn, Nandag," Mairi offered quietly. "She has yer faither’s blood."
"That is what terrifies me," Nandag interjected fiercely, leaning forward in her chair.
"She is stubborn, but she is blind where Robert is concerned. She might be too loyal tae him. She sees him as the brave savior of the old ways, a hero fighting fer our clan’s honor.
She daes nae see the cruelty in him. She daes nae see that he would burn every croft in Strathglass if it meant sitting in the laird's chair. "
Nandag covered her face with her hands, letting out a long, shuddering sigh.
"If Robert realizes that Fearchar and I are uniting the lower glens against him, if he sees his grip slipping, what will he dae tae her?
And worse, Mòrag is too loyal tae him tae see the trap until the steel is at her throat.
She might defend him until it destroys her. "
Mairi stood up from the floor, her heavy wool skirts rustling as she stepped over to Nandag’s chair. She pulled Nandag’s hands away from her face, taking them firmly into her own, squeezing until Nandag was forced to look up into her face.
"Listen tae me, Nandag," Mairi said, her voice clear and stern. "Ye carry the weight of the whole world on yer shoulders, but ye cannae carry Mòrag's troubles fer her."
"She is me sister," Nandag pleaded softly.
"Aye, she is yer sister, and ye love her with every breath ye draw," Mairi agreed gently.
Mairi leaned down, her dark eyes searching Nandag’s with unyielding intensity.
"Ye are building a sanctuary here with Fearchar. Ye are protecting the people who look tae ye for bread and safety. Ye have nae abandoned her. Ye must have a strong house standing ready tae welcome her when she’s rescued. "
Nandag looked into Mairi’s steady gaze, the hard, frantic knot in her chest slowly loosening. She took a deep, steadying breath, letting the clean scent of the dried lavender ease the tightness in her throat.
"A strong house," Nandag repeated softly, testing the words on her tongue.
"Aye," Mairi said, releasing her hands. "A strong house. Now, pick up yer needle before Fearchar returns and thinks ye've spent the whole afternoon pining."
Nandag let out a quiet, genuine breath of laughter, picking up the embroidery hoop once more as the heavy footsteps of her husband echoed up the outer stone stair.
The Great Hall was alive with a roar of voices during supper, the sharp clatter of pewter plates, and the scent of roasted venison, dried thyme, and burning oak log fires.
Flames danced in the vast stone hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the high rafters where old battle banners hung still and dark against the timber.
Nandag sat at the head trestle table beside Fearchar, her heavy wool plaid pinned at her shoulder with a silver brooch.
Though the hall was filled with the warm, reassuring bustle of Clan Chisholm—men laughing over horn mugs of ale, women passing wooden trenchers of thick root stew—a cold knot of tension remained tight beneath her ribs.
She picked absently at her venison, her gaze drifting over the crowded benches.
Fearchar sat broad-shouldered beside her, his dark head inclined slightly as he listened to an older crofter detail the state of the barley harvest. Yet even as he spoke, his heavy hand rested near hers on the rough oak grain of the table, his thumb brushing her knuckle in a silent, grounding touch every few moments.
When the crofter finally bowed his head and moved down the dais, Nandag leaned closer to Fearchar, her voice dropping beneath the din of the room.
"Fearchar," she murmured, her dark eyes catching the amber glow of the firelight.
He turned to her instantly, his attention shifting away from the hall to fix entirely on her face. "What is it, lass? Ye’ve barely touched yer trencher."
Nandag hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "I was speaking with Mairi earlier in the solar." She swallowed hard, the dark shadow that had haunted her all afternoon rising back to the surface. "We spoke of Mòrag."
Fearchar’s expression softened, the sharp line of his jaw losing its guarded edge. He shifted his chair slightly, shielding her from the view of the main hall with his broad frame. "Tell me."
"I cannae rest knowing she is in Robert’s camp," Nandag said, her voice trembling slightly before she forced it steady.
"If Robert realizes he is losing the support of the eastern glens, he will become desperate.
Mòrag believes she is there by her own choice, but he sees her as naething more than a bargaining piece...
" She broke off, looking into Fearchar's grey eyes with an unyielding plea.
"Is there a way, Fearchar? Can we bring her home safely before he uses her tae burn us both? "
Fearchar didn't offer a quick, empty comfort. He reached out, his large, warm hand covering hers entirely, squeezing until the coldness in her fingers retreated.
"I will nae let him harm her, Nandag," Fearchar said, his voice low, heavy, and absolute. "Mòrag is yer sister. Whatever lies Robert has poured intae her head, she is family. Since he is holding her against her will, I will tear his camp apart meself tae bring her back tae these gates."
The sheer certainty in his voice hit her like a wave of warm light. The tight knot in her chest slowly yielded, easing a breath from her lungs that felt lighter than any she had drawn all day. "Ye promise me?"
"On me steel, and on me name," Fearchar answered softly, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the temple near her hairline, his breath warm against her skin. "I promise ye, lass."
Before the heavy silence could settle between them, a sudden rustle beneath the High Table caught Nandag’s attention.
A small, grimy hand snaked out from beneath the linen tablecloth near Fearchar’s boots, snatching a dropped piece of crusty crust from the floorboards.
A suppressed, high-pitched giggle echoed from the shadows beneath the trestle, followed by a soft, scuffling sound of wool skirts and small knees sliding across the rushes.
Nandag looked down, peering over the edge of her plate.
Three of the castle’s younger children—a dark-haired boy no older than five and two little girls with tangled curls—were huddled beneath the dais table, completely oblivious to the chieftains above them.
They were playing a secret game, passing a stale heel of oatbread back and forth like a stolen treasure, trying to shove it into each other's hands without making a sound.
The boy, emboldened by his success, reached up again, his small fingers feeling blindly along the surface of the top table for another prize.
His hand brushed the heavy pewter cup sitting right beside Fearchar’s elbow.
"Watch out—" Nandag started to whisper, but it was too late.
The little hand snagged the base of the cup, tipping it sideways. Dark, rich ale flooded across the oak table, streaming toward the edge in a sudden wave.
Fearchar leaped back with a dark growl, his hands coming up just fast enough to keep the sticky ale from soaking into his heavy wool plaid.
Below the table, the scuffling froze instantly. A tiny, wide-eyed face peeked out from beneath the tablecloth, the boy’s cheeks pale with sudden terror as he realized whose cup he had just overset.
Nandag looked from the pool of ale on the table to Fearchar, who was standing with his arms held wide, a look of thunderous, exaggerated outrage plastered across his features.
His dark eyebrows were drawn down into a terrifying scowl, but she caught the faint, wicked twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The sheer absurdity of the grand Laird Chisholm being ambushed by a five-year-old was too much. A sudden, clear laugh burst from Nandag’s lips—a bright, ringing sound that cut straight through the noise of the great hall.
"Ye look utterly terrifying, me laird," she teased, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye as she watched him shake the wet linen napkin in his hand. "I am sure the lad is quaking in his boots."
"It was a coordinated ambush, Lady Chisholm," Fearchar growled, though his grey eyes danced with bright, fiery amusement. "The little devil had tactical positioning."
He sat back down with a heavy sigh, looking sternly down at the small boy who was still hovering beneath the table edge. Instead of scolding him, Fearchar reached out, caught a fresh, warm trencher roll from the center basket, and casually broke off a large chunk.
While Nandag was still laughing, her head turned toward the children, Fearchar’s hand moved with lightning speed across her plate. His broad fingers snatched the thick, roasted venison piece right off her trencher, slipping it into his mouth with an innocent, unbothered expression.
Nandag stopped laughing. She looked down at her empty trencher, then snapped her gaze up to Fearchar, who was chewing casually, his eyes fixed on the high rafters as if admiring the architecture.
"Fearchar!" she gasped in indignation. "Ye thieving brute!"
"I have nay idea what ye mean, lass," he muttered around his bite, his face a picture of pure, solemn dignity. Then, "The war effort demands proper nourishment."
Nandag narrowed her eyes at him, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. Without moving her upper body or breaking her composure, she reached beneath the linen tablecloth with her right foot and delivered a sharp, deliberate kick straight to his ankle.
Fearchar’s eyes widened slightly as her boot connected, a low "Oof" escaping his chest, though he maintained his stoic posture for the benefit of the hall. He slowly turned his head to look at her, his lips twitching into a wide, devastatingly handsome grin that lit up his entire face.
He reached beneath the table, his hand finding her knee under her wool skirts, his fingers squeezing her leg in playful retaliation before sliding down to take her hand in his under the cover of the cloth.
Nandag leaned her shoulder against his, the sound of the Great Hall fading into a comfortable, joyful background hum as the children giggled and scampered away beneath the benches.