Chapter 23 #2
Up ahead, the scouts signaled with a raised arm before dipping over a grassy rise, following the outer bend of the river toward the lower marsh. They would be out of sight for at least half an hour while they searched the far bank.
Fearchar dismounted, his heavy boots sinking slightly into the soft turf. The stallion gave a low snort, shaking his mane as Fearchar tied his reins loosely to a low ash branch.
"We wait here until Duncan’s men clear the bend," Fearchar said, stepping over to her mare and offering his hand.
Nandag placed her small palm in his, slipping down from the saddle with an easy, practiced grace. The heat of her body brushed against his for a brief second before she untied her own mount and let the mare graze beside the stallion.
The quiet roar of the river filled the gap between them. Fearchar walked down to the water’s edge, where the current slowed into a deep, clear pool beneath an overhang of smooth river stones. Shadows of fat, speckled trout hovered near the rocky bottom, flicking their tails against the fast water.
"We have an hour," he said, unbuckling a thin leather pouch from his belt. Inside was a coiled length of horsehair line and a small bone hook he always carried in his kit. "And the men will need more than salted beef fer taenight’s trencher."
Nandag followed him down the muddy bank, gathering her wool skirts in one hand to keep them out of the wet silt. "Ye expect tae catch dinner with a bit of thread and a twig?"
"It’s nae a twig, lass," Fearchar growled playfully, cutting a straight hazel switch from a nearby bush with his dirk. "It's patience and craft. Something ye ken naething about."
He bound the line to the end of the flexible rod, baited the hook with a fat grub dug from beneath a mossy stone, and stepped carefully onto a flat rock jutting out over the pool. He lowered his center, flicking the line out with a soft plop right into the eddy where the big trout waited.
"Hold yer breath," he instructed quietly over his shoulder, keeping his eyes fixed on the water. "Trout can feel the vibrations of a loud tongue on the bank."
Behind him, he heard the soft crunch of her boots.
"Is that so?" Nandag whispered.
Suddenly, a small pebble splashed into the pool directly over his line.
The shadowed trout darted away in a flash of silver, disappearing into the dark weeds near the center of the river.
Fearchar froze, slowly lifting his gaze from the empty water to look back over his shoulder. Nandag was standing two paces away, holding her hands innocently behind her back, her face a picture of solemn, pure concern.
"Oh dear," she said softly, her lips twitching. "Was that a fish?"
"Nandag," Fearchar warned, narrowing his eyes at her. "That was our dinner."
"It looked like a stone tae me," she teased, taking a step back toward the high grass.
He re-baited the hook, turned his back to her, and cast out again into a fresh ripple. "Dinnae move. Dinnae speak."
A second later, a sharp, heavy tug pulled at the hem of his wool plaid from behind. He stumbled back off the wet rock, his boot splashing ankle-deep into the cold river water as the hazel rod jerked sideways, snapping the line clean off against a submerged root.
Fearchar turned around, dripping wet, to find Nandag holding the corner of his plaid, her dark eyes sparkling with unholy amusement. She dropped the wool, turned on her heel, and let out a bright, melodic laugh as she took off running up the grassy bank.
"Ye thieving little lass!" Fearchar bellowed, a roar of genuine laughter ripping from his chest as he scrambled out of the river and took off after her.
His long legs closed the distance easily, but she was fast, twisting through the high ferns and darting around the trunks of the old oak trees like a deer.
Her laughter echoed through the quiet valley, bright and wild, completely stripping away the heavy pall of war and politics that had weighed on them for weeks.
She ducked around a large moss-covered boulder, but Fearchar anticipated the turn. He lunged forward, his arms wrapping around her waist just as her foot caught a soft patch of moss.
They went down together, tumbling over the crest of the grassy hill and rolling into a thick, sun-warmed bed of wild clover and flowers.
He caught her against his chest as they came to a stop, taking the brunt of the fall on his shoulder.
She landed flush on top of him, her hair spilling out of its pins in a dark, glorious tangle across his chest, her cheeks flushed bright red, her chest heaving as she laughed until she was breathless.
"Ye... ye missed the fish, me laird," she panted, her fingers clutching the linen of his shirt as she looked down at him.
"I caught something far more troublesome," Fearchar growled, looking up into her wide, dark eyes.
His heart was hammering against his ribs, not from the short sprint up the hill, but from the raw, overwhelming sight of her smiling down at him in the open sunlight. The playful spark in her eyes softened into something warm, deep, and fiercely loyal.
He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, brushing away a blade of grass stuck to her temple. She rested her weight against him, her forehead dropping to touch his, their breaths mingling in the warm afternoon air.
"We should get back to the horses," she whispered, though she made no move to pull away.
"Aye," Fearchar murmured, his hand resting over the curve of her back, holding her tight against him for a few heartbeats longer. "In a moment."
The air between them, previously charged with the sharp wit of their banter, suddenly thickened into something far heavier.
Fearchar’s grip on her hand wasn't a polite restraint; it was an anchor, firm, the heat of his palm searing through her hand.
He didn't pull her roughly, but he didn't let go, his thumb pressing deep into the center of her palm, sending a jolt of electricity up her arm that settled low in her belly.
Nandag stopped. She turned back to him, her breath hitching as she took in the sudden, stark shift in his posture. The laughter had died in his eyes, replaced by a dark, hungry glint that made her knees tremble.
"Let go, Fearchar," she whispered, though her fingers curled around his, holding on just as tight.
He tugged her closer. The distance between them vanished.
Her chest brushed against the hard wall of his plaid, the rough wool scratching against her soft linen tunic, a friction that shot sparks through her nerves.
She could feel the rigid planes of his chest, the heavy thud of his heart beating a frantic rhythm against her own breast.
Fearchar released her hand only to slide his arm around her waist, hauling her flush against him.
The movement was effortless, a display of raw strength that made her head spin.
His other hand came up to her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of her hair, tilting her head back until she had no choice but to look up at him.
"Ye tease me, Nandag," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against her collarbone. "Ye see too much."
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and the anticipation was a physical ache, a throbbing need that pulsed between her thighs. She wet her lips, her tongue darting out nervously, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.
He didn't ask. He didn't wait. He lowered his head and captured her mouth.
The kiss was not gentle. His lips were demanding, hot and insistent, prying hers open with an urgency that stole the air from her lungs. Nandag gasped, her hands flying up to grasp his shoulders, her nails digging into the heavy wool of his plaid.
He tasted of whisky. His tongue swept into her mouth, tangling with hers, stroking and exploring with a dominance that made her knees weak.
She moaned into the kiss, the sound muffled and swallowed by his devouring mouth.
He angled his head, deepening the kiss, his hand tightening in her hair, sending sharp pricks of pleasure-pain along her scalp.
Fearchar broke the kiss only to drag his lips along her jaw, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. He nipped at the sensitive spot just below her ear, his teeth grazing the pulse point that hammered wildly beneath her flesh.
His hand left her waist and moved to her breast, heavy and warm through the layers of fabric.
He didn't hesitate. He palmed her, his thumb finding the peak of her nipple and rubbing it roughly through the linen.
The sensation was electric, a direct line to the wet heat gathering between her legs.
Nandag arched her back, pushing herself into his hand, a silent plea for more.
"Fearchar," she breathed, her head falling back, exposing the long line of her throat to him.
He took the invitation. His mouth latched onto the side of her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, his tongue soothing the sting immediately after. His hand abandoned her breast momentarily, only to dive beneath the heavy weight of her plaid, seeking the warmth of her skin.
His fingers were rough, calloused from sword hilts and reins, but his touch was surprisingly deft. He found the laces of her bodice and tugged, the knots giving way under his impatience. When his hand slipped inside, cupping her bare breast, the shock of skin-on-skin contact made her cry out.
Her nipple pebbled instantly against his palm. He rolled the tight bud between his fingers, pinching and tugging with just enough pressure to walk the line between pleasure and pain. Nandag’s hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking friction against the hard ridge of his thigh.
He felt the movement. A dark, satisfied sound vibrated in his chest. He shifted his stance, spreading his legs slightly, and pulled her harder against him, trapping his thigh between hers.
"Take what ye need, lass," he commanded, his voice rough with lust.