Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The smell of crushed straw, leather oil, and fresh dung hit Nandag before she even reached the open stable doors. Shadows stretched long across the dirt aisle, thrown by the low late-afternoon sun cutting through the roof slats.
Fearchar stood near the middle stall, his leather doublet thrown over a wooden post, leaving him in his linen shirt with the sleeves rolled past his forearms. He was tightening the cinch on a heavy traveling saddle, his shoulder muscles flexing beneath the cloth with every tug.
Nandag paused in the doorway, adjusting her wool plaid over her shoulders, before stepping into the cool dimness. Her boots made little sound in the loose straw, but the bay stallion in the end stall tossed its head, the brass buckles on its halter jingling.
The stallion’s ears flicked forward.
"Ye have a way with frightened things," she said quietly. She tilted her chin up, looking him dead in the eye. "And are ye frightened, Fearchar?"
He didn't answer right away. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers catching a stray lock of dark hair that had fallen near her temple, tucking it gently behind her ear. His knuckles brushed the skin of her cheek, warm and rough against the autumn chill.
"Aye," he murmured, stepping closer until his boots touched hers, forcing her to tilt her head back even farther. His thumb slid down to rest along the curve of her jawline. "The thought of losing ye frightens me tae the bone."
Before she could form a reply, he leaned down and covered her mouth with his.
The kiss was slow, heavy, and hot, tasting of dust and cold afternoon air.
Nandag’s hand slipped off the stallion’s neck, her fingers tangling into the dark, thick linen of Fearchar’s shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.
He backed her gently against the wooden partition of the stall, his broad arm coming around her waist to hold her flush against his chest.
The stallion gave a quiet, contented snort beside them, dipping its head to chew on a stray piece of hay.
Fearchar’s mouth shifted against hers, his breath coming faster, his hand sliding up her spine to cup the back of her head, anchoring her to him. Nandag let out a soft sound in the back of her throat, her feet lifting slightly off the straw as he bore his weight into her.
A sharp, heavy knock rattled the wooden stall door.
"Me laird!"
Fearchar broke the kiss instantly, his forehead dropping against hers, his chest heaving as he closed his eyes and let out a low, dangerous curse beneath his breath.
Nandag’s lips felt swollen and hot in the cool air, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs as she gripped his forearms to steady herself.
Duncan stood outside the stall, his hand resting on the wooden latch, looking completely unbothered by what he had clearly interrupted.
"The gates are held, Duncan," Fearchar growled without turning around, his hand still resting on Nandag’s waist. "Unless the keep is on fire, ye’re about three seconds from mucking out these stalls yerself."
Duncan lifted a rolled piece of thick parchment, heavy with red wax that bore the sharp, pressed seal of the Royal Crown.
"The messenger just crossed the lower drawbridge," Duncan said flatly. "Rode two horses from Stirling. The King’s summons has arrived."
The red wax of the royal seal crumbled between Fearchar’s thumb and forefinger, flaking onto the dark oak of the council table.
Outside the solar, the royal messenger’s horse was still blowing in the courtyard, its lungs whistling through wet nostrils after the mad gallop from Stirling.
Fearchar flattened the heavy parchment against the wood, his smooth palm pressing the creases down.
His eyes traced the tight, formal script of the Crown clerk.
Robert’s name appeared three lines down, bound up in Latin legalities and ornate claims of theft, coercion, and unlawful seizure of Clan Farquharson lands.
"Read it aloud, me laird," Duncan said, his voice flat. He leaned against the high stone hearth, his thumb restlessly pushing the brass hilt of his broadsword back and forth in its frog.
"He’s done it," Fearchar said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet grate. "Robert stands before King James’s magistrates in Stirling. He’s presented a signed petition claiming our union was forced at blade-point, that Nandag was dragged tae the altar under duress, and that the Farquharson title belongs tae him through Mòrag. "
The door to the solar opened with a quiet creak.
Nandag stepped across the threshold, her wool plaid pinned tightly at her collar, her face pale in the grey afternoon light filtering through the narrow windows. She didn't ask what the parchment was. Her dark eyes went straight to the broken wax on the table, then up to Fearchar's face.
"How long dae we have?" she asked, her voice steady, carrying no tremor.
"The King’s Council convenes in six days," Fearchar replied, sliding the parchment toward her. "If we are nae in Stirling tae answer the summons, the Crown rules in default. They will issue a writ of outlawry against me and grant Robert royal authority to march a garrison into Strathglass."
Nandag didn't touch the paper. She stood beside his chair, her small hand coming down flat on the edge of the oak table, her knuckles whitening slightly against the wood. "Then we ride."
"I ride," Fearchar corrected, turning his head to look at her. "Ye stay behind these walls with Duncan and sixty broadswords. Stirling is a nest of royal vipers, Nandag. Robert will have bribed every bailiff from the Forth tae the gates."
Nandag’s eyes narrowed, a sharp, fierce heat flaring in her gaze that made the words freeze in Fearchar's throat. She leaned down slightly, bringing her face close to his.
"Dae ye think the King’s judges will take the word of a Chisholm laird fighting fer Farquharson lands?
" she whispered, her words cutting clean through the quiet room.
"Robert tells them I am a prisoner. A frightened lass locked in a tower, weeping fer her sister.
If ye walk intae that hall alone, ye prove his lie.
I stand beside ye before the King, Fearchar. I answer his questions meself."
Duncan let out a low huff from the hearth. "She’s right, me laird. A silent bride is Robert’s strongest witness. A living, breathing Lady Chisholm staring the Lord Chancellor in the face ruins his whole petition."
Fearchar stared at her for three long heartbeats, searching her face for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of fear. There was none. Just that unyielding Highland granite he had come to rely on.
He let out a slow breath through his nose and nodded once. "Duncan, summon the council elders. Every man who sat in this hall when the vows were spoken."
Within half an hour, the solar was thick with the smell of damp wool, pipe smoke, and stale ale. Old Fraser, Malcolm’s shadow, sat near the corner with his heavy hands folded over his walking staff, while the rest of the elders crowded around the map table.
"Parchment willnae be enough," Fraser grumbled, shaking his grey head. "The King’s court runs on seals and signed witness. Robert has three lairds from the east swearing our clan never agreed tae the Accord."
"Then we give them truth until their ink runs dry," Nandag said, stepping into the center of the ring. She pulled a heavy leather-bound portfolio from under her arm and set it down in front of the elders.
She unbuckled the straps, spreading the contents across the table.
"Here is the original Highland Marriage Accord of 1597, bearing me faither’s wax and the royal crest. Here is the parish ledger signed by the priest who wed us in the chapel.
And here," she added, her fingers tapping a fresh stack of cream-colored vellum, "are sworn statements from the village. "
Fearchar reached out, turning one of the sheets over. The handwriting was neat, dark, and precise—Nandag’s hand—but at the bottom were rough, ink-stained thumbprints and crude, jagged marks.
"The villagers?" he asked, looking up at her.
"Old Abigail," she said, her eyes meeting his with quiet pride.
"The smith. The weavers whose homes Robert’s men burned near the lower ford.
They have all marked their names. They swear that Robert brought bloodshed tae Strathglass, that ye brought food and safety, and that I hold this keep as its rightful lady by me own choice. "
Duncan leaned over the table, studying the thumbprints with a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his scarred face. "That’s a heavy weight of dirt and blood to throw on a lawyer’s polished desk."
"It’s what wins a King’s ear," Nandag replied, picking up the quill and handing it to Fearchar. "Write yer own deposition, Fearchar. Detail every spear Robert raised against this gate."
For two hours, the solar was silent save for the scratching of iron quills and the murmur of elders signing their names at the bottom of the vellum.
Fearchar organized the documents into an oiled leather saddlebag, binding them tight with hemp twine to keep the damp out—the Accord, the ledger, the village marks, and the written account of Robert’s ambush.
When the last seal was pressed into red wax, Fearchar stood up and pushed his chair back.
"Duncan," he commanded.
"Me laird?"
"Pick twenty of our best riders. Heavy iron, and fresh mounts. We travel light and fast. Avoid the main drove roads through Cameron territory. We take the high passes through the hills."
"Aye, me laird," Duncan said, turning toward the door. "The horses will be saddled before the sun touches the western crags."
The fire in the hearth had died down to glowing red embers, casting long shadows across the stone floor.
Fearchar walked over to the table where the leather saddlebag lay fully packed. He picked it up, feeling its weight in his hands, before turning to face Nandag.
She was standing near the window, watching the grooms in the courtyard below throw heavy wool blankets over the horses. Her hands were tucked into her plaid, her shoulders set square.
Fearchar stepped up behind her, his chest brushing the edge of her plaid. He reached down, taking her hand out of her wool wrap, his calloused thumb running over her cool knuckles.
"Ye dinnae have tae dae this, lass," he said softly, the rough edge fading from his voice. "Once we cross the river, there’s nay turning back. Robert will be waiting in Stirling with every venomous tongue he can buy."
Nandag didn't pull her hand away. She turned her head, looking up at him in the dim light, her chin lifting with that familiar, stubborn pride.
"Let him wait," she whispered, her fingers closing tight around his. "He thinks he’s playing a game of chess with paper and ink. It’s time we showed him how Strathglass answers a challenge."