Chapter 25 #2
Fearchar’s jaw set hard, the muscle along his cheek pulsing beneath his skin.
He reined his stallion around, turning the beast to face the narrow mouth of the glen they had just crossed.
His grey eyes narrowed into cold, dangerous slits as he looked down the mud-slick track.
His right hand drifted toward the leather grip of his sword, his fingers closing tightly over the crossguard until his knuckles turned as pale as bone.
"We turn back," Fearchar growled, his voice dropping into that rough, terrifying grate. He pulled his stallion’s head round, his boots digging into the horse’s flanks. "Thirty men in a narrow neck. We hold the high rock and cut them tae pieces before they cross the burn."
"Laird, nay," Duncan warned, though his own hand remained glued to his hilt. "We have the women."
"The women are safer behind thirty dead mercenaries," Fearchar spat, his horse snorting as it sensed his sudden, violent heat.
Nandag kicked her mare forward, crowding her horse right against Fearchar’s grey stallion until their stirrups banged together. She reached out, her gloved fingers catching the thick leather of his reins just below his hand, pulling back with all her weight.
"Look at me, Fearchar," she said, her voice cutting sharp and quiet through the rush of the rain.
Fearchar didn't turn right away. His shoulders were rigid, his chest rising and falling in heavy, jagged breaths, his eyes fixed on the dark trail behind them.
"Fearchar," she repeated, her fingers tightening on the wet leather until the brass buckle bit into her palm.
He snapped his head toward her, his gaze blazing with a dark, primal rage that would have made a weaker woman step back. Nandag didn't flinch. She held his glare, her chin lifting, her eyes unblinking in the freezing drizzle.
"He wants ye tae turn around," she said, her words deliberate and clean. "He daesnae need tae defeat Chisholm broadswords in this glen. He only needs ye tae strike the first blow."
Fearchar’s fingers twitched on his sword hilt, but he didn't pull the blade.
"Remember the King’s summons," Nandag pressed, leaning closer over her saddle horn so only he could hear her over the wind.
"The Crown strictly forbade private warfare while the decree is under review. If ye draw blood here—if ye leave thirty bodies in this pass—Robert goes tae Stirling and tells the Lord Chancellor that ye’re a bloodthirsty outlaw who defies the King's peace.
He is provoking ye, Fearchar. He is begging ye tae make a mistake. "
Fearchar stared at her, the dark heat in his eyes clashing against her steady, unyielding calm.
A thick knot of tension held his shoulders high, his chest heaving as the seconds ticked by.
Slowly, agonizingly, the white strain in his knuckles faded.
His hand slid an inch off the brass pommel of his sword, though he didn't let go entirely.
He let out a long, shuddering breath through his nose, steam rising from his nostrils into the cold mountain air.
"He plays a filthy game," Fearchar muttered, his voice thick with suppressed violence.
"And we are going tae beat him at it," Nandag replied softly, letting go of his reins. "In Stirling. Before the King."
Fearchar turned his head, looking back toward Duncan and the waiting guards. The rage was still there, settled deep in his eyes, but it was clamped down now, governed by iron will.
"Duncan," Fearchar barked.
"Aye, me laird?"
"Increase the pace. Double the rear guard. We take the high ridge trail through the heather. It’s rougher on the beasts, but there’s no place fer an ambush."
"Aye, me laird," Duncan said, a faint look of relief washing over his scarred face as he turned his horse to pass the order down the line.
Fearchar turned his stallion back toward the south, his eyes fixed on the long, winding trail ahead. "Nandag."
"Aye?"
"Stay beside me," he said quietly, not looking at her, but his hand reaching out to touch the wet wool of her sleeve for a brief, reassuring second. "Dinnae drop behind."
"I’m nae going anywhere," she said.
The column kicked into a brisk trot, the hooves spraying mud and water as they pushed higher into the hills. The rain continued to fall, steady and relentless, blurring the line between the dark mountain ridges and the grey afternoon sky.
Throughout the long hours that followed, as the trail steepened and the wind howled through the high rocks, Nandag kept her mare shoulder-to-shoulder with his grey stallion.
Every few minutes, she could feel Fearchar’s eyes checking on her, monitoring her seat, her grip, the pale set of her face against the cold.
When the trail narrowed to a single track along a treacherous rock ledge, he slowed his mount just enough to let her mare take the inside wall, his big stallion moving on the exposed outer edge, placing his broad body between her and the steep drop into the ravine below.
Nandag looked over at him, catching the hard, alert outline of his profile against the mist. He didn't look back, his eyes endlessly scanning the rocks above, his hand resting light and ready near his belt.
She let out a quiet breath, her fingers tightening around her wet leather reins. Robert was behind them in the dark, hunting for a weakness, waiting for a slip. But as she watched Fearchar navigate the slick rock with absolute, quiet precision, she knew Robert wouldn't find one.