Page 13 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"Aye."

She laughed, short and without any humor in it, and looked to her father instead, because at least he had the decency to look uncomfortable about it. "It was never meant tae be me," Nandag said, her voice tight. "Ye ken that. The whole clan kent that. Mòrag was raised tae lead this alliance, groomed tae stand at the center of the King's court while I was taught just enough tae be wed off quietly tae some minor border lord. She had the weight of the clan placed on her shoulders, and I was left in her shadow. Ye cannae simply swap us out like horses at a fair and expect me tae play the high lady fer a crown contract I was never meant tae inherit."

"Circumstances have changed the shape of it."

"Circumstances." She turned the word over like it had insulted her personally. "A man rode into a wedding and started a war, and now the shape of it is me."

"Aye," her father said, quiet. "That's precisely what's happened."

"I wasnae prepared fer this." Her voice came out sharper than she meant it, sharper than she'd allowed herself to sound with her father in years, and she didn't take it back. "I dinnae ken how tae be the woman standing between two clans and a king's temper. That was never meant tae be mine tae carry."

"Naething that's happened taeday was meant tae be anyone's tae carry," Fearchar said. "Robert wasnae meant tae drag yer sister out a side door with a knife in his belt. I wasnae meant tae be sitting at this table seven years later. None of us are living the lives we thought we'd be living this morning, lass. That's nae an argument against duty. It's the exact reason duty exists, so someone still stands where they're needed when the plan everyone counted on falls apart."

"That's an easy thing fer ye tae say. Ye came here already kenning what ye wanted."

"I came here tae hold the clan tae a promise the King himself put his seal on. What I want has very little tae dae with it."

"Daesnae it?" She looked at him hard across the table, searching for the crack in that, the seam where his easy certainty might give way to something less convenient for him, and found nothing but the same steady amber gaze he'd worn all through the Council. "I heard ye stood in that hall and argued yer claim like a man arguing fer a piece of land. I’m sure ye never thought of me while ye were daein’ it."

"I thought of ye plenty."

That landed somewhere she hadn't braced for, and she looked down at her hands instead of answering it, because there was nothing safe left to say to a man who could put a sentence together like that and probably mean it.

"Nandag." Her father's voice again, gentler now, though it didn't soften what he was about to say. "I've buried a wife and I've near buried a daughter today, watching Robert drag her out of this castle like she was something he owned. I cannae lose the other one tae a war that's only just started, and I cannae let this clan stand exposed tae Robert's next move because we quibbled over the King's paperwork. I need this settled. I need ye settled. I'm asking ye tae dae this, as yer laird before I'm asking ye as yer faither, though God kens I'm asking as both."

Nandag looked at him for a long moment, at the grey in his beard that seemed to have deepened since morning, at the way his hand shook faintly around the cup he still hadn't drunk from, and found she had no argument left that would survive being said out loud in front of him.

She looked once more at Fearchar, who hadn't moved, hadn't reached for her, hadn't offered a single soft word to make any of this easier to swallow. He only sat there watching her with that same unflinching patience he'd carried into every room she'd seen him in since the courtyard, and something in her chest went tight and airless.

She pushed back her chair and stood.

"Fergive me, Faither." Her voice came out stiff, formal in a way that felt like the only armor she had left in the room. "I need air."

She was through the door before either man could rise to stop her.

Fearchar gave her ten steps before he went after her.

He caught up to her at the base of the servants' stair, close enough to hear the uneven scuff of her bandaged leg against the stone, and matched his stride to hers without a word, which only made her walk faster.

"Ye'll tear the stitches."

"It’s linen, nae stitches. And I'm fine."

"Ye're limping."

"Shouldn’t be yer business, I suppose."

“It is. Ye are tae be me wife soon.”

She stopped, looked at him, turned back and continued through the corridor toward her chambers at a pace that told him exactly how much purpose she meant by it. Skirts gathered in one fist, the other hand trailing along the stone wall for balance she wouldn't admit to needing.

Torches guttered in their brackets as she passed, throwing her shadow long and short and long again across the flagstones, and Fearchar let the silence hold until she reached her door and turned, sharp, to face him.

"Ye are still following me."

"Aye."

"I didnae ask ye tae."