Page 71 of Promised to the Wicked 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The royal seal snapped under Robert’s thumb, the white lead seal cracking into powdery dust that settled into the wool of his trousers.

Inside the quiet taproom of the Red Lion, the air was thick with the stink of tallow candles and cheap, sour ale. Outside, the rain spat against the leaded glass, rattling the windowpane in its wooden frame.

Robert smoothed the crisp vellum over the grease-stained oak table, his eyes raking over the lines of tight, Latinate script. Three lines down, the Lord Chancellor’s hand had cut deep into the parchment.

...the claim of Robert Cameron is found null, void, and without standing under Crown law...

Robert's breath hitched in his throat. His eyes skipped lower, searching for the loophole, the conditional stay, the clause that would leave the door open for another petition before the King’s bench.

...the union of Fearchar Chisholm and Nandag Farquharson is formally recognized and ratified by the Sovereign... all right of tenure and lordship of Strathglass rest solely in the hands of the Lady Nandag and her lawful spouse...

A sudden, hot rush of copper tasted sharp on the back of his tongue. He read the final sentence twice.

...Robert Cameron is hereby ordered tae surrender all outstanding writs, to cease all assembly of armed men, and tae yield all claim upon pain of high treason...

Robert's hands closed around the heavy paper. The stiff vellum screeched as he crushed it in his fist, wringing it into a tight, hard ball until the leather strap binding his wrist pinched raw against his skin.

"Robert?"

Malcolm stepped out of the shadow near the cold stone hearth, his pale eyes flickering from Robert's face down to the crumpled wad of parchment in his palm. He looked thin, his collar loose around his neck, his hands resting nervously on his belt.

Robert slammed his iron-gloved fist onto the oak table. The pewter mug jumped, slopping grey ale over the lip and onto the floor.

"The King is a fool," Robert growled, his voice coming out as a dry, choked rasp. "A cowardly, soft-brained fool who lets a Chisholm dog run wild in the north because it saves his clerks the trouble of a march."

Malcolm’s face went white, the skin around his nose pinching tight. He reached out, his long fingers touching the edge of the table. "They... rejected the petition?"

"They wiped their royal asses with me faither's name," Robert snarled, hurling the ball of paper straight into Malcolm’s chest.

It bounced off Malcolm's wool doublet and landed in the wet puddle on the floor. Malcolm dropped to one knee, picking up the soaked vellum. His fingers trembled as he unrolled the crushed sheet, his eyes darting frantically over the ruined lines.

"God above," Malcolm breathed, his shoulders collapsing inward as he read. He looked up at Robert, his eyes wide and wet with sudden, terrified sweat. "Robert... Robert, it’s signed with the Great Seal. If we raise another sword, if we even ride past the southern march, the Crown will brand us outlaws. They will send the Earl of Moray with two hundred pikes tae hunt us down."

"Moray is in Edinburgh counting his coin," Robert spat, stepping around the table until he towered over him. "And King James is three hundred miles south in Whitehall writing bad poetry. Dae ye think a scrap of skin signed by a clerk in Stirling stops a sword in Strathglass?"