Page 2 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

Nandag followed him, keeping two paces between them. "And ye?"

He looked back over his shoulder, a crooked, fleeting flash of white teeth breaking through his scowl. "I belong tae the glens. And currently, tae whoever is serving the venison at five o'clock."

They drifted deeper into the gardens, where the noise of the palace court faded into the hum of bees and the rustle of wind through oak leaves.

He walked with a lazy, long-legged stride that forced her to quicken her pace, though he matched her step the moment he noticed her trailing.

"Ye're nae from the coast," she observed, watching the way his eyes constantly tracked the high stone walls surrounding the garden, checking the perimeter, the blind spots, the gates, even while he talked nonsense about fish.

"Too much salt," he replied, snapping a sprig of mint from a raised bed and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Destroys the steel. I prefer the mountains. Where a man can see who's coming two miles off."

"Or where a man can hide behind a boulder when he owes money."

He stopped dead, turning on his heel. "I owe nay one."

"Ye look like a man who owes someone five silver pieces and a cow."

He burst out laughing. A bright, unfiltered sound that made a pair of sparrows scatter from the yew branch above them. Nandag felt her own mouth start to go and pressed her lips together before it could get any further than that.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the fabric of her sleeve as he gestured toward her shoulder. "Ye have a caterpillar on yer collar."

Nandag froze, her hand flying up. "Where?"

"Right there." He reached out, flicked a tiny green spot off her plaid, and held his hand up, empty. "Gone. Very dangerous creature. Could have carried ye off."

She swatted his arm, her knuckles catching the hard leather of his bracer. "Ye are insufferable."

"I am a savior of distressed maidens," he corrected, turning back toward the path, clearly pleased with himself. "What dae they call ye when ye arenae hiding in bushes?"

Nandag slowed her steps, her fingers twisting into the fringe of her sash. "Nay names."

He paused, looking back at her.

"If I give ye me name, ye’ll ask which clan I belong tae," she said, ducking her head to avoid his sharp gaze. "And then ye’ll tell me yer uncle hates me faither, or that me laird raided yer winter storehouse in eighty-nine."

The golden-haired warrior watched her for a long beat. The teasing light in his eyes softened, replaced by a quiet, assessing stillness. He slowly let his breath out through his nose and nodded once.

"Nay names," he agreed softly. "Nay lairds. Nay bloody accords."

They sat on a low stone wall overlooking the northern valley, the city of Edinburgh sprawling below them in a tangle of timber roofs and rising chimney smoke. He pulled a small iron knife from his belt and began whittling a scrap of oak he’d picked up near the stables, his long fingers working with quick, practiced ease.

"Me sister once tried tae bake bread once," she said, breaking the silence as she watched shavings of wood curl onto his lap. "She fergot the yeast. It came out looking like a river stone. We used it to keep the pantry door open fer three months."

"Bread is women’s work," he said dryly.

"Baking it is. Eating it isnae. One of our men ate half of it anyway and broke a back tooth."

He let out a quiet chuckle, turning the wood in his palm. "Me sister tried tae ride me faither's warhorse when she was twelve. The horse took one look at her, walked intae the loch, and sat down in three feet of water until she fell off."

"Smart horse."

"Terrible horse," he countered, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Cost me two silver groats tae bribe the groom nae tae tell me father."

Across the grounds, deep iron bells began to toll from the palace chapel. The heavy, rhythmic strikes echoed off the high stone walls, shattering the warm quiet of the afternoon.

The young man stopped his whittling. His hands went still. He tucked the knife back into his belt and blew the wooden dust from his palm.

"The signing," Nandag murmured, staring down at her shoes. The air between them suddenly felt cold, the light shifting as the sun dipped behind the western tower.