Page 13 of The Emerald Oath

She kneels and sets her basket aside. Her hand brushes lightly over the primrose leaves, then gathers a few strands of dew from the frilled edges, wiping them deftly onto a small square of linen.

“For beauty and good fortune, is it?” I ask.

“For health. And for tradition. And wipe that smirk off your face; it’s not some faerie charm I’m after.”

I let a slow grin pull at the corner of my mouth. “Shame,” I say lightly. “I was hopin’ to see ye leave an offerin’ for whatever poor soul has to court you.”

She gives me that long, unimpressed look, but there’s a traitorous pull at her mouth. “Not all of life is for sport, James.”

“There it is.”

She glances up, wary. “What?”

“Ye hardly ever called me James.” I tap my chest. “I’m ‘Lairdling’ when ye’re annoyed, ‘Sinclair’ when ye’re near snappin’… but James?” I let out a low whistle. “Bealtaine must be a magical day indeed.”

“Dinnae be a gowk. You are a wee Lairdling,” she says evenly, turning back to the primroses. “And I’m sure ye’re used to hearin’ yer name shouted across half the estate. Most times when ye’re in trouble, or about to be.”

Her words are meant to scold, but they land warm, far too warm, settling low in my chest.

I breathe out, slow. “Aye… I hear my name shouted often enough.”

I let my gaze linger on her form for a beat longer than polite.

“But coming from you…” My voice drops, slow and intimate. “… for any reason at all—trouble, heat, or otherwise—I’d listen a great deal closer. I imagine my name could sound… sinful on your tongue.”

She pauses at that, fingers hovering over the petals—a tiny hitch of breath and motion I only notice because I’m already watching her too closely for my own good.

Colour blooms over her throat, rising to her cheeks. She tries to glare, tries so hard, but her lips part slightly, betraying her.

“Have you lost yer wits?” she whisper shouts. “Dinnae say things like that.”

“Stop makin’ ‘em true,” I reply.

She flusters—truly flusters—colour blooming so fiercely she turns her face from mine.

Then—like a flame snuffed—she draws her shoulders back, gathers herself, and turns away from me. She reaches for the primroses with neat, efficient precision, pinching off a bloom as if nothing at all has happened.

No waste. No fuss. No trace of the moment she almost let slip.

I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth, slow and reverent, like I’m watching something holy and dangerous unfurl.

“Ye ought to be down at the byres,” she says after a moment. “Yer fathers had the men up since before dawn. They’ll be driving the beasts later⁠—”

“I ken,” I cut in. “I’ve been down already.”

“And left?”

“I was drawn away by solemn duty.”

She makes a quiet, derisive sound. “Aye? Which is?”

I crouch beside her, careful not to crush anything underfoot. From this close, I can see the fine scatter of freckles across her cheeks, and how the dew lights her skin with a quiet, otherworldly shine—as though the morning itself is laying favour upon her.

And Gods help me—the soft curve where her neck meets her shoulder, the faint flush warming her skin there, and the quick, delicate beat of her pulse—all of it stirs heat low in my body, swift and wholly unbidden.

It seems an indecent reaction to something so gentle—yet she has me feeling all manner of things with no effort at all.

I force my gaze back to the primroses, feigning study, though my treacherous pulse is still answering the quick beat I’d seen at her throat. And I try—poorly—to look anything other than a man undone by her, yet she makes restraint feel like a fragile thing.