Chapter 1 #2
“Welcome,” he called, taking a moment to revel in the fact that he was a few inches taller than Laird Bryden. Not by much, and the man had a lithe strength to him that would be difficult to take in a fight. But still, height meant something. “Laird Bryden, how good to see ye.”
“Call me Evander,” the other man said firmly, extending a hand.
“Then ye must call me Creighton,” he responded, taking his hand. “We’re all friends here, aye?”
“I hope so,” Evander responded easily enough. His eyes were sharp, chips of green glass darting around as if he anticipated a trick.
“Me cousin, Skye,” Creighton added, gesturing to her. “She’s the sister of Laird MacCrimmon, as I’m sure ye ken. She’s agreed to enter into a betrothal with ye, but the choice will be hers as to whether she’ll wed ye or nae.”
“Understood,” Evander answered, offering her a nod. She didn’t return it, glancing away instead. No doubt Evander thought she was simply shy, and didn’t press for any sort of greeting. “Now, I suppose ye want to meet me peace offerin’.”
Peace offering? Curious choice of words. Creighton said nothing, only lifted his eyebrows expectantly, waiting. Evander stood aside, gesturing to a young woman hovering on the edge of the podium.
Creighton’s gaze slid over to her and stayed there.
She was taller than he’d expected. He’d assumed that Evander would bring some flimsy waif of a girl, but this woman was only about a head shorter than him.
It was hard to tell under that cloak, but he guessed she was thin, though not scrawny.
The cloak itself was an absolute disaster, made of coarse, unattractive green wool with about six inches of mud at the hem. Ugh.
His gaze travelled upward, skipping over the shapeless cloak and concentrating on the part of her that he could see.
She was pale, a little too pale, with fingers stained green at the tips. A healer, then, or at least a woman who spent a lot of time with her fingers tangled in the undergrowth. Her hair, a startling red against the paleness of her skin, was pulled back from her face in an unflattering braid.
It struck him then that she hadn’t even bothered to dress up for the occasion.
Skye, on the other hand, had chosen a sky-blue gown, a new one, and looked remarkably pretty.
It was clear that Evander had dressed his best. Creighton had…
well, he hadn’t dressed up, exactly, or shaved, but he knew he looked good in a plain, loose linen shirt and ordinary kilt.
He didn’t need extra ornaments or primping.
What was more, she was staring at him now, her gaze intent and unapologetic. Rude, almost.
“What’s yer name, lass?” Creighton asked, since it seemed that Evander wasn’t going to bother to introduce them. “And how are ye related to Laird Bryden?”
“I’m nae,” she responded, her voice clear. “But me father was a great Bryden councilman, and I am the foremost healer in the Keep. I think ye will find me skills useful.”
“It’s nae yer skills that have brought ye here,” he responded sweetly.
She didn’t like that, flinching and glancing away, lips pressed together in displeasure.
Not a politician, then, he decided. A politician would have a smooth, pleasant expression on her face right about now. The sort of expression that Evander is wearin’ at this very moment. The same expression that Skye wears.
“Yer name?” he prompted. She flushed, the red spreading easily over her fair skin. The curse of all redheads. The blush climbed up beneath her mask, a flimsy strip of red cloth hastily tied around her eyes.
“Nora Lane,” she responded curtly, almost reluctantly.
She doesnae like me, Creighton thought, and fought back a smile at the thought. The next few months might be interestin’, then.
No, not interesting. Not really. There was no sense in forgetting the point of all this.
Peace.
Peace didn’t come easily. It required something large, a sacrifice. Bloodshed, perhaps, or at the very least some violence.
All he and Evander would have to do, however, was take a strange woman into their keeps for the duration of the betrothal, then presumably return her once it was over.
He’d made sure not to mention anything about marriage.
Nobody really expected these betrothals to end in a wedding, and that was fine. They were for show, nothing more.
Nora glanced at him again, her lips still pressed together. She didn’t even smile. Out of the corner of his eyes, Creighton saw Evander shuffle toward Skye, and they began to speak courteously. Skye was be smiling, knowing the importance of making a good first impression.
Apparently, Nora didn’t care about that.
So what? He told himself, lifting his chin. I can make her smile if I want. I can make her do more than smile if I want. Nae that I do.
He extended his hand with a smile, and she took it after a moment’s hesitation. His fingers closed around hers, and he pulled her arm forward, careful not to give too much of a tug, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
She hadn’t been expecting that. He could tell from her startled intake of breath. Her skin was rough and warm under his lips, and that was all he could tell before she whisked her hand back.
“There’s nay need for that, me Laird,” she muttered stonily.
“So sharp,” he responded, straightening up and leaning forward, pressing into her space and waiting for her to pull back. “Ye ken, I imagined Evander here would bring me a meek wee sheep. Instead, I get ye.”
She pulled back, as he knew that she would.
When she moved, a strange scent caught his nose.
Rich and green, like the forest after rain, with undertones of lavender and mint.
He hadn’t been expecting the scent. There was a headiness to it which almost made him stagger, and he blinked, sucking in a breath.
Had she noticed? He shot a quick look at her face, stony and closed up, and judged that he was safe.
Daenae push it.
He leaned back, out of her space, and she visibly relaxed.
“Well, Nora Lane,” he said at last. “Ye and yer tremendous healin’ talents will be comin’ back with me to Keep MacColl. What do ye think about that?”
She tightened her jaw, tilting up her chin. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done for the safety of me clan.”
“Then we have that in common. A great start, do ye nae think?”
He waited for her to smile, even if it was a polite smile. He didn’t get one.
“Could have been better,” she responded tautly. Now he was the one fighting back a smile.