The Wicked Laird's Promised Bride

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The stone corridor was suffocating. Inside the Great Council chamber, five Highland chiefs were currently barking over land rights, cattle routes, and royal tax exemptions while King James’s clerks scratched quill to parchment with the steady, grating rhythm of cicadas.

Nandag ducked beneath a low archway, caught her skirt on a rosebush, and yanked the heavy wool free with a decisive tug.

"If you rip that plaid, yer faither will make ye wear the rags tae dinner."

Nandag whirled, one hand already smoothing the front of her skirt.

A young warrior leaned against the stone basin of a fountain, a half-eaten apple balanced in his palm.

He wore no formal doublet, no grand brooch of office, only a faded tunic, leather bracers scarred at the wrists, and a belted plaid that had seen more rain than sun.

His hair, thick and bright gold in the afternoon heat, fell across his forehead in wild, uncombed waves.

She looked at him exactly as long as it took to decide he wasn't a guard come to drag her back inside.

"Ye could at least pretend ye didnae see that," she muttered.

"I could." He took another bite of the apple, unhurried. "But then I'd have naething tae hold over ye."

"Ye have naething to hold over me now."

"I have a bush that won."

"Me faither is currently telling the Laird of Grant that his grandfaither was a cattle thief," Nandag said, crossing her arms and stepping onto the gravel path. "Me skirt is the last thing he will care about."

The young man took a loud, crunching bite from the apple. "Grant was a cattle thief. Stole forty head of black cattle off the MacIntyres in ninety-two."

"Ye were there?"

"I wasnae," he said, flicking an apple seed into the water. "But me uncle never stops complaining about it, so it amounts to the same thing."

"So ye just repeat yer uncle's grudges like they're yer own."

"They are me own now. He passed them down. Like a good sword, only heavier."

He tilted his head, amber eyes narrowing as he took her in, from the dust on her shoes to the wooden hairpins slipping out of her dark braid. Nandag resisted the urge to fix them. Barely.

"Ye’re missing the Grand Decree. The King is about tae solve three centuries of murder with five pieces of paper."

"The King is about tae make five old men very angry," Nandag corrected, stepping closer to the fountain to look down into the murky water so she wouldn't have to keep meeting those eyes.

"Me sister was supposed tae come tae Edinburgh.

She had three dresses made. She spent four days curling her hair with hot irons. "

"Fer the King?"

"Fer whichever laird was going tae look at her twice."

"And where is this beauty now?"

"Bedridden with the bloody flux in Stirling," Nandag said flatly. She nudged a stray stone into the basin with the toe of her slipper. "So I was dragged along tae sit on a hard wooden bench and look agreeable."

The warrior let out a low snort, resting his elbows against the stone rim of the fountain. "Ye’re daeing a terrible job of it."

"I am nae looking agreeable here.” She lifted her chin, daring him to disagree. “I am hiding."

"So am I." He straightened, wiping his hand on his plaid. "Which means if ye tell anyone I’m out here, I’ll tell yer faither ye were tossing pebbles at the royal carp."

"They arenae royal," she said, picking up a second stone and dropping it in with a sharp plop. "They’re just fish."

"Everything in Edinburgh belongs tae the King," he said, strolling down the gravel path toward a high hedge of clipped yew. "The fish, the roses, the dirt under yer fingernails."

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.

"Aye," he said quietly. "The signing."

Neither of them moved.

"Ye should go in first," she said. "Wouldnae dae fer anyone tae see us walking in taegether."

"Nay. Wouldnae dae at all." He didn't move either.

She stood, brushing off her skirt, and found him watching her do it. "What?"

"Naething."

"Ye're looking at me like I've grown a second head."

“Lucky fer ye, ye havenae.”

He stood up, brushing the oak shavings from his tartan.

They walked back toward the arched entrance without speaking, close enough that her sleeve brushed his twice before either of them adjusted. The easy banter had gone quiet, but neither of them filled the silence with anything else, which felt, to Nandag, like its own kind of conversation.

At the edge of the courtyard, where the garden path met the flagstones of the palace, he stopped.

She stopped too, a beat later than she should have, and told herself that was only manners.

"So," he said. "Nay names."

"Nay names."

"Which means when I walk in there and ye walk in there, we'll nae even be able tae nod at each other like we ken one another."

"That's the arrangement, aye."

"Terrible arrangement." He didn't step back. Neither did she. "I want it on record that I object."

"Noted. Yer objection changes naething."

"I ken." His eyes dropped, briefly, to her mouth, and came back up to her eyes. "Worth saying anyway."

Nandag's fingers found the fringe of her sash again and fumbled it. She should have turned. She should have said something dry about the venison, or the King, or anything at all, and walked through that archway and never thought of the nameless warrior again.

Instead, she found herself studying the line of his jaw and did not look away fast enough to pretend she hadn't been.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

He took a step closer, closing what little distance manners had left between them, until she could smell cold mountain rain and pine smoke clinging to his plaid. His hand came up, his fingers rough and calloused and surprisingly careful, and cupped the curve of her jaw.

"I hope fate is kinder than kings," he said.

Nandag didn't step back. She tipped her chin up into his hand instead, which was answer enough, and watched his mouth for exactly as long as it took him to close the distance himself.

He kissed her like he'd been waiting the better part of the afternoon to do it. She kissed him back like she'd known, somewhere past the fountain and the caterpillar, that this was where the two of them had been walking all along.

His mouth was warm, firm, tasting faintly of sweet apple. Nandag's fingers curled into the wool of his sleeve, not to steady herself, though she'd have claimed that if pressed, and held on.

Then he pulled back. He smiled and looked down at her, his amber eyes dark beneath the golden hair falling across his brow. He took one step backward and turned into the shadow of the corridor.

Nandag stood alone near the rosebushes, her hand coming up to touch her lower lip where the warmth of his mouth still lingered and made no effort at all to pretend she wasn't disappointed he was gone.

The bells tolled a final, heavy strike.

She forced her feet to move, stepping through the side door into the suffocating heat of the Great Hall. The room was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with nobility, guards, and royal scribes. Torchlight flickered against the tapestries, throwing long, jagged shadows across the high walls.

"There ye are!" her father whispered, accompanying her toward the elevated dais. "The King is taking his seat."

Nandag allowed herself to be dragged into line, her gaze sweeping blindly across the crowded hall. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, her mind still trapped out on the stone wall above the valley.

At the center table, King James sat beneath the royal crest, a heavy silver quill in his thin hand. Surrounding him were five Highland lairds, each stepping forward in turn to press their iron seals into red wax laid out on broad parchment contracts.

Nandag shifted on her feet, leaning around a tall guard to see the men binding their families to the Crown.

A young man stepped forward to take the quill. He was broad-chested, his shoulders square beneath a dark travel cloak, his golden hair catching the torchlight as he inclined his head toward the King.

Nandag’s breath hitched in her throat.

The young man from the fountain took the quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and signed his name with a single, sharp stroke of his wrist. He did not look up at the gallery.

He did not look at the crowds. He pressed his seal into the wax, stepped back, and adjusted the heavy plaid draped over his shoulder.

The broad red and green tartan of Clan Chisholm.