Page 1 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

CHAPTER ONE

Edinburgh Palace Gardens, 1597

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."