Page 3 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"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.