Page 9 of Outlaw Ever After

It draped off-kilter down his frame, resting on the lip of his belts.

His gaze darted like a hawk to her lyre in the grass then traveled over her face again, washing her in familiarity she couldn’t place, for she’d never met this warrior before.

“Bonny,” he gruffed, a gravelly sound that wasn’t nearly as commanding as the boastful voice he’d employed with his crowd of adoring ladies.

There it was. Her looks. Always a curse to endure.

She wet her lips. Felt his gaze train upon them. “If ye’re going to spout sonnets about the morning dew glistening upon my lips, or the sparkle of the sun in my eyes, I’ve nary an interest in hearing the tired refrains—”

“The song ’twas bonny…play it again,” he rushed out.

As if her remark had bounced off him, he approached her uninvited, dropping to his rear, facing her.

She flinched back in surprise. “Wh-what?”

“Yer voice. The lyre.” He sprawled sideways in the grass, stretching to his satchel, rummaging within, as a parchment with an unmistakable royal insignia tumbled loose. Spiced patchouli wafted to her nose. He withdrew a bone flute with…ink-stained fingers?

Was that the royal treasurer’s insignia sealed upon that ribbon? But he looked like a warrior, nay a parchment pusher.

Then he brought the flute to his lips. Her brows flew up.

Ink? Royal scrolls? Music? Did this warrior spend much time at a writing desk? Was he a warrior? He’d competed like one. He was tall and fit. Trained and armed.

“Ye play music?” she said with wonder. “A braw warrior such as yourself—”

She cut herself off, blush singeing her cheeks. His green eyes danced with amusement. That cocksure smirk he’d worn on the contest field pitched up his lips now.

“The wee crone thinks I’m braw, eh?” He waggled his brows. Cocked up his knees to rest his elbows upon them.

“Crone .” She gasped at the insult, willing herself to not let her eyes dip to where his kilt slipped down his thighs, pleats piling atop that part of a man, barely keeping him modest—

Failing miserably, her gaze bounced away.

He laughed. Such a deep, rich sound. “’Tis clear ye nay want a man to think ye bonny if that tongue lashing was any indication.”

Ah, that divot beside his mouth, lips lush behind his beard, those teeth, the way his eyes squinted into happy half-moons—so strangely familiar.

“Like what ye see, lass?” He was teasing her, she realized. “I’ll nay remark upon yer cronish looks—but ye can remark upon mine all ye like.”

She shook her head and couldn’t contain her giggle this time. “Remark upon yer cronish looks?”

He barked an easy laugh, studying her, until his laughter died. “Ye nay like a man to compliment ye?”

“Does that waggle work on other women?” She ignored his question, though she didn’t miss his scrutiny.

“Apparently it nay worked on ye, songbird.”

Songbird… Her skin tingled with premonition at the sweet endearment.

“And that bothered ye?” She arched a brow.

“Of course no’.”

She smirked at his defensive harrumph. “Clearly. How did ye even notice me here in the shadows?”

“I always listen to the shadows,” he replied, cocking a playful brow, even though she suspected his words were truthful. “That’s where the danger lurks.”

Another laugh welled in her throat. “Am I dangerous?”