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But I am the son of Bern Stokerton. Proud Highlander and a good man. Equally important, I am the son of Lady Mariam, great-granddaughter of one of the greatest Legion of Ash members who ever existed. And though the legion is no more, the particular ways of those warriors fading, their vows were not only instilled in their members, but in their families as well.

No price is worth the loss of integritatem. Once lost, it cannot be bought back.

“I would speak to you, Reyne.”

Those words might very well mean doom for Edingham. Without the Highlanders’ support, Cettina is convinced her will may not be enough to avoid a war.

“Are we not talking now?”

I look around the courtyard. None of the other guests seem to pay us any mind. And no wonder. The fire burns high and bright. The food and music and wine have lulled our companions into a state of contentment.

“Come.”

We make our way around the fire, and I lead her down the cobblestone walkway, less well-lit than the main path, to a seated alcove.

“How did you know this was here?”

“I’ve been trained to notice things,” I say, holding out my hand and gesturing toward the velvet cushions that had likely been placed on the stone seats for this very event.

I sit across from her, a torch from an embrasure above illuminating Reyne’s untamed red hair as she moves it back over her shoulders.

She’s grown so lovely. Into a woman I’d gladly take as my wife, a possibility that will become much less likely after this conversation.

Reyne does not sit.

Instead, she makes to move past me but stops so close we could be touching.

“Would you like to sit?” I ask. “We must talk, Reyne.”

Her lips open so slightly I might have missed it were it not for the torchlight above us. We are close enough to hear the music in the courtyard, but these are not joyful pipes. Instead, a harpist begins to play. The haunting sounds give the moment a much more poignant feel, as if . . .

As if it means to bring us together.

She wants you to kiss her.

Reyne will want no such thing in a moment. I am almost uncourtly enough to take advantage of the situation, driven by the thoughts of kissing her that have swirled through my head from the moment I saw her outside that tent. The last thing I wanted before this journey was a wife. That I did not recoil from the idea can be ascribed to the very pleasing notion of being joined to this woman whose lips are mere inches from mine.

I can almost feel the taste of her already.

But if we kiss . . .

If we kiss, our path is set. Until the moment, a fortnight from now, when she learns I’ve been deceiving her. If I wait so long, it is likely she will refuse to marry me then, so what am I really risking now?

Damn Moray.

“Please,” I say, instead of pulling her toward me and taking that which we both want. “We must talk.”

Rather than wait for her to do so, I uncourteously sit before she does. I need to put distance between us. The look of disappointment on her face is such that I drink deeply from the goblet I still carry, wishing I’d taken more before we found this lovers’ corner.

Shifting on the soft velvet cushion, I take a deep breath and attempt to remind my wayward body there’ll be no kissing tonight. Not only will I not taste those luscious lips, I’ll be quite lucky if Reyne allows me to escort her back to the tents.

Where do I begin?

“I’m sorry, Reyne.”

Again, before the words spill from my mouth, I wonder if this is the right decision. If Lord Rawlins truly was behind the attack on Saitford, and is now planning another such onslaught, my mission here has shifted from gaining the support of Moray and the Highland lords to uncovering and stopping a potential plot.

Or both.