Page 7 of Edge of the Wild

She fought the urge to spin around and march back inside: this was her home, and she wouldn’t allow him to run her away from any part of it. “I wished to avoid further conflict with my mother,” she said with a sniff. “Trust I wasn’t afraid of sparring withyou, my lord.”

A beat passed, and then he chuckled. “You hate me, don’t you?”

She turned to him, one hand on the cold, iron bannister, and saw the glint of moonlight on his hair, and on his eyes. He wore a heavy fur cloak over his shining silks, bulking him out in a way that, nevertheless, managed to draw attention to the line of his throat, and the scar that bisected it.

What she’d intended to say died on her tongue. Instead, she said, “I’ve never cared about you enough to hate you. I hate that I’ll have to marry you, or someone like you, for the sake of my family.”

The breeze gusted sharply behind her, streaming her hair over her face, pushing her closer to Reginald.

He inhaled audibly, and said, “Ah. Who is he?”

“Who’s who?”

“Forgive me, my lady, but youreekof sex. Who’s the man you want to marry but aren’t allowed to?”

She reacted on instinct. In a few strides, she charged across the balcony, gripped the front of his cloak, and cocked her fist back.

He didn’t resist. In fact, he bent back and showed her his throat, in all its scarred vulnerability. His teeth flashed as he grinned. “How ladylike.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, but, ashamed, released him, and turned away to stalk back down to the far end of the balcony. She was shaking, again, and had once more lost control of the fine tremors that had wracked her in her room, before Malcolm had come to her.

It was silent a long moment, one in which she refused to retreat on principle, and wished that he would instead.

He stayed. And finally said, “For what it’s worth, I don’t want to marry you either.”

She turned back, shooting him a glare that she hoped he could see in the moonlight.

He’d moved to stand at the rail, one elbow resting on it; the wind tossed his curls. “I don’t mean it as an insult, but, truly, you and I would never suit.”

“That might be the first true thing I’ve ever heard you say,” she allowed, grudgingly.

He shrugged. “Oh, I’m full of truths, but they get so covered up by my being a pompous ass no one usually notices.”

She felt her brow smooth, anger ebbing.

“Here’s another truth for you: I really am sorry that your sister was sent to Aeretoll.”

“Whoever she marries, she won’t come home empty-handed, not my dutiful sister. She’s beyond your reach, now.”

“I know. I would have no hope of beating a Northman in a duel for her hand – not even before the war.” The hand at his side twitched, began to lift, and then stilled. She thought he might have been about to touch the scar on his throat. He said, “Did your cousinactuallyfuck the king?”

He sounded so genuinely curious, and thought of Oliver, with his temper, and his face flushed beneath his freckles tickled her so much that she felt a smile threaten. “Tessa would never use that word.”

“Oh, to be sure.”

“But from what she says, he’s to be made consort.”

Reginald whistled.

“He’s to attend the king on his trek to the Wastes for the Midwinter Festival.”

He chuckled. “Nowthere’sa place Oliver will fit in.”

“He’s not as overgroomed as you,” she shot back.

“No, but I’m not going to treat with clan barbarians, either.”

The silence that followed didn’t bristle quite like the first.

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