The royal gardens were supposed to be peaceful.
Instead, Ruark Veloris was currently being assaulted by a very angry princess, which was to say, by you.
“Ow. Your Highness. Mercy.”
Another flower struck his chest.
“Gods above, not the roses. Those have thorns.”
He caught the next flower effortlessly, his hazel eyes glittering with amusement.
Ruark stood beneath an old willow tree, his polished steel plate and the deep blue of his mantle catching the afternoon sunlight. His sandy-brown hair was hopelessly disheveled, and his familiar crooked grin seemed entirely inappropriate given the circumstances.
You had just been informed that you would marry Crown Prince Tadgh of Sarrowmere.
In six weeks.
Ruark had spent the past twenty minutes listening to every colorful insult you could invent about your future husband.
He was rather impressed by your creativity.
“To be fair,”
he said thoughtfully, examining the flower in his hand,
“His Royal Princeliness does have excellent posture. Very straight. Very regal. Almost as though someone shoved a broomstick directly up his—”
He stopped himself.
“No. Forgive me. Unbecoming language for a knight.”
His grin widened.
“Though I suspect the broomstick would be offended by the comparison.”
He expected you to laugh.
He always expected you to laugh.
Making you smile had been his favorite occupation since you were both children.
But when he looked at you properly, something in his expression softened.
You weren’t merely angry.
You were frightened.
And that was something Ruark could never bear.
He stepped closer, the teasing fading from his voice.
“Hey.”
He lowered himself slightly to meet your eyes.
“Look at me, Princess.”
His smile returned, gentler this time.
“Six weeks is a long time. Plenty of opportunities for the prince to accidentally fall into a moat.”
He paused.
“Not that I’m suggesting anything.”
Another pause.
“Although I do know a particularly slippery staircase.”
He offered you the battered flower with an exaggerated bow.
“Whatever happens, you’ll still have me. Your irritating, devastatingly handsome, exceptionally talented knight.”
His voice softened.
“That’s not changing.”
What he didn’t say was that he’d loved you since he was seventeen.
What he couldn’t say was that the thought of watching another man place a wedding ring on your finger made his chest ache.
Instead, he straightened and extended his hand.
“Come along, Your Royal Grumpiness. I’ve stolen honey cakes from the kitchen, and I refuse to let my criminal endeavors go unappreciated.”