Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

Of course, he had no idea where to take them next. He pictured the two places that served as facsimiles of home for him: a refuge in the city, where he and Fáelán and Rowan stored booty and weapons and occasionally slept; and a renegade’s cave on the western coast by the sea.

He could not imagine Cassia huddling in the dark warrens of the city. Neither could he picture her living out her life in a cave on the sea.

He had no other options.

She stood on the river bank, watching the currents flow past, her head bent, brow furrowed. He knew another spark of guilt for having brought such wreck and ruin to her life.

Guilt truly did not serve an outlaw. He supposed that meant he had to give up all his brigandry, seeing as he could not give up Cassia.

“Where do you want to go, lass?” he asked. “What do you want to do now?”

She turned from the river, her brow still furrowed. “Sooth, sir, I don’t have much to bring to this alliance of ours anymore. I am the daughter of a traitor, heiress to a bankrupt estate that may soon be disseisined, and I have few skills beyond singing a pretty lay.”

He slid an arm behind her back. “You do sing a pretty one. But other than that, ’tis true, you’re right useless.”

She frowned. “I can whittle.”

“Aye, but not well.”

She laid her head against his shoulder and sighed. “Our abilities may limit us.” She lifted her head. “Do you think I would be any use as an outlaw?”

“Absolutely not,” he said quickly. Best to nip such things in the bud. “But if it’s of any interest, I do have an excess of coin.”

She stared straight ahead. “You have what?”

“Money.”

“How does a rogue have an excess of coin?” She tipped her head up to look at him.

He met her gaze. “You do not want to ask.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. They watched the river a few more moments in silence. He could stand here for a hundred years, with his arm around her waist, doing nothing but feeling her breathe.

“Máel?”

“Aye?”

“I have been thinking.”

He smiled. “And I have been waiting. What have you been thinking about?”

“Your oath.”

“Why?” he asked warily.

“As I understand it, there are two terms to said oath.”

In theory, he didn’t like how much she sounded like a jurist. In practice, he very much liked to hear her mind turn.

So he said, “Aye?” and listened as she lifted a finger and tapped it.

“Term number one: You must have your father’s sword. And you do, in fact, have your father’s sword.”

“That I do. And it would never have happened without you.”

“The second term is trickier.”

“Very.”