Aisling hesitated only for a moment before walking forward calmly.
She stepped onto the flagstone steps, stopped at a respectful distance, folded her arms, and gave him a proper curtsy.
“Greetings, Prince of Dunmara.
I’ve come for two reasons.”
“Go on,” Ronan said, lifting a hand.
“First—to thank you properly for your courage in saving my life that night.” Aisling glanced back at the servants following her.
“Bring them forward.”
They carried in everything she had prepared that morning and set it all before the hall.
Wine jars tied with red ribbon, along with other gifts arranged neatly in boxes, each marked with a small wooden tag naming its contents.
“I know these small gifts can’t truly repay what I owe you,” Aisling continued, “but please accept them as a token of my thanks.”
“And the second reason?”
Ronan barely glanced at the gifts.
Saving her life had never been about repayment to him.
He had done it because he wanted to.
She was his chosen bride, after all.
Aisling lifted her eyes to meet his and spoke plainly and steadily.
“Our marriage.”
“Oh?
What about it?” He tilted his head slightly, his narrow eyes flickering with interest.
He studied her openly, his curiosity clearly growing.
Every time he’d seen her, she’d left him with a different impression.
The first time, when she’d stepped out of that carriage, he’d seen a delicate noblewoman rally an entire line of soldiers with nothing but her voice.
That had earned his respect.
He’d noticed her then, though he hadn’t thought much more of it at the time.
Once in Dunmore, he’d expected to marry some princess of Kilmore, only to find every one of them lacking the strength he’d been looking for.
The disappointment had brought her back to mind.
A woman that decisive, that calm under pressure, was rare.
He had made up his mind to find her.
And he had.
Even though he’d never truly seen her face before, something about her had marked her out as clearly as a lamp burning in darkness.
He had known her the moment he saw her.
Dressed simply and glowing like moonlight, she’d been even more beautiful than he’d imagined—every bit the vision old poems described.
His pulse had jumped.
His blood had run hot, his head briefly spinning beneath the force of it.
Then he’d witnessed something even more striking.
Her slim wrist had held a sword steady, her skirt catching the night wind like wings.
Dressed entirely in white against the darkness, she’d looked almost unreal.
Yet beneath that delicate appearance was something unshakably strong.
That combination—softness laced with steel—had drawn him in a way he couldn’t shake.
He had known then that only a woman like that could ever be his wife.
Then the Skarrow assassins had shattered the moment. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
Years on the battlefield had kept Ronan sharp enough to knock the arrows aside almost instinctively.
When he’d looked back, Aisling’s sleeve had been pinned to the ground.
She’d hesitated only for a breath before cutting herself free and disappearing from the banquet.
Unsettled, he’d fought his way through the chaos and gone after her.
Just as he’d feared, she wasn’t safe.
Her maids had tried to shield her, but they hadn’t been strong enough.
When one attacker was briefly held back, Ronan watched Aisling drive her sword straight into another man’s heart without a flicker of hesitation.
The man she’d killed had been a Skarrow assassin.
And yet, somehow, it had felt to Ronan as though that blade had gone straight through his own chest.
A heartbeat later, another attacker raised his blade toward her.
Ronan threw a broken arrow, knocking the weapon aside.
Aisling staggered, and he caught her by the waist before she could fall.
She was so slender he could have held her with one hand.
Pressed together like that, he’d seen her loose hair against her pale neck, blood streaked across her face, and somehow the entire image had seemed both sacred and dangerous in the darkness.
No man could have looked at that and felt nothing.
But seeing her now, in daylight, was different again.
For the first time, Ronan could properly study her face and take in every detail of her expression.
She had dressed far more formally today.
Her deep crimson blouse was made of fine Munster silk, its wide sleeves and collar embroidered with pale cloud patterns.
A dark blue pleated skirt was cinched at her waist with a matching crimson sash, emphasizing her slender figure.
The hem fell in graduated panels, while two long ribbons trailed behind her, drifting lightly whenever she moved.
Her hair was pinned high, framed by delicate pearl combs and two gold hairpins whose pearl tassels caught the light with every small movement.
She seemed to glow.
This was the fashion most noblewomen in Dunmore favored, though Aisling herself rarely dressed so elaborately.
Compared with the plain clothing she’d worn before, the bold red and blue made her pale complexion stand out even more.
Her makeup was more pronounced too, a warm rose tint on her lips.
She stood tall and composed, the ribbons behind her drifting in the wind.
For a moment, she looked like a saint stepped down from an old chapel window.
A completely different kind of beauty.
Ronan’s eyes remained fixed on her, unable to look away.
He crossed the distance in two long strides, stopping close enough that he could almost touch her.
His height alone carried a weight most people instinctively felt.
Ronan had been crowned king at sixteen and had never really learned to soften the force of his presence.
Even when he restrained himself, the battlefield edge around him could feel almost suffocating at close range.
And now he was pressing directly into her personal space.
Aisling, who usually kept people at a careful distance, felt that space disappear entirely.
She stood close to five foot six—tall for an age when most people went hungry more often than not—but beside Ronan, she suddenly felt almost childlike.
Her forehead barely reached his chest.
Years of warfare had built him into something solid and powerful, completely unlike her own slight frame.
Aisling steadied her breathing.
She kept her expression calm, tilted her long neck upward, and met his eyes without flinching.
The question caught him off guard.
His thick dark brows twitched, and his eyes dropped slightly.
Southern women tended toward gentle, reserved manners, and Aisling certainly carried that same composed dignity.
But Ronan had already seen the sharper, fiercer side beneath it.
He knew how rare that combination was.
So her coming here today and asking such a direct question didn’t seem strange to him at all.
Oddly enough, it pleased him.
He considered the question for a moment before answering simply,
“You’re not like other southern women.
I like that about you.”
The plainness of the answer left Aisling slightly uncertain.
Different how?
Her appearance?
Her rank?
Her personality?
She still couldn’t tell.
But there was something useful buried in his answer.
He had plainly admitted that he liked her.
She didn’t know exactly what that liking meant or how deep it went, but it suggested he might be willing to bend for her, at least a little.
That was worth something.
She continued.
“Will you marry me as your proper, principal wife?”
“Of course,” he answered without hesitation.
“And under your people’s customs—how many wives is a king permitted?”
“Only you.”
Something shifted in his expression.
He had caught the real question beneath hers.
His eyes narrowed slightly, that strange green light flickering behind them.
Aisling tilted her chin, allowing him to look at her as she met his gaze evenly.
Her striking features seemed even sharper beneath the resolve in her eyes.
“Thank you, Prince of Dunmara, for being clear with me.”
A smile suddenly appeared on her face.
Her eyes curved into soft crescents, her lips forming a delicate rose-colored smile.
But it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come.
Ronan was caught off guard.
Before he could fully take in the sight, Aisling continued.
“I have three conditions.
If you agree to them, Prince of Dunmara, I’ll marry you.”
Her gaze remained steady.
“If not, I can’t.”