Chapter 1: The Spilled Wine
The air in the great hall was thick enough to chew. Smoke from a hundred torches coiled towards the shadowed vaults of the ceiling, and the scent of roasted meat and spilled ale clung to the damp stone. Kate forced a smile, her jaw aching with the effort, as another tartan-clad lord toasted her health and the glorious union of two kingdoms.
From the high table, she had a perfect view of the man who was to be her husband.
Prince James of Scotland looked carved from the same granite as his castle. He sat straight-backed in his carved chair, his short copper hair catching the firelight, his brown eyes scanning the hall with a detached, assessing coolness. He had barely looked at her all evening. When he had, it was the same look he might give a new horse or a freshly forged sword—an appraisal of assets, of utility.
“To Princess Katherine,” James said, raising his goblet. His voice was a low rumble that cut through the murmur. “May our union bring a lasting peace.”
The hall erupted in cheers. Kate lifted her own goblet, the sweet wine tasting like ash on her tongue. Lasting peace. A pretty phrase for a political cage. Her eyes swept the room, over the bearded faces and glittering jewels, and landed on James as he leaned slightly towards the warrior on his right, a mountain of a man with a rust-colored beard.
The music was loud, but the space between the high table and the dais was not so great. Kate had always been good at listening.
“Aye, she’s comely enough,” James said to his companion, his tone utterly devoid of the warmth he’d just feigned for the crowd. “Quiet, at least. Knows her place. Once the papers are signed, she’ll do what’s required. A broodmare needs only to be sturdy and biddable.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. The air left her lungs. Broodmare. Sturdy. Biddable.
The carefully constructed dam of royal composure she’d maintained for weeks, through the arduous journey north and this interminable feast, shattered. A red haze, hotter than the torch flames, descended over her vision. Her hand, holding the heavy silver goblet, trembled not with fear, but with a fury so pure it was exhilarating.
She didn’t think. She simply acted.
Pushing her chair back, she stood. A few heads turned. She offered James a smile, one that didn’t reach her intoxicating blue eyes. “My lord prince,” she said, her voice clear and sweet as belladonna. “A private word? To discuss the morrow’s ceremony?”
He looked surprised, then annoyed at the interruption. But protocol demanded he oblige. He nodded, shifting in his seat to face her.
Kate stepped forward, moving around the table as if to speak confidentially. Her gown, a deep sapphire velvet, whispered against the rushes. She saw his guard relax, saw James’s own expression shift to one of impatient expectation. He thought she was coming to whisper some timid, feminine concern.
When she was close enough to smell the leather and steel scent of him, she pretended to stumble on the hem of her dress.
It was a convincing performance. She gasped, her body lurching forward. The goblet in her hand, still three-quarters full of dark red wine, described a neat, deliberate arc through the smoky air.
It did not splash him. It splattered him.
A gasp went up from the nearest tables as the wine hit the front of his fine embroidered doublet with a wet, satisfying slap. Crimson bloomed across the cream-colored fabric, a vivid, spreading stain that dripped onto his lap.
The hall fell silent. The music screeched to a halt.
James stared down at the ruin of his clothes, his body utterly still. Then, slowly, his head lifted. His brown eyes, now dark with shock and a dawning, thunderous anger, locked onto hers.
Kate met his gaze without flinching. She allowed a look of perfectly feigned horror to cross her face. “Oh! Your Highness! Forgive me, I am so terribly clumsy!” Her voice was a masterpiece of contrition, but her eyes held a defiant, glittering challenge. Sturdy and biddable, am I?
His friend, the rust-bearded warrior, surged to his feet. “You little—”
“Alistair.” James’s voice was a whip-crack. He did not look away from Kate. He placed his hands flat on the table and pushed himself to his feet, the wine dripping steadily onto the floor. The stain looked like a battle wound.
The silence was absolute, a living thing. Every noble, every servant, every guardsman watched, frozen.
He leaned in close, so only she could hear. The heat of his anger radiated from him. “That,” he murmured, his accent thick and dangerous, “was a very expensive mistake.”
“Yes,” she whispered back, her sweet smile still plastered in place. “I do hope it doesn’t stain. It would be a shame to ruin such… fine tailoring.”
For a long, breathless moment, he simply studied her. The anger in his eyes didn’t fade, but it was joined by something else—a sharp, calculating reassessment. He had seen the fire in her gaze, the deliberate edge to her “clumsiness.” This was no timid mouse. This was a cornered cat with its claws out.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. Then, to the utter astonishment of the entire hall, a sound escaped him. It was a short, hard, utterly humorless puff of air. Not a laugh, but an acknowledgment. The barest nod to a move well-played.
He straightened, addressing the stunned room. “The princess is weary from her journey. The warmth of our Scottish hospitality has overwhelmed her.” He did not take his eyes off Kate. “The feast will continue. I must change.”
He turned, the ruined doublet a bold declaration of her rebellion, and walked from the dais with stiff, deliberate steps. The whispers began the moment his back was turned, rising like the hiss of a tide.
Kate stood there, the empty goblet cold in her hand. The surge of triumph was already cooling, leaving a hollow, shaky feeling in its wake. She had drawn a line in the sand, or rather, in wine. She had shown him she would not be cowed.
But as she watched his retreating back, the weight of what she had done settled on her shoulders. She had publicly humiliated the future King of Scotland on the eve of their wedding. The cage was still there, but now the bars felt sharper, and the man who held the key was not a disinterested keeper. He was a warrior prince, and she had just declared war.
And from the way he had looked at her in that final second, a glint in those hard brown eyes, she knew he was more than ready to fight.