Taking her hand, Alex slid the ring onto her slender finger. It was a substantial piece of jewelry. The band was thick and engraved with an intricate design taken from the Seton arms, and a large sapphire—nearly a half-inch in diameter—was inset in the middle with another thick band of decorated gold around the edge.

It wasn’t until he saw her holding it out to look at it on her hand that he wondered if she would like it. It had been in his family for so long he’d always assumed his bride would wear it. But perhaps she would like something more delicate and heavily jeweled.

“If you don’t like it,” he said, “I can have something made.”

She snatched her hand back as if he were trying to take it from her. “I love it. It’s the most beautiful ring I have ever seen. I would be honored to wear it for as long as you wish me to.” It was a strange thing to say, and he might have followed up on it had she not asked him a question. “You said you got it from your mother. Was it hers?”

He nodded. “For a time. She gave it to my brother to give to his wife, but when Chris died, Christina returned it to the family.” Not only had his brother been one of Robert the Bruce’s closest companions, he’d been married to his sister, Christina Bruce. “It’s been in our family for generations, though.” He smiled. “Family legend says that it was given to an illustrious ancestor by Charlemagne for deeds on the battlefield, but I think it more likely that it came from another ancestor, the Count of Boulogne—our arms came from him.”

“The dragon?” she asked.

He tensed but could not completely stave off the pang that landed somewhere in his gut. “Wyvern,” he corrected automatically.

“Of course,” she said.

She’d turned her face from his, but he sensed something anxious—almost nervous—in her voice.

It was an odd mistake to make. Most women of her rank would have been raised to identify the symbols of arms easily and with the correct terminology. When Alex had been a member of the Highland Guard, Lachlan MacRuairi had purposefully called it a dragon to annoy him. It had worked. It had also eventually led to his war name. Now it only brought back memories that he’d tried for two years to push aside.

Perhaps sensing his question, she explained hastily, “I saw the inscription on your sword.”

Metuenda Corolla Draconis. Fear the Dragon Shield. Bruce had given him the sword some time ago, and he probably should have left it behind, but he’d been reluctant to get rid of it. But how had she seen . . .

“I noticed it when you were fighting with Sir Robert Felton.”