He’d had enough. With a grunt of effort, he grasped her by the waist and bodily lifted her off him, setting her aside with more gentleness than he felt she deserved, just as his da and Matheson clansmen burst into the already crowded passageway, swords drawn and ready for battle.
The room erupted into chaos. The women gasped in horror, the men bellowed threats, and the accursed white hound continued its enthusiastic assault on his face. He pushed the beast away with one hand while trying to maintain some semblance of dignity—a near impossible task, sprawled on his back like he was in front of everyone. Rory found his senses inexplicably focused on Lillith MacLeod’s scent lingering on his skin, a distraction he could ill afford in this moment.
“Get away from my granddaughter!” An older gentleman—presumably Iain MacLeod, former laird of the clan—stepped forward, his hand moving to the dirk at his belt.
“Yer granddaughter?” Rory’s da bellowed, pushing past Rory to stand protectively between him and the MacLeods. “Yer hellion of a granddaughter just assaulted my son!”
Rory tried to stand, but the blasted hound chose that moment to flop down across his legs, its considerable weight pinning him in place.
“Masie, nae!” Lillith commanded, but the beast merely thumped its tail against the stone floor, clearly pleased with itself. “I did nae assault anyone,” Lillith protested, though she made no move to help free him from her hound. “I was merely trying to leave, and he—” she shot him a glare—“was in my way.”
Her proximity was still annoyingly affecting him. He tried to concentrate on rebutting her ridiculous accusation, but the memory of her softness pressed against him chose this moment to resurface. He got another whiff of her sweet scent, and it made it difficult to concentrate on the escalating argument between their families. It was maddening how his body betrayed him, responding to a woman whose every word and deed should have repulsed him.
“Ye dare accuse my son of impeding yer path when ye were the one on top of him!”
Rory gently pushed the dog off him and finally stood, wishing his da had not caught up to him in the woods, but had instead continued to lag in the journey here so that Rory could have met Laird MacLeod and the rest of the family first. His da’s face was red, and that boded trouble for everyone.
“Da,” Rory tried, but his da waved him to silence.
“The Mathesons have endured many insults from the MacLeods over the years, but attacking my son upon our arrival breaks even yer clan’s low standards of hospitality!”
“Watch yer tongue, Matheson,” a man said, who wore a thunderous expression just as dark as Rory’s own da. “Ye standin my home, and I’ll nae have ye speak ill of my clan or my daughter.”
Everyone began shouting at once. Putting two fingers to his lips, Rory let out a piercing whistle that cut through the cacophony of angry voices. The sudden silence that followed was almost as deafening as the shouting had been.
“’Tis fine,” he announced, his voice carrying the authority he’d cultivated as his da’s heir. “I’m fine, Da.” He placed a restraining hand on his da’s arm, because his da looked like he was about to explode. “There’s nae need for swords to be drawn over a simple misunderstanding.”
His da’s gaze shifted to his shoulder, where blood visibly stained the fabric of his tunic.
“’Tis a flesh wound,” he assured his da again.
His da’s eyes narrowed as he swept his gaze over the assembled MacLeod men. “Which one of these men wounded ye?” he demanded.
Rory had neatly avoided the question in the woods, oddly wishing to protect the lass, though she didn’t deserve it. Rory felt, rather than saw, Lillith stiffen beside him. He turned his head to meet her gaze. There was not even a hint of remorse there. Instead, there was a challenging gleam that made his pulse quicken against his will. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, it felt as though everyone else had disappeared from the crowded corridor.
She lifted her chin, a gesture so defiant it bordered on regal. “’Twas nae a man,” she declared, her voice ringing clear and unrepentant. “’Twas me. I shot yer son.” A heartbeat of silence followed before she added, “I only wish I’d killed him.”
With that final pronouncement, she reached down to snap her fingers at her hound, who immediately abandoned its post at Rory’s feet to trot to her side. Then, as if she hadn’t just confessed to attempted murder before both their clans,Lillith MacLeod turned on her heel and flounced away down the corridor and out of sight with her hound following. The women followed, as a collective party, each looking every bit as defiant and outraged as Lillith had—except Lillith’s twin. Lenora MacLeod, looking appalled at her sister’s behavior, met his gaze briefly as she passed, offering an apologetic smile.
Yet, as he stared after the retreating forms of all the women, it was not Lenora he thought of. It was her sister. He was torn between outrage and a grudging admiration he had no business feeling. No woman had ever spoken to him with such brazen disregard for the consequences. Certainly, no woman had ever shot him and then proclaimed, to his face and before witnesses, that she wished the arrow had found his heart instead of his shoulder.
“That—that—” Rory’s da sputtered, his face now an alarming shade of purple. “My son will nae wed into a family that produces such—such—”
“Choose yer next words with great care, Matheson,” Royce MacLeod warned, his voice deadly quiet.
Rory dragged his attention from the shadowy passageway the lass had stalked down to the more pressing matter of preventing bloodshed between their clans. Yet even as he stepped forward to intervene, he found his thoughts returning to Lillith—to her scent, her weight against him, the flash of defiance in her eyes as she’d admitted to shooting him.
It was troubling how vividly he could recall each detail of her, when by all rights, he should be focusing on the quieter twin who wouldn’t threaten to put an arrow through his heart before the wedding vows were even spoken. Whatever madness had taken hold of him upon their collision needed to be banished from his mind.
“Perhaps,” Rory suggested, forcing a calmness into his voice that he didn’t feel, “we should discuss the king’s decreesomewhere more private.” He gestured toward the solar. “And with fewer weapons drawn.”
The men nodded and murmured agreements, and they marched into the solar, one by one. The door closed with a heavy thud behind them, and Rory stood near the hearth, acutely aware of the MacLeod men studying him with varying degrees of suspicion and curiosity. His da took up a position directly beside him. The tension in the room was as thick as Highland fog, and just as chilling.
Rory watched as the MacLeod laird exchanged a silent look with his da, and then MacLeod gave a slight nod as he blew out a long breath. “Why do nae we all sit,” he suggested, gesturing to the chairs arranged before the fire. His movements were casual, but his voice was controlled. Rory started to sit, though his da stood stiffly, one hand still on the hilt of his sword. The MacLeod pressed his lips together in a hard line, then spoke, though the words looked to pain him. “I offer my sincere apologies for my daughter’s… behavior. Lillith has always been spirited.”
“Spirited?” Rory’s da scoffed. “Is that what ye call attempting to kill the son of a neighboring clan?”
“Lillith would nae have deliberately shot yer son,” a man who had eyes the color of the MacLeod laird said. The man’s tone didn’t carry much conviction in Rory’s opinion. The stranger took a deep breath and added, “She’s headstrong and impulsive, aye, but nae murderous.”
