“Rory Matheson would nae ever allow his wife such influence,” Lillith suddenly interjected from beside him, startling him. He met her gaze to find a challenging look in her eyes. “Uncle, men like Rory believe women should concern themselves only with household matters and bairns.”
The certainty with which she claimed to know his mind irritated him. “Ye presume much about my beliefs, considering we’ve exchanged but a few words, most of which involved ye wishing me dead.”
Lillith’s lips curved into a smile that held no warmth. “Am I wrong, then? Would ye welcome yer wife’s counsel in matters of clan politics?”
The question felt like a trap, though Rory wasn’t entirely sure why. He opened his mouth to respond, to say that any wise leader considers all valuable counsel regardless of its source, when Lenora’s voice cut through the tension.
“Would ye like more wine?” she asked, already reaching for the flagon before he could answer. Her movements were hurried, almost nervous, as if she sensed the brewing confrontation and sought to divert it.
“I—” Rory began, but it was too late. Lenora’s hand caught the edge of his goblet as she poured, tipping it sideways. Wine cascaded into his lap, the deep red liquid quickly soaking through his braies.
“Oh!” Lenora gasped, dropping the flagon with a clatter. “I’m so sorry! How clumsy of me!” She grabbed a linen napkin and, before Rory could stop her, began dabbing at the wine stain spreading across his thighs.
Heat rushed to Rory’s face, though whether from embarrassment at the situation or from the uncomfortable intimacy of Lenora’s ministrations, he could not say. He gently caught her wrist, stilling her movements.
“’Tis fine,” he said, his voice strained. “I can manage.”
From his other side came a sound suspiciously like stifled laughter. He turned to find Lillith watching the scene with thinly veiled amusement, her eyes dancing with mirth even as she pressed her lips together.
“Something amusing, my lady?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.
“Nae at all,” Lillith replied innocently. “I’m merely admiring how graciously ye handle having wine spilled in yer lap. ’Tis a quality one rarely sees in men of high standing.”
There was something in her tone that made him suspect the incident had not been entirely accidental, though he could not imagine gentle Lenora deliberately embarrassing him. He took the napkin from Lenora’s trembling hand and finished mopping up what he could of the spill.
“I can stand by the fire to dry it,” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice he did not feel. His gaze traveled down the high table, noting the MacLeod women exchanging glances that seemed laden with unspoken meaning.
“Speaking of fire,” Marion MacLeod said, “the annual torchlight procession for Winter Solstice is tomorrow night. ’Tis one of our most beloved traditions.”
Rory welcomed the change of subject. “A torchlight procession?”
“Aye,” Marion continued. “A race of sorts, lighting torches throughout MacLeod lands to welcome the return of longer days.”
“’Tis quite challenging,” Lillith added, her tone suggesting she doubted his ability to participate. “Ye need nae concern yerself with it. Ye’d nae have any chance of winning anyway.”
A smile tugged at his lips despite his trying to repress it. The lass clearly meant to goad him, and to his surprise, he found it more amusing than irritating. “Is that so? And why would ye think that?”
“Because ye do nae know our lands,” she replied with a shrug. “And because ye’re a Matheson.”
“And Mathesons are known for their slow feet?” he countered, raising an eyebrow.
“Among other shortcomings,” she said, the gleam in her eyes unmistakably provocative now.
Rory leaned toward her slightly, lowering his voice. “Perhaps ye might explain this tradition properly, so I can judge for myself whether I’d have a chance.”
Lillith hesitated, as if deciding whether to share the information or continue dismissing him. Finally, she relented. “Participants race from cottage to cottage across MacLeod lands, lighting torches as they go. But before ye can light each torch, ye must drink a goblet of mead at the cottage. The one who has lit the most torches in the allotted time wins.”
“I’d be willing to try my hand at that.”
“Excellent,” Lillith crowed. “I propose a challenge. The MacLeods against the Mathesons.”
“That seems fair,” Rory agreed, sensing the interest of those around them piquing at the prospect of competition. “My men against yers.”
Lillith wagged her finger in his face, close enough that he caught the scent of heather that clung to her. “Nay, ye foolish man. Ye will be pitted against the MacLeod women.”
A hush fell over those within earshot. Rory stared at her, certain he had misheard. “The women?”
“Afraid?” Lillith taunted, her chin lifting in that now-familiar gesture of defiance.
