But even as she spoke the words, unbidden memories surfaced—the way his eyes had met hers across the great hall after she’d refused to dance with him, only to accept Fergus’s offer moments later. The way she felt he’d acknowledged the challenge between them. The thrill that had run through her at that moment was like lightning before a storm.
“Nay,” she said firmly, as much to herself as to her family. “I do nae have any affection for that brute whatsoever. I want to best him tonight and move one step closer to being rid of him completely.”
“If ye say so, sister,” Lenora replied, her voice so soft Lillith almost didn’t catch the skepticism laced through it.
Grandmama Marion’s gaze remained fixed on Lillith, probing and thoughtful in a way that made Lillith want to squirm like a child caught stealing sweets. Before her grandmama could voice whatever thought lay behind that knowing look, a commotion at the castle gates drew their attention.
Rory Matheson strode into the courtyard with his clansmen, their Matheson plaids distinct against the sea of MacLeod plaids. The gathered MacLeods booed and jeered them, and some of them made rude gestures or spat on the ground as the men passed.
Lillith felt a flash of something that might have been embarrassment on behalf of her clan. Without thinking, she stepped forward, her voice ringing out clear and sharp across the courtyard.
“Silence! Is this how we MacLeods show our hospitality to guests? By acting like ill-mannered heathens?” She swept her gaze across the surprised faces of her clansmen. “Ye should be ashamed of yerselves! These men are here at the king’s command. Would ye have the Matheson Clan think we do nae possess any manners?”
The courtyard fell silent, and it felt as if every gaze was now fixed on Lillith in various states of shock. None, however, looked more stunned than Rory himself, whose expression had shifted from wary defiance to something Lillith couldn’t quite name, but it made her heart beat a rapid tattoo.
The realization of what she’d done—publicly defending the man she was supposed to be driving away—hit Lillith with the force of a physical blow. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in her throat.
“Let the games begin!” she announced, her voice slightly higher than usual. “And may the best clan win!” She pointedly avoided the questioning looks from her family, especially Grandmama Marion’s knowing smile.
As clansmen moved to light the ceremonial starting torch, Lillith risked one glance at Rory. The slight, appreciative nod he gave her sent an unwelcome warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the nearby flames.
The starting horn blasted through the courtyard and into the night sky. A roar erupted from the MacLeods as Lillith, with Masie by her side, Grandmama Marion, Aunt Elena, Aunt Sebille, and Lenora burst forward into the darkness, torches in hand. Behind them, Rory, his da, Fergus, and two warriors she’d heard called Domhall and Corran—set off towards the cottages as well.
The night air stung her face as she ran, and her breath puffed white from her lips. Winter had laid its icy grip over Skye, transforming the familiar paths into treacherous passages.Overhead, the stars punctured the black night with fierce, cold light, and the nearly full moon cast enough light that Lillith could make out the frost-covered ground before her. It almost looked as if it were made of sparkling gems.
“Remember the plan!” Aunt Elena called over her shoulder as the women reached a fork in the path.
The women broke apart, each taking a different route through the MacLeod lands. Their strategy was simple, and that’s what would make it effective. They would cover more ground by splitting up rather than traveling as a group. Lillith watched as Rory’s team adopted the same approach, the men dispersing into the darkness.
Lillith took the eastern path that led toward the loch, Masie trotting beside her, the hound’s paws crunching on the frosted ground. She knew these paths well—every twist, every shortcut, every treacherous stone. She’d explored them since she was old enough to walk, much to her family’s constant worry.
The first two cottages were easy victories. The families had cheered as she’d downed the obligatory goblet of mead, then lit the torch. The warmth of the mead spread through her limbs as she set off for her third destination. She crested a slight rise, and her heart jumped at the sight of another torch approaching from the west. Whoever it was moved quickly toward the same cottage she was aiming for. The flame illuminated a familiar tall figure, his long strides eating up the ground.
Rory.
A competitive thrill surged through her, and she quickened her pace, half-sliding down the icy slope in her haste. Masie bounded ahead, barking excitedly at the new game. The cottage—home to old Callum the weaver and his wife—sat nestled at the edge of a small grove of trees, chimney smoke rising like a beacon in the night. Whoever reached it first would likely claim the point.
Lillith’s lungs burned with the effort of running in the cold air, but she pushed herself harder, unwilling to concede victory. Rory must have seen her, for his pace also increased, his longer legs giving him an undeniable advantage on the flat stretch of ground between them and their goal.
“Nay,” Lillith gasped as he began to pull ahead, the space between them widening with each stride. He would reach the cottage first, and there was nothing she could do about it.
But as they neared the cottage, a dark shape suddenly emerged from behind a woodpile. Tavish MacLeod deliberately stepped into Rory’s path. The collision sent Rory and the younger lad tumbling to the frozen ground. The delay was all Lillith needed. She flew past Rory, guilt nipping at her heels as she recalled Lenora’s suggestion. Her sister must have been able to round up some lads to carry out her idea. This was not how Lillith wanted to win—not by trickery or the dishonorable actions of her clansmen. But the cottage door was already open, and old Callum’s wife was waiting with a goblet of mead and an expectant smile.
“First one here, Lady Lillith!” the woman crowed. “Drink up now, quick as ye can!”
Lillith tipped back the goblet, the sweet mead burning a path down her throat. She gasped as she finished, her head already feeling lighter from the combined effects of exertion and mead. With slightly unsteady hands, she touched her torch to the unlit one waiting by the doorway, watching as the flames caught and danced upward.
“How many is that for ye?” Mary asked.
“Three,” Lillith responded with a hiccup.
“Ye best hurry off then so ye’ll make it four!”
As Lillith turned to leave, Rory arrived, his breath coming in great clouds, his expression thunderous. A smear of dirt marked his cheek where he’d fallen, and something about the sight—thegreat Hammer of the Highlands brought low by a simple trip—made a bubble of laughter rise in Lillith’s throat.
“Better luck at the next cottage,” she called, unable to resist the taunt as she darted past him. “Though ye might want to watch yer step. The ground is treacherously icy tonight.”
She was nearly to the path when a strong hand caught her arm, spinning her around. Rory’s face was inches from her own, his blue eyes reflecting the torchlight like twin flames.
