And if she did not? The thought made his chest constrict painfully. What then?
The question remained unanswered as he lay in the darkness, listening to his wife’s breathing and longing for thewarmth that had always been his comfort through the cold Highland nights.
Chapter Two
The arrow missed its mark for the fourth time, skimming past the wooden target to disappear among the snow-laden pines.
“God’s blood!” Lillith swore under her breath as she reached for another arrow from her quiver. Beside her, Masie barked. Lillith looked to her beloved hound and spoke to her, as she always did, as if Masie could understand her, because honestly, Lillith believed she could. “If I kinnae hit a stationary target, how can I expect to bring down a charging boar in the Winter Hunt?” Masie wagged her tail, to which Lillith smiled. “Ye see, Masie, I must prove my skill to convince Da to let me become a warrior. Now be a good girl and be verra quiet.”
Lillith cradled her bow and arrow between her arm and hip and made fists with both of her hands to get the blood flowing better. The cold was making her fingers stiff. Satisfied that she’d done all she could, she drew back the bowstring once more. She’d been at this since dawn. Her arms ached from the repetitive motion, and her muscles burned beneath the layers of wool and fur she’d donned to come out here this morning, but she was not going to quit until she hit her mark consistently. A few errant strands of her hair blew across her face with a gust of wind, but she dared not release the tension on her bow to brush them away.
“Focus,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes at the painted circle on the oak trunk some thirty paces away. The mid-morning light filtered through the trees, casting dappled patterns across the snow that made her target seem to shift and waver.
She exhaled and adjusted her stance slightly as her Uncle Brus had taught her to balance her weight. Drawing anotherbreath, she let it out slowly and sighted along the arrow shaft. Just as she released her arrow, movement flickered at the edge of her vision, and a mounted rider broke through the trees directly in her line of fire.
Masie started barking wildly, and Lillith cried out a warning, but it was too late. The arrow struck the rider, and the man jerked backward, losing his balance and tumbling from his mount in a tangle of limbs and winter furs.
Lillith stood frozen for a heartbeat, disbelief washing over her in a cold wave that had nothing to do with the winter air. Then, reality crashed over her like a wave, bringing her back to the moment and the truth of it. She took off toward the fallen man with Masie on her heels, and her bow still clutched in her hand. Her boots sank in the snow, making her progress slower than she wished as she raced toward the fallen stranger.
“Are ye hurt? I did nae see ye coming!” she called, though the question was foolish. Of course, he was hurt—she’d shot him!
The man was already struggling to his feet when she reached him, and she was relieved to see her arrow had not sunk deep. Blood seeped between his fingers, but it was not a steady flow. He had his head down, looking at his wound, and his thick brown hair had swung forward to mask his face. With a swift motion, he jerked the arrow out of his arm, threw it to the ground, ripped a strand of material from his plaid, and started to attempt to tie it around his wound, as Lillith stood there dazed.
“Damnation!” he cursed, the single word echoing in the silence of the woods. Lillith jerked in response, and the man’s destrier, who had trotted a short distance away, neighed nervously and pawed at the ground.
“Let me help ye,” Lillith offered, shrugging off her stupor.
The man jerked his head up, glaring at her with icy blue eyes. “Ye shot me!” he growled, his tone furious.
Lillith’s initial concern gave way immediately to defensive anger, and she returned the man’s glare with one of her own as she drew herself to her full height, which irritatingly brought her only to his chin. “Ye rode into my path!” she retorted, taking a step backward. “What kind of clot-heid charges through trees where someone is clearly practicing archery?” She gestured toward the target she’d been aiming for, which was visible even from where they stood.
“Clearly practicing?” The man’s voice had taken on a mocking tone that she did not care for at all. “If the lack of arrows in yer target is any indication of yer skill, I’d say ye need a lot more practice.”
Her cheeks burned hot despite the cold. “How dare ye! I was about to make a perfect shot when ye interrupted me.”
“Perfect, was it?” he scoffed, fumbling with the dangling piece of torn plaid he was attempting to tie around his arm to no avail. “Ye were nae anywhere near yer target!”
His accent marked him as a Highlander, but not from Skye. The realization that he was not one of their clansmen suddenly made Lillith wary. She took another step back, truly sizing him up properly. He had a strong jaw darkened with several days’ growth of beard, and his blue eyes had darkened to the color of a sky before a winter storm. She swept her gaze quickly over the length of his body. He was all muscle—definitely a warrior.
“Who are ye?” she demanded.
“Who are ye?” he returned, instead of answering her question. She ground her teeth. This attitude of men expecting women to be utterly biddable was but one of the many reasons she did not ever wish to wed.
They glared at each other in tense silence, neither willing to answer first. Lillith noticed how the stranger’s gaze flickered to her bow, which she still held loosely in her left hand. Withdeliberate slowness, she reached for another arrow from her quiver.
“I asked ye a question,” the man said, his eyes tracking her movement.
“Aye, and I feel about as obligated to answer it as ye do my question,” she bit out, nocking her arrow but not yet drawing back the string.
A muscle ticked in the man’s jaw as he assessed her. “Intending to shoot me again, are ye?”
“I’m simply protecting myself. Ye’re a stranger on my land.” She raised her bow halfway to point the arrow loosely in his direction.
“Ye’re the MacLeod laird then, are ye?” he mocked.
The man was insufferable. “I’m his daughter,” she snapped back.
The stranger’s expression flashed with something that might have been recognition but was replaced almost immediately by cold assessment. He swept his gaze over her from head to toe, then back again, making her feel exposed, even though she wore layers of clothing. When he brought his eyes to hers, she felt as if his gaze bore into her. “The daughter of Laird MacLeod,” he repeated, his tone unreadable. “How very… fortunate for me.”
