She didn’t know what the devil he meant by that, but she knew by the way he dragged out the word ‘fortunate’ that he didn’t feel that way at all. Her irritation with the whole morning, most especially this man, exploded, and she drew back the bowstring an inch further and pointed the arrow directly at his chest. Her heart doubled its pace and thrummed in her ears. “State yer name and purpose,” she demanded, “before I decide that one arrow was nae enough.”
Rory could scarcely believe his ill fortune. He’d only just crossed onto MacLeod land—land that would soon be allied with his own clan by royal decree—and already he was bleeding from an arrow wound delivered by what appeared to be the most beautiful yet infuriating woman he’d ever encountered. The pain in his shoulder pulsed with each heartbeat, but he kept his expression neutral. He wasn’t about to show weakness before this slip of a lass who unbelievably aimed another arrow at his chest.
“The daughter of Laird MacLeod,” he repeated, as he realized the implications. So, this was one of the twins his da had told him about. “I’m Rory Matheson,” he said, expecting her to soften when he told her who he was, but judging by the fire in her gaze, her continuing to aim her arrow at him, and the look of indifference that settled on her flawless features, she was either unaware of the king’s decree or violently opposed to it. Or mayhap Laird MacLeod had three daughters, and Rory’s da had only told him of the twins he was to choose a wife from.
“Are ye one of the twins?” he asked, finally getting the strip of plaid around his arm and using his left hand to tug on one end and his teeth to tug on the other to tighten the cloth. He had a flesh wound, but it hurt like the devil. When he looked up, he found the lass staring at him with a mixture of contempt, amusement, and regret. It was a strange combination, as if she were at war with herself not to feel a bit of compassion for him when she was the cause of his wound. If she were one of the twins, she certainly would not be the one he would take to wife.
Her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “I am. What matter is it to ye, Rory Matheson, trespasser upon MacLeod land?”
What matter indeed. She was a cheeky wench. He studied her carefully—the proud tilt of her chin, the way she held the bow with practiced ease despite her earlier misses, the golden hair escaping from her braid to frame a face that might have been called angelic if not for the thunderous expression it currentlywore. His da’s words resounded in his head.Choose a biddable lass who will bring peace, nae arguments.
This lass looked far from biddable.
“Does yer sister share yer temperament?” he inquired, trying to sound casual despite his growing unease. What if the other lass was like this one? He did not wish to spend a lifetime arguing like his parents.
“Nay,” she said, suspicion darkening her features. “Why?”
He exhaled his relief. Mayhap the other twin was sweeter. If he was to be forced into marriage by royal decree, he might as well choose the twin less likely to put another arrow in him during their first marital disagreement.
“I’ve come by order of the king,” he said, watching her reaction carefully, “to wed yer sister.” That wasn’t precisely the decree, but it was close enough.
The bow in her hands dipped slightly as surprise flashed across her face, quickly replaced by disbelief and then fury. “We carve out liars’ tongues on the Isle of Skye,” she said, her voice dangerously soft as she raised the bow once more.
He pitied the man who would wed this lass. She was so fiery that she’d burn a man, though he did find her oddly enticing, and he surprised himself by winking at her. “Then yer sister is verra lucky I’m telling the truth and will keep my tongue.” When she gave him a blank look but somehow also stood there with an air of authority over him, he could not resist the opportunity to teach the lass a lesson about men and women that she was clearly unaware of. “There are all sorts of pleasures to be had by a woman from a man who kens what to do with his tongue.”
Her eyes widened, and scandalized outrage replaced some of the suspicion in her gaze. “Ye’re a pig,” she spat, lowering her bow at last.
“And ye’re a poor host,” he countered. “I certainly hope everyone in yer clan does nae greet their guests with arrows and insults.”
“Guests are invited,” she retorted, backing away from him. “Trespassers get what they deserve.”
Rory watched as she turned abruptly, her large hound beside her, and strode toward a dappled mare he hadn’t noticed before that was tethered at the edge of the clearing. She had a most enticing sway to her hips, which was a bloody contradiction to her uninviting personality. “Ye’re just going to leave me here? Bleeding from the wound ye gave me?” he called out.
She paused, one foot in the stirrup, and glanced back at him over her shoulder. For a moment, something that might have been concern flickered across her features. Then her expression hardened. “Dunvegan Castle is that way,” she said, nodding to the west. “Tell the guards at the gate that Lillith sent ye. They’ll see to yer wound.”
Lillith. So this fierce creature had a name to match her spirit. “And what shall I tell yer da when he asks how I came by this wound?”
She had mounted now and sat tall in the saddle with an expression caught between defiance and something else he couldn’t quite identify. “Tell him ye got in my way.”
With that, she dug her heels into the mare’s flanks and was gone, leaving nothing but hoofprints in the snow.
“Charming,” Rory muttered to the empty clearing. He whistled for his destrier, and a moment later, he was guiding his mount in the direction Lillith had indicated. He found himself chuckling as he rode toward the stronghold. Of all the ways he’d imagined his first encounter with the MacLeods, being shot by a golden-haired spitfire had not been among them. He really ought to be furious with her. He should be plotting how to avoid her completely once he reached Dunvegan Castle.
Instead, he found himself wondering what it would take to make Lillith MacLeod smile rather than scowl. With a shake of his head, he pushed away thoughts of the lass who would bring a life of volatility to the man who wed her, and that was not going to be him. Clearly, his wound had addled his wits that he’d even given her another thought at all. No sane man would find himself intrigued by a woman who’d just shot him and then abandoned him in the woods.
No sane man at all.
Chapter Three
Lillith leaned low over her mount to lessen the cold wind stinging her cheeks. Her encounter with Rory Matheson had left her unsettled, and the need to reach home and ensure he’d been lying caused her to spur her mare to faster speeds. She thought of the ongoing feud between her clan and the Matheson Clan, and then she considered what she knew of the king of Scotland from her da. She knew it was not uncommon for the king to wed his subjects for this reason or that, but her da would not agree to a union for her or Lenora to a Matheson without their consent, or any man for that matter. He’d promised them long ago that they could wed for love. And yet, something in Rory’s confident manner made her wonder if there wasn’t some sliver of truth to his words.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered to herself as the trees finally thinned and Dunvegan Castle came into view. She pulled back on the reins and slowed her mare to a trot. Something was happening at her home. Even from this distance, she could see that the courtyard bustled with far more activity than usual for this time of day. Men moved about like ants disturbed from their hill, and horses—far too many horses—were gathered near the stables.
As she drew nearer, she caught the flutter of clan banners she had not expected to see. The blue and green of her Uncle Brus’s MacLeod standard snapped in the winter wind alongside the white banner of her Uncle Rolland’s MacKay clan. What in God’s blood were they doing here? Neither had been expected for a visit, let alone at the same time.
A cold dread settled in Lillith’s stomach, one that had nothing to do with the winter chill. Something was most definitely amiss.
She guided her mare through the castle gates and into the crowded courtyard, nodding to the guardsmen as she passed. Several warriors she recognized from both clans paused in their conversations to watch her ride by, their expressions seeming curious in a way that made her skin prickle with unease.
