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 another breath, 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. With deliberate 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.”
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 currently wore.
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.