Chapter Six #2
“’Tis a fine tale,” Rory acknowledged. The idea of a woman playing such a crucial role in clan politics was unusual but not entirely foreign to him. His own clan had several elder women whose counsel was valued, though never openly acknowledged.
“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.
“Nay,” he replied. “Though I wonder if ye’ll be so eager to face me when ye’re stumbling after yer third goblet of mead.”
“We’ll see who’s the one stumbling after the mead,” she shot back.
The absurdity of the situation struck him suddenly. Here he was, heir to the Matheson Clan, arguing with a woman in hunting leathers about who could drink more mead while running through the night. Yet instead of feeling insulted, he felt strangely invigorated by her challenge.
“Then we have an agreement,” Rory said, extending his hand toward her in the formal manner of sealing a pact between equals. “Ye and yer women against me and my men.”
Lillith looked momentarily surprised before she recovered her composure and clasped his hand with her small, dainty one. “Agreed. Prepare to lose, Matheson.”
The warmth of her hand lingered on his skin long after she’d withdrawn it, a sensation he found himself reluctant to dismiss.
The rest of the meal went by with Rory listening to more rambling about clouds until Lenora finally paused. Just as Rory was inhaling a relieved breath, she said, “Look! The dancing is beginning! I love to dance. Do ye?”
He looked to the great hall and, to his dismay, found that the tables were indeed being pushed back for dancing, and the musicians were already warming up.
He felt he had no choice but to ask Lenora to dance, though his ears still rang from her incessant chatter, and his mind felt numb from the nonsense of her topic. “Would ye care to dance?”
She was out of her seat before he could blink.
A few moments later, Rory was guiding Lenora through the steps of a traditional reel.
The lass seemed determined to find his toes at every turn.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured for the fourth time as her slipper connected painfully with his foot. “I seldom dance, ye see.”
“’Tis all right,” he replied automatically, though he was beginning to wonder if his toes would survive the evening.
Lenora had been talking about the history of knitting patterns in the Highlands for the entirety of the dance in a voice so low that he had to keep asking her to repeat herself, though he did not care in the least to hear what she was saying.
His gaze drifted across the Great Hall to where Lillith was dancing with one of the younger MacLeod warriors.
Unlike her twin, Lillith moved with natural grace, her steps light and sure as she whirled through the complicated patterns of the dance.
She had changed out of her hunting leathers—likely at her da’s insistence—and now wore a gown of deep green that complemented her golden hair and fair skin.
The color reminded him of the Highland forests in summer, deep and vibrant with life.
“The technique originated in the Lowlands, of course,” Lenora was saying, her words barely penetrating his awareness, “but the Highland weavers adapted it to create a more durable thread that could withstand our harsher weather.”
Rory nodded absently, his attention fixed on Lillith.
Her face was transformed when she smiled—a genuine smile, not the mocking one she typically aimed in his direction.
Her partner said something that made her throw back her head and laugh, and his gaze was stuck on the long, very kissable appearing column of her neck.
Something hot and uncomfortable twisted in Rory’s gut.
As the dance ended, the warrior bowed to Lillith, who curtseyed in return before immediately accepting the hand of yet another MacLeod man who had been waiting his turn.
This one was older, perhaps one of her da’s close advisors, but the way Lillith smiled up at him as they began the next dance seemed unnecessarily warm to Rory.
“Which is why I prefer the smaller needles for detailed work,” Lenora concluded, apparently unaware that Rory had not heard a word of her knitting monologue.
The dance mercifully came to an end, and Rory bowed to Lenora, who curtseyed awkwardly, nearly losing her balance in the process. “Thank ye for the dance,” he said politely.
“Oh, it was my pleasure entirely,” Lenora replied, her cheeks flushed either from the exertion or embarrassment at her clumsy performance—perhaps both. “I do hope yer feet aren’t too badly bruised.”
“They’ll recover,” he assured her, offering his arm to escort her from the dance floor.
As they made their way toward the tables where refreshments were laid out, Rory found his gaze drawn once more to Lillith. She was now dancing with a third partner, whose hand rested unnecessarily low on her back. The sight made that uncomfortable twist in his gut tighten further.
“Your attention seems caught,” a voice observed beside him. Rory turned to find Marion MacLeod standing there. She studied Rory with a shrewd gaze that seemed to see more than he was comfortable revealing.