Chapter Seven
Lillith stared at the flagstone with Masie beside her. Her stomach fluttered oddly. It had to be excitement for the contest that was about to start, and yet the feeling was the exact one that had struck her last night when her gaze had locked with Rory’s across the great hall.
“What think all of ye to having the men at the west cottages deliberately mislead the Mathesons?” Aunt Elena asked. “They could send them the long way through the woods.”
Grandmama Marion said, “A sound plan.”
“Perhaps the lads could run in front of the Matheson men just as they are running past,” Lenora suggested.
Lillith absently nodded. She could not quit thinking about the previous night at the high table, and the memory of Rory’s face when she’d asked if he’d welcome his wife’s counsel in matters of clan politics.
There had been something in his expression—a flicker of surprise, perhaps even consideration—before Lenora had cut in with her wine-spilling diversion.
For the briefest moment, Lillith had wondered if she’d misjudged him.
If perhaps he wasn’t the sort of man who believed women should speak only of household matters and bairns.
What had he said? She cast her mind back to the moment, and it came to her.
It was something about assuming things about him and what he believed, considering she barely knew him, and considering the few words they had primarily exchanged revolved around her wishing him dead.
The memory made her frown. Was he right?
Had she been too presumptuous? And why did it even matter! She wasn’t considering wedding him.
“Lillith?” Grandmama Marion’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Where’s your mind at? You’ve been staring at the same flagstone for a long spell.”
Lillith blinked, suddenly aware that all four women were watching her with varying degrees of concern and amusement. Masie nudged her hand with a cold nose, as if urging her to respond.
“I was merely thinking that we need to be coordinated if we’re to defeat the Mathesons.”
“And what exactly were ye thinking?” Aunt Elena asked, one eyebrow raised in skepticism.
Before Lillith could formulate a convincing lie, her traitorous tongue betrayed her. “Rory,” she blurted out, immediately wishing she could snatch the name back from the air where it hung between them.
Four pairs of eyes widened in unison, and heat rushed to Lillith’s face. “I meant—I was thinking of how best to defeat Rory Matheson,” she amended hastily. “He strikes me as a formidable opponent, and I was considering which route would be most advantageous to take given his likely choices.”
“Is that so?” Grandmama Marion asked, her voice deceptively light. “And your strategic thinking always causes you to flush?”
Aunt Sebille coughed delicately into her hand, though it did little to disguise her laughter. “Fascinating how our Lillith can make even the planning of a man’s defeat sound like she’s planning to pursue him.”
“I am nae pursuing him!” Lillith protested, mortified to hear the defensiveness in her own voice. “I merely wish to ensure our victory tonight.”
“There would be nothing wrong if ye did wish him to court ye, ye ken,” Lenora said gently. “He’s quite handsome, for a Matheson. And intelligent too, from what little I observed at supper between my prattling about clouds.”
Lillith stared at her sister in disbelief. “Have ye forgotten that he’s here to force one of us into marriage? That neither of us wishes to wed him?”
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.