Chapter Seven #2
“First one here, Lady Lillith!” the woman crowed. “Drink up now, quick as ye can!”
Lillith tipped back the goblet, the sweet mead burning a path down her throat.
She gasped as she finished, her head already feeling lighter from the combined effects of exertion and mead.
With slightly unsteady hands, she touched her torch to the unlit one waiting by the doorway, watching as the flames caught and danced upward.
“How many is that for ye?” Mary asked.
“Three,” Lillith responded with a hiccup.
“Ye best hurry off then so ye’ll make it four!”
As Lillith turned to leave, Rory arrived, his breath coming in great clouds, his expression thunderous.
A smear of dirt marked his cheek where he’d fallen, and something about the sight—the great Hammer of the Highlands brought low by a simple trip—made a bubble of laughter rise in Lillith’s throat.
“Better luck at the next cottage,” she called, unable to resist the taunt as she darted past him. “Though ye might want to watch yer step. The ground is treacherously icy tonight.”
She was nearly to the path when a strong hand caught her arm, spinning her around. Rory’s face was inches from her own, his blue eyes reflecting the torchlight like twin flames.
“Ye’ve got yer clansmen cheating for ye,” he said, his voice low and tight with controlled anger. “Is that how MacLeods win their competitions? By dishonorable means?”
The truth of the accusation stung sharply, and guilt washed over Lillith. She glanced back toward the cottage where Tavish still lingered, looking far too pleased with himself.
“I did nae ask him to do that,” she said, though the defense sounded weak even to her own ears.
“Yet ye took advantage of it readily enough.” Rory’s grip on her arm was firm but not painful. “I’ll still beat ye, Lillith, even if yer entire clan conspires to throw me to the ground at every turn.”
The use of her given name sent an unexpected shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold. This close, she could see the stubble darkening his jaw and smell the scent of leather and smoke that clung to him.
“If ye win by cheating,” he continued, his breath warm against her cold-flushed cheek, “ye’ve nae truly won at all, have ye?”
The words settled in her chest with the weight of truth. Blast the man! He was right, and she knew it.
“Ye’re right,” she admitted, shame burning her face, her neck, and her chest, despite the bitter cold. Rory’s eyebrows rose in obvious surprise, and the anger in his expression gave way to something more complex. “I’ll speak to anyone I see and tell them nae to interfere.”
Rory studied her face for a long moment, as if searching for the lie beneath her words. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him, for he released her arm with a nod.
“There’s a cottage just beyond that stand of firs,” Lillith said, pointing to the east. “It’s unvisited yet—I can tell by the unlit torch. Take it as yers, and we’ll start fresh from there.”
“Even the score, is it?” A smile tugged up the corners of his mouth, transforming his face in a way that made Lillith’s heart perform a strange little leap in her chest.
“Even and fair,” she confirmed, fighting to keep her voice steady. “May the best competitor win.”
Rory’s smile widened into something genuine and warm. “I intend to,” he said, and with a mock salute, he raced toward the cottage she’d indicated.
Lillith stood watching him for a moment longer than necessary, with Masie whining questioningly at her feet. “Come, girl,” she said finally, giving herself a mental shake. “We’ve a contest to win—fairly this time.”
Rory ducked beneath the low hang of the cottage door.
He’d underestimated Lillith—a mistake he would not make again.
The lass was not only fiercer than a winter storm but as strategic as any warrior he’d faced in battle.
Her quick thinking, her knowledge of the terrain, and her sheer determination had impressed him, despite his reluctance to admit it.
When she’d acknowledged the unfairness of her clansman’s interference and offered him an unclaimed cottage to even the score, respect had risen for her. The lass had honor.
The old man inside the cottage grinned toothlessly as he handed Rory a goblet of mead. “First person we’ve seen tonight,” he croaked.
Rory downed the mead in three long swallows, and the liquid left a trail of warmth down his throat and to his belly.
He was no stranger to strong drink, but even he was beginning to feel the effects after four cottages.
He could only imagine how Lillith was feeling, given her slight frame.
The thought brought a smile to his lips as he lit the cottage’s torch and stepped back into the frigid night.
The stars blinked above him, clear and sharp. He paused, orienting himself to the landmarks Lillith had pointed out earlier. The next cottage should be just beyond that rise, if he remembered correctly.
A figure appeared from the shadows of a nearby stand of trees—one of the MacLeod men.
“Ye’re heading the wrong way, Matheson,” the man called, gesturing toward a narrow path leading away from the rise. “The next unclaimed cottage is down that way, near the old oak.”
Rory hesitated. The man’s directions contradicted what Lillith had told him, but perhaps she’d been mistaken. Or perhaps…
“My thanks,” Rory said, deliberately starting down the indicated path. He waited until the MacLeod warrior had disappeared back into the trees before doubling back. As he suspected, the path didn’t lead toward any cottage but into a boggy area where the ground grew treacherous underfoot.
He didn’t blame Lillith. She could only tell those she encountered not to keep up the treachery. He needed a strategy that accounted for those Lillith didn’t encounter to continue their cheating. An idea came to him. Instead of competing cottage by cottage, he would track Lillith herself.
The next cottage came into view, a humble dwelling with smoke curling from its chimney.
Through the small window, Rory saw a flash of golden hair that could only belong to Lillith or her twin.
He approached cautiously, keeping to the shadows until he was certain.
Yes, it was Lillith, because her hound was with her.
She was accepting a goblet of mead from the cottage’s matron, and he could see that her cheeks were flushed, mayhap from exertion or the previous goblets of mead.
Rory waited until she had just raised the goblet to her lips before striding through the door with purposeful steps.
“Good evening,” he chirped, startling both Lillith and the older woman. “I believe I’m just in time.”
The cottage’s mistress—a plump, ruddy-faced woman with graying braids—blinked in surprise before quickly pouring a second goblet and offering it to him. “Drink up then. ’Tis a race, after all.”
Lillith coughed, nearly choking on her mead. “What are ye doing here?” she demanded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a gesture that was somehow both unladylike and utterly charming.
Rory did not answer immediately. Instead, he maintained eye contact with her as he drained his goblet in one continuous draft, then swiftly turned to light the torch by the hearth fire. Only then did he face her again, a grin spreading across his face.
“Winning,” he said.
Lillith’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Rory. “Ye’re following me.”
“Aye,” he admitted without shame. “Just as yer clansmen are deliberately leading me astray. All’s fair in… competition, is it nae?”
A moment of silence stretched between them before Lillith’s lips twitched upward. “Clever,” she conceded, though the word held more challenge than compliment. “But ye’ll nae catch me so easily again.”
“I do nae intend to catch ye,” he replied, winking. “At this point, I’m just going to outrun ye after ye lead me in the right direction.”
Lillith gasped, swiveled away from him, and attempted to race off.
A deep chuckle took hold of him, turning into laughter that brought tears to his eyes.
He didn’t bother to run at full speed at first, as two of her strides were likely one of his.
Ahead, she ran on the trail, hair flying behind her, and her hound barking by her side.
Just when the cottage came into view, he picked up his pace and easily overcame her.
“Devil take ye, Rory Matheson!”
“Och!” he called over his shoulder. “Do nae be such a sore loser!” He reached the cottage and had down the entire cup of mead before she came huffing in the door, chest heaving enticingly, and her hair in wild disarray around her face and tumbling over her shoulders.
He had a sudden desire to run his fingers through her strands and see if they slid like silk across his skin.
Desire hit him even as she stalked toward him.
“Ye’re cheating!” she bellowed as he lit the torch with the cottage proprietors gawking between the two of them.
“I told ye exactly what—”
She swiveled on her heel once more and dashed to the door, but this time, she slammed it shut in his face.
His merriment with her outrage and the fun of competing with her had him laughing again, as he dashed to the door and threw it open to catch up with her.
He blinked in surprise at how far she’d already gotten.
The little hellion had more speed in her than he had counted upon.
Even pushing himself, he did not catch up to her until she was halfway through her goblet of mead at the next cottage.
Luckily, his ability to gulp down the drink was far superior to hers.
He finished it in three swallows, banged the cup down one breath before she did, and then lunged toward the torch to light it.
“Ye’re horrid!” she bellowed, hiccupped, and swayed where she stood.
Rory grinned. “Ye need to be careful,” he said. “The mead is going to yer head.”