Chapter Three #2
“Yer family will be glad to have ye home,” she said, her voice calm, steady, even as her eyes lifted briefly to his before flicking away again. She was trying very hard not to acknowledge the fact that he was exposed from hip to thigh.
Liam considered tugging his tunic lower, but pride kept his hands still. He refused to seem embarrassed, even as heat rose fiercely across his neck and cheeks.
Then her hand moved in a slow, circular motion across his hip, spreading the cool poultice. Her touch brushed very lightly against him.
He flinched.
Saints preserve him. Another brush of her fingers, another accidental graze, and he’d embarrass himself thoroughly.
He shut his eyes and desperately summoned the most revolting images he could muster.
Spoiled meat crawling with maggots. A man retching behind the tanner’s shop.
A jar of leeches. Saints, even eating one.
“Are ye in pain?” Beitris’ voice cut cleanly through his internal torment.
His eyes flew open. He realized, too late, that he was grimacing, teeth clenched.
“Uh… nae.” He cleared his throat. “I am nae fond of leeches.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. He closed his eyes briefly, accepting the humiliation.
Beitris gave him a quizzical look, her lips curved, amusement brightening her eyes. She understood exactly what he’d been doing but was far too kind to call him on it. Or far too entertained.
“I am finished,” she announced gently. She stepped back, turning her back to him as quickly as propriety allowed, giving him privacy while he dressed.
By the time he fastened his belt, she was already tying a square of cloth over a small jar of freshly prepared poultice and securing it with twine. Her movements were quick, practiced, and graceful…so graceful that he found himself watching her longer than he ought to.
He cleared his throat. “The ride here made my leg sore,” he said, testing his weight on it. “But it feels much better now. Thank ye.”
He meant it.
Beitris smiled, a small but genuine curve of her lips, as she handed him the jar. “I am glad,” she said softly. “I am heading home too; we best be on our way. It’s getting dark, and the paths grow tricky once the sun dips.”
Her voice held a note of practicality, but her eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than necessary before she turned and called a quick farewell to Camden. Liam followed her outside, into the cool embrace of the evening.
The village square had settled into the quiet hum of end-of-day contentment.
Torches flickered from iron sconces, their golden glow softening the edges of stone and timber.
The scent of burning wood drifted from nearby hearths, mingling with the faint sweetness of fresh bread wafting from the bakery.
Shadows stretched long across the cobbled ground.
“Where do ye live?” Liam asked, doing his best to keep the tone casual.
Beitris glanced sideways at him, brows rising ever so slightly. “In the rooms above the bakery,” she said, motioning with her chin across the square. “My parents live in the cottage beside it. Keir stays with us sometimes too. I believe he will be here for the celebrations.”
“I will see ye home,” Liam said, already falling into step beside her.
“Ye should nae,” she protested quickly, turning to face him. “It’s best ye not walk too much…”
Her words died the moment he stepped forward, the quiet determination in his stride silencing her. “I’ve gone through worse to see a lady home,” he said, a hint of something teasing touching his tone.
Her breath hitched. She didn’t look away fast enough for him to miss the soft blush rising to her cheeks.
A silence settled between them, comfortable and charged all at once.
The walk to her cottage was not long, but Liam found himself wishing it stretched on for miles.
The fading light cast warm bands of copper and gold through her hair, catching each loose curl as the breeze toyed with them.
Every few steps she’d glance his way, quick, assessing, making sure he wasn’t pushing himself too hard.
He pretended not to notice, but her concern settled into him like a slow, unexpected warmth.
His limp was there, yes, but far less pronounced. He told himself it was the fresh poultice. Pride whispered it was because he refused to stagger beside her.
The square had emptied save for the low murmur of voices drifting from the tavern. Lamplight flickered from the windows of the nearby cottages.
When they reached the bakery, Liam paused several paces back, taking it in the soft, welcoming glow from the hearth light inside, the scent of baking bread lingering around the doorway. It was a place that felt safe, beloved.
“Thank ye for walking me,” Beitris said, her voice quieter now. “Ye didnae need to trouble yerself.”
Liam’s mouth tilted into the ghost of a smile. “It was nae trouble. I would nae rest easy knowing ye walked alone.”
Her fingers toyed with the edge of her cloak, eyes lowering, then lifting again. For one breath, he thought she might say something more, something dangerous, something honest.
But instead she whispered, “Well then… good night, Liam.”
“Good night, Beitris.”
She turned toward the door. He should have stepped away. Should have turned his back.
But she paused again, just before opening it, and looked at him.
Their eyes met.
Something flickered. Warmth, interest, longing. He didn’t dare name.
It lasted only a heartbeat, but it struck through him with the sharp clarity of an arrow loosed true.
Then she disappeared inside.
Liam exhaled slowly, heat tightening his chest. “Fool,” he muttered, though there was no bite to the word. A man who’d only meant to see a lass safely home had no business walking away with his pulse quickened.
The sight of the large cottage, light emanating from the windows, smoke wafting from the chimney, horses grazing nearby was a welcome one.
When he entered, his family greeted him with light and laughter. Effie and his mother fussed over the fabric he’d brought, declaring it the most beautiful they’d ever seen. His father poured whiskey with a grin so broad it tugged at something deep in Liam’s chest.
The scents, peat smoke, stew simmering, and his mother’s lavender soap, wrapped around him like a blanket. For a moment, he had to swallow hard past the lump rising in his throat. It was good to be home. Too good.
While Effie and his mother bustled about the kitchen, ladling fragrant stew into wooden bowls and slicing thick pieces of still-warm bread, Liam’s father settled himself across from him with the determined look of a man preparing for interrogation.
“So tell me,” his father began, leaning forward as he handed Liam a cup of ale, “what rulings has the laird made of late? Any trouble with the boundaries? Any disputes between clansmen?”
Liam chuckled into his drink. His father would have made an exceptional councilman if he’d ever desired the position; no detail of village politics escaped his interest. The steady stream of questions came one after the other.
Land debates, barley stores, the new fencing around the keep, and with each one, Liam felt something inside him loosen.
Here, he wasn’t a wounded warrior or an object of pity.
He was simply Liam, the miller’s son, who had always found a willing listener in his father.
When the stew was finally served, steam curled up in comforting spirals, carrying the scent of herbs and slow-cooked meat.
They ate together at the small wooden table, candles flickering gently against the walls.
The conversation flowed easily, from tales of the upcoming spring fête to Effie laughingly insisting the Ross clan were sure to win the dancing competition.
Then his mother, never subtle, cleared her throat. “Of course,” she said pointedly, “Liam will need a partner for the dancing. There are several fine young women here in the village.”
Liam groaned under his breath, already anticipating what was coming. “I cannae dance.”
“I am sure ye can,” his mother chided.
“I could nae dance before and certainly cannae now.”
Effie’s eyes sparkled mischievously continuing as if he’d not spoken. “Aye! Like Morna, the cobbler’s daughter. She’s pretty.”
“She’s loud,” his mother countered. “What about Isla? Sweet lass, and she can weave like an angel.”
“Too shy,” Effie declared.
His father grinned broadly. “Nora at the seamstress shop has always taken a liking to ye, lad.”
“Mam!” Effie gasped, delighted. “She blushes every time Liam walks in.”
Liam leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, as his family enthusiastically debated which village woman would best suit him, each apparently determined to outmatch the other in ridiculous reasoning.
He didn’t interrupt; he didn’t even try to defend himself.
Instead, he watched them with a smile tugging at his lips.
For the first time in a long while, the ache in his chest eased.
Here, with stew warming his belly and laughter filling the room, the weight he carried day after day seemed to lighten. The love in this small, bustling cottage wrapped around him like a blanket. For this one evening, nothing else mattered, no pain, no limping gait, no stolen dreams.
Just home. Just family.
And the deep, steady comfort of belonging.
His parents retired early, leaving the house wrapped in a gentle hush. Only the fire remained lively, crackling warmly in the hearth. Its amber light danced across the walls and painted soft gold over Effie’s features as she curled her legs beneath her in the chair beside him.
At five-and-twenty, she was well past the age most lasses married, yet she had turned away every suitor, gentle or bold, shy or charming. Liam suspected her heart was already spoken for, though no amount of teasing or prying had ever coaxed the truth out of her. She guarded that secret fiercely.
She studied him now with the same quiet intensity she used when trying to guess the weather by watching the clouds. “Ye look better than the last time I visited,” she said softly. “Still a bit gaunt, but Mam will fix that soon enough.”
Liam snorted under his breath. “Aye, she pinched my arm before bed. Apparently, I am withering like a neglected plant.”
Effie didn’t laugh. Instead, her expression grew solemn, as if she’d been waiting for the noise of the day to fade before revealing what truly weighed on her mind.
“Have ye heard of the stone?” she asked, her voice dropping.
The words slid through him like a cold breeze.
Ah. The Miracle Stone. Nearly every child in Tokavaig had grown up with the tale of a mystical boulder that appeared only on moonless nights.
Revealing itself to a single person and offering one wish before vanishing again.
A comforting story, aye. A bit of magic woven into their mundane lives. But Liam had never once believed it.
“I ken the story,” he said carefully.
Effie leaned forward, firelight catching in her bright eyes. “It appeared to Barre, the butcher’s youngest bairn.”
Liam blinked. The boy with the pronounced lisp.
“Aye?” he asked warily.
“He had it since he first spoke,” Effie breathed, her voice trembling with excitement. “And now it’s gone. Completely gone. Liam, he talks as clear as any child in the village.”
He shrugged, lifting a brow. “The lad is what, ten summers? He could have outgrown it.”
Effie scoffed. “That has naught to do with it! The stone is back. Folk are wandering about on moonless nights again, hoping to see it. And the moon is but a sliver now.” Her eyes softened into a plea. “Ye must go look for it.”
Liam let out a low, strained groan. “Effie, ye ken better than to believe such nonsense. There is nae magic stone. And I am nae stumbling about the dark like some drunkard chasing shadows.”
She laughed despite her seriousness, lifting a hand as though to shield her grin. “I can go with ye. Hold a lantern so ye don’t fall on yer backside.”
He shot her a warning look. “No, Effie.”
The word landed too sharply. He saw it the instant it hit, her face falling, her shoulders dipping. Guilt curled hot in his chest. Effie rarely asked anything of him. And she asked this with such hope and belief.
“Please,” she whispered. “Just one night.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling long and hard. He wanted to say no. Truly, he did. But she looked on the verge of tears, and she’d always been his weakness.
“I will consider it,” he said finally.
Her smile blossomed instantly, soft, triumphant, relieved. It was a smile that said she already imagined him agreeing.
But as he stared into the fire, its flames flickering across the room, the ache in his leg pulsed, a firm reminder of what could not be undone by legends or wishes.
No, he had no intention of searching for a mythical stone.
Not for folklore. Not for false hope.
And not for the quiet, traitorous yearning he’d begun to feel creeping back into his heart.