Chapter Four #2
“This will be the last treatment. I will place this poultice over the wound. Once it dries, I will instruct yer sister on how to wash it off. I will leave ingredients with Anne to make more. If ye do this a couple more days, I believe then ye should be recovered enough to return to work.”
“That is two days too long.” At her stern look, he waivered. “I will wait,” he grumbled.
Beitris gave a firm nod. “It will take much longer to heal if ye tear it open.”
Once again he seemed discomfited by the picture she painted, and Beitris had to smile. The man, no matter how strong and muscled, was squeamish.
“What is so funny?” he asked with a pinched brown as his hazel gaze pinned her.
“Nothing, just glad to see ye are recovering well.” Before he could reply, she left the room.
When she returned to the kitchen, Anne seemed in better spirits. Beitris touched her arm. “Do nae fret. He will recover.”
Anne gave her a weak smile. “I ken. It is just that he will nae longer need me.” She gave Beitris a weak smile.
“As of late, I find myself a bit lonely. With our parents dead, Gowan is all I have. I am being daft. Best get this done and head back home.” She motioned to the dishes and let out a long sigh. “Thank ye for everything.”
Walking away from the blacksmith’s home, Beitris tried, truly tried, to imagine Gowan as a potential husband. He was handsome enough, his work respectable, and though he’d grumbled through every bit of her healing care, he had a steady temperament. A fine candidate if she were realistic.
But her heart, traitorous thing that it was, went elsewhere. She felt nothing for Gowan, not the way she did when Liam McRay so much as looked her way. Perhaps she was destined to spinsterhood like Anne.
She slipped between two cottages and stepped out into the village square, where the festival had burst to life.
Crowds drifted from stall to stall, admiring pottery, woven goods, carved trinkets, and warm pastries dusted with honey.
Jugglers tossed flaming torches into the air while acrobats somersaulted to applause.
Musicians tuned their instruments on the stage, the first notes floating across the square, mingling with the savory smoke of roasting meats and candied nuts.
The energy of it all pulsed around her, but her attention snagged on a single figure stepping out from behind a group of merrymakers.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Hair pulled back into a neat queue. A slight limp that was nearly invisible unless one knew to look. He cut a striking silhouette in his dark tunic and black breeches, his boots dusty from walking, without his cane.
Her pulse stumbled.
Without thinking, she veered off the path and hurried toward him as he turned down a narrow lane.
“Liam!” she called.
He took one more step before pausing, his back still to her.
“Liam,” she said again, breath hitching.
He turned, and her heart promptly forgot its duties, thudding hard enough to echo in her ears. Her breath caught, her nerves lit up like sparks dancing from a forge. It was ridiculous and annoying, how easily he unraveled her.
“Miss Lewis,” he greeted, voice flat but lips subtly curved.
Lips she stared at far too long.
Beitris forced a scowl. “Are we formal now? Should I call ye Mister McRay?”
He sidestepped her jab entirely. “How fare ye?”
“Well enough. Why are ye walking without yer cane? If ye stumble and fall, ye’ll undo all the healing work.”
His gaze flicked toward the busy square. “I dinnae require it today. As ye can see, I can walk well enough without.” His eyes slid sideways, assessing her. “Are ye upset because I’ll nae need yer care much longer?”
Oh, now he was just being insufferable. Beitris snorted, an utterly unladylike sound, which only made her irritation rise.
“Of course not. If I wanted ye to remain in my care, I’d tell ye to run and leap about in hopes ye’d fall flat on yer face.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “True.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Has yer mum or sister applied the poultice regularly?”
“Aye,” he said, then stepped closer, far too close, until only a breath separated them. “Though not as well as ye do. Why do ye suppose that is?”
The world narrowed to the space between them. She swallowed hard, every nerve in her body springing awake as if struck by lightning. Her breath vanished. Her thoughts scattered.
“I-I dinnae believe ye,” she murmured. “I best… go.”
She didn’t move. Her feet betrayed her entirely.
The rogue’s lips curved knowingly.
“I’ll come fetch more poultice tomorrow,” he said softly.
All she could manage was a tiny nod. Her gaze, blast it, dropped to his mouth again.
And in the next heartbeat, he closed the remaining space and brushed his lips against hers.
The kiss was not tender, nor was it demanding. It was deliberate, slow, and confident. An undeniable reminder of the effect he had on her. His lips pressed over hers once… then again… before he gently caught her bottom lip between his teeth.
Her eyes fluttered shut. Then flew open when he drew back, leaving her breathless and warm from head to toe, wondering how a single man could upend her world with nothing more than a kiss.
There was no glint of triumph in Liam’s expression. No smug curve of victory on his lips. Instead, his face held something far more disarming. A flicker of shock, quickly shadowed by uncertainty, as if he could not quite believe what he’d done.
He recovered fast, masking the moment beneath a thin veil of nonchalance. “Ye are a beauty, Beitris,” he said quietly, the words rough but sincere, carrying an undercurrent that sent a tremor through her chest.
Then he turned, his steps steady despite the faint drag of his injured leg and began walking away.
Beitris stood rooted to the spot, her pulse thundering in her ears.
She’d been kissed before, brief, awkward things stolen with lads she’d admired or offered during festival dares, but never like that.
His touch still lingered on her lips, warm and maddeningly soft.
She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more: the shock of the kiss or how much she wished it hadn’t ended.
“Liam,” she called, taking a step toward him.
He paused midstride but didn’t turn.
“Wh-why did ye kiss me?” she asked, voice frustratingly breathless.
Slowly, he looked over his shoulder, one brow lifting in that infuriatingly knowing way.
“Because ye looked at me,” he replied, “as though ye wanted me to.”
“I didnae!” she sputtered, too quickly, too loudly.
His lips twitched. “Beitris… ye stare at my mouth every time I see ye.”
Heat flared across her cheeks. “I dinnae stare at yer…”
“Aye. Ye do,” he interrupted, stepping just close enough for his voice to slip around her like smoke. “And if ye keep looking at me like that… I’ll kiss ye again.”
Her breath fled. Words tangled in her throat.
Liam’s mouth curved, wicked and warm. “We’ll speak again soon.” And with that, he turned away once more, his limp barely visible, as if he wanted her to see he could walk without weakness. Or perhaps as if he knew she was still watching him.
Beitris exhaled a shaky breath and forced her feet to move. She headed toward the village square, still reeling, and nearly collided with her cousin.
Camden gave a startled grunt, reaching instinctively to steady her. “I was looking for ye. Ellie Martin has gone into labor,” he said, slightly out of breath. “I think it best ye go see about her, rather than myself.”
Grateful for the distraction, anything to break the spell Liam McRay had cast, Beitris hurried with him toward the apothecary. “Stop and tell Da I cannae help him today.”
Camden nodded, but his attention drifted as a pretty lass, Moyra, rushed toward them. Her cheeks were flushed, her braid slipping loose, worry etched across her brow.
“It’s my sister, she is poorly,” Moyra said, her voice catching. “Can one of ye please come?”
“Camden will go with ye,” Beitris said quickly. She grabbed herbs from the shelves, small jars, and clean rags, stuffing them into a leather bag. “I’m going to see about a childbirth.”
As she stepped back into the festival’s bustle, lively music thrummed through the warm air. The laughter, the dancing, the swirl of bright colors, it all seemed hazier somehow, as though the world had shifted a little.
Without thinking, her fingertips drifted to her lips.
There was something magical in the air. Or perhaps it was simply Liam McRay.