Chapter Five #3
He touched the rough bark, turned, and went back. Slow, cautious, alert to the slightest warning of strain. He repeated the process three more times. His breath growing ragged, sweat dampening his brow. At last, he braced himself against the birch beside his cane, chest rising and falling.
The woods shifted.
It was subtle at first, a faint change in the air pressure, like the world inhaling. Then the wind turned, brushing past him with sudden, startling purpose. Every bird fell silent mid-song. Even the leaves stilled, suspended as if holding their breath.
Liam straightened slowly, senses sharpened. For a moment, he expected to hear hooves pounding through the undergrowth, or the cry of a hawk overhead.
Nothing.
Just the eerie, perfect silence.
His gaze drifted toward the fallen tree where he and Effie had sat the night before.
The clearing around it glowed faintly brighter than the rest of the woods, as if the sunlight favored that one patch of earth.
The air there shimmered almost imperceptibly, like heat was rising from stone though the cool morning air.
Liam blinked hard, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and shut his eyes to steady himself. When he opened them again, the wind shifted back. The leaves rustled. Birdsong burst forth in a jubilant cascade, loud enough to make him flinch.
The clearing looked entirely normal.
Ye are letting Effie’s nonsense get into yer head, he told himself, straightening.
Yet the hairs on his forearms stood on end.
He picked up his cane, rolling his weight carefully onto his leg. Perhaps the exertion had muddled his senses as he hadn’t attempted such effort since before the battle. Still, the strange hush, the brightness, the way the air had felt alive were not all a figment of his imagination.
He exhaled sharply.
Whatever it was, real or imagined, he’d be back.
Tomorrow morning, he would try to run again. And each day after, until the strength in his leg returned. At the same time he could find out if something really did stir in this particular patch of forest.
When Liam finally turned back toward the village, he halted mid-step.
A familiar figure stood at the edge of the path, Beitris, planted firmly like a warrior queen guarding her territory.
Her chin jutted forward, eyes narrowed to slits, arms crossed tightly across her chest. The morning breeze tugged at the ends of her red wavy hair, which had escaped the confines of her modest braid.
She wore a deep moss-green gown today, the color rich against her smooth, warm skin.
The fitted bodice emphasized the gentle curve of her waist, while the soft wool skirts swayed around her ankles, brushing the tops of her sturdy leather shoes.
A simple cream shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, though the way she stood, feet braced, back straight, eyes blazing, made her look anything but delicate.
He didn’t have to wonder why she was furious. Her glare said everything long before her voice reached him.
“I have been calling to ye, asking that ye stop at once!” she snapped the moment he was close enough.
“Did ye nae hear me?” Her eyes bore into him like twin daggers.
“Madness like that could make things worse. There is nae need for it.” She punctuated her fury with a stomp so fierce the earth seemed to feel it.
Beitris was magnificent in anger. Her eyes glowed like polished amber, her cheeks flushed a rosy hue, and those lips, though pressed into a thin line, still tempted him in a way he wished they didn’t.
Composing himself, Liam closed the distance with deliberate slowness, adopting an expression as neutral as stone. He stopped just shy of touching her.
“I need to ken how my body reacts to fast movement,” he said evenly.
It was a line he had used before, lock eyes, then drop his gaze to a woman’s lips.
A subtle flirtation, second nature to him.
But with Beitris, it felt different. Wrong, even.
Nothing could come of it. Women like her, sensible, bright, whole, deserved a man whose body wasn’t marked by battle’s cruelty.
Still, some habits lingered.
What he didnae expect was her response.
Beitris’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “I am sure ye will be testing yerself soon enough in other ways than running.”
Liam nearly stumbled. Shock flared through him, heat rushing up his neck. He widened his eyes, but just as quickly regained control.
Of course, she wouldn’t be innocent. As a healer, Beitris had seen more than most women ever would. Days spent tending wounded warriors meant hearing things, personal things, when men hovered between life and death, propriety abandoned for survival.
“I dinnae expect to do more than run, Beitris,” he said with a shrug of one shoulder, trying to mask his fluster. He began walking toward the village. “It is early for ye to be about.”
She fell into step beside him, her healer’s box swinging lightly from one hand. “I’m on my way to see about Gowan. He was badly burned.”
Liam’s brow furrowed. The blacksmith, broad, loud, and forever competing for the affections of the village lasses, had been a rival of sorts for years.
“Will he be able to work again?” Liam asked, genuine concern slipping into his voice. Despite their squabbles, Gowan was a fine smith and a decent man.
“Aye,” she said confidently. “I’m certain he will recover fully. Unlike ye, he listened to my instructions and waited until it was safe to touch the forge again. Today, I expect to tell him he may resume his tasks.”
The image of Beitris visiting Cormac alone settled uneasily in Liam’s gut.
“I shall accompany ye,” he announced.
She turned a sharp look on him, a glare potent enough to stop lesser men. “Whatever for?”
Liam met her glare head-on, refusing to flinch. “It is only proper that ye have someone with ye,” he insisted. “Gowan’s injury was severe, and there’s nae telling if he will need something heavy lifted or if he is in a temper.”
Beitris slowed her steps, turning to look at him fully. The morning light caught her dark eyes, giving them a mischievous glint that made his stomach tighten.
“So,” she said slowly, “ye think I cannae handle a blacksmith on my own?”
“That is not what I meant,” he muttered.
Her brows arched in exaggerated disbelief. “Truly? Because it sounded verra much like ye believe I am helpless.”
“I didnae say helpless,” he protested.
“But ye implied it,” she countered, lips curving.
Liam clenched his jaw. “I only meant…”
“That I require a strong warrior to guard me?” she interrupted, her voice feather-light and dangerous. She leaned closer, eyes dancing with amusement. “Ye’re sounding a bit like my brother, Liam. Or…” her smile turned wickedly soft, “a suitor.”
Heat shot up his neck.
“I am not acting like a suitor,” he ground out.
“Oh?” Beitris tilted her head, feigning innocence while her smile betrayed her. “Because escorting a lass to another man’s house, growling at the very mention of him, and insisting she needs protection seems rather suitor-like to me.”
He stopped walking. “Growling?” he echoed. “I didnae growl.”
“Aye, ye did,” she sang, tapping a finger to her chin. “Just a wee rumble. Like a hound when someone gets too close to his favorite bone.”
Liam sputtered, “I am nothing like a hound.”
“A hound is loyal, protective, and sweet,” Beitris replied lightly. “So I suppose ye are something like one.”
He stared at her, at the smirk tugging her lips upward. Soft, knowing, impossibly beautiful, and felt his heart lurch in a way he was wholly unprepared for.
“Beitris,” he said slowly, “I accompany ye only because it is proper.”
She let out a soft laugh, rich, warm, and maddeningly confident.
“If ye say so, Liam.”
He resumed walking, each stride stiff with denial.
But Beitris stayed beside him, her expression warm with the triumph of someone who had uncovered a truth he could not yet admit, not even to himself.
And as they approached Gowan’s home, Liam realized something unsettling.
He was protecting his claim. One he had no right to.