Chapter Twelve
“Liam!”
The moment shattered.
Effie’s voice sliced through the air like a flying arrow, and Liam closed his eyes briefly in silent, brotherly suffering.
Of course.
She barreled toward them at full speed, cheeks pink from excitement, braid bouncing behind her like a celebratory flag.
“There ye are!” she cried, skidding to a stop beside him. “Mam sent me to find ye.”
“Effie,” he said tightly, “I’m speaking with Beitris.”
Effie blinked at him as though he’d spoken in a foreign tongue. Then she slowly turned to Beitris, eyes narrowing with wicked intelligence.
“Oh. Were ye?” Effie asked, drawing out every syllable. “Looked more like ye were glaring at each other.” She flicked a hand vaguely. “Or perhaps about to do something more interesting.”
Liam choked on absolutely nothing.
Beitris pressed her lips together, clearly enjoying his misery.
Effie continued cheerfully, “Mam says to bring ye to see Cousin Mairi’s new bairn. And ye’re not to hide again. Also…” She leaned closer, inspecting his face. “Why’re ye so red?”
“It’s the torchlight,” he muttered.
“Aye,” she said with a wide grin, “of course it is.”
Then she latched onto Beitris’s arm with the unstoppable enthusiasm of a girl who’d never feared a single thing in her life. “Come with us, Beitris! Ye must see wee Una. She has a nose the size of a berry. Ye’ll die.”
“Effie,” Liam warned.
“Yes, brother?” she chirped, pure innocence.
He wanted to bury his face in his hands.
Instead, he forced himself to walk after them, every step a battle between pride, longing, and the urge to drag Beitris back to clarify things between them.
Then again, it was perhaps only he who needed clarity.
To understand exactly what he felt for the red-headed beauty.
Beitris glanced over her shoulder at him, her smile teasing him, tormenting him, undoing him.
And saints save him…
He realized he would follow her anywhere.
*
The keep should have comforted him.
The soaring stone walls, hung with thick tapestries to keep out the drafts.
The long trestle tables lining the great room.
The hum of voices mingling with the scrape of wooden trenchers.
All of it was familiar and solid and steady.
The scents he’d known since boyhood drifted through the room.
Roasting meat, warm bread, woodsmoke, and the faint tang of spilled ale soaked into old stone. Usually those smells grounded him.
Yet that day, none of it settled Liam’s restless thoughts.
Seated at the scribe’s table near the hearth, he attempted to keep pace with the discussion between the laird and the village council.
But his notes were a disjointed mess, half-formed sentences, single words, smudged thoughts written without purpose.
Ink pooled in the corner of his quill, a large drop splattering on the parchment.
He exhaled sharply and motioned a passing maid over. “Ale, please.”
Moments later, a wooden cup thudded before him. The drink smelled of yeast and sharp malt. He lifted it, drinking deeply until the burn hit the back of his throat and warmth spread down his chest. It did little to clear the fog in his mind.
Get ahold of yerself, he scolded silently. Alexander depended on him for meticulous records. The council was a slippery lot, quick to deny their own words the second they left their mouths. Liam had a duty to capture every agreement, every concession, every veiled insult disguised as a courtesy.
But his mind kept drifting back to the village, back to the early morning when they’d left. He’d not seen Beitris.
Hendry and Ailith had arrived before dawn, rousing the household with thumps and impatient voices.
The ride out of the village was brisk, cool morning mist curling around the horses’ legs.
When they’d passed the bakery, the scent of fresh bread, yeasty, warm, impossible to ignore, wafted over the road.
It drew the three of them to a stop like starving wolves.
Inside, the bakery had smelled of heaven, warm loaves cooling on wooden racks, sweet dough frying in oil, spices lingering in the air. But there had been no Beitris. Only her father, cheerful as ever, flour dusting his sleeves and beard.
“Liam!” the man had boomed, waving them forward as though greeting royalty. “Take these. And these. Och, and some sweet bread for the road. ’Tis less than ye deserve for what ye did for my Beitris. Cormac runs from her like a kicked hound now.”
That last part had pleased Liam more than he wished to admit. His warning had clearly taken root.
He’d accepted the wrapped loaves, intending to share them with Hendry and Ailith. Disappointment had settled in his chest on the ride out. She hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen her. And he’d tried not to think too deeply on why that unsettled him so much.
“Liam, are ye spinning wool?”
Alexander’s voice broke through his reverie, joined by a wave of chuckles from the councilmen. Heat crept up Liam’s neck.
“I apologize,” he said stiffly. Saints, he needed to gather himself.
Eventually the council dispersed, leaving the great room quieter and thick with the lingering smells of first meal. Alexander crossed his arms, giving Liam the look of a man who’d spent years learning the exact shape of Liam’s stubbornness.
“We should speak,” the laird said.
“Aye,” Liam replied, bracing himself. “Before ye say anything, I admit I’ve been distracted. ’Tis difficult to settle the mind after being gone so many days.”
Alexander arched a brow, silent, sharp, far too perceptive. Of course he knew. He’d known Liam since they’d raced through these halls as boys. He could read Liam clearly.
“I hear ye did well at the archery field,” Alexander began, his tone neutral. “I’m not surprised. Ye should consider continuing with it.”
The words, meant as encouragement, struck like a blade to the ribs.
Liam clenched his jaw. “Without the ability to ride, I’m of little use to ye as an archer.”
“There are other duties…” Alexander began.
“Dinnae offer me something out of pity,” Liam snapped before he could stop himself.
His voice echoed off the stone, low and raw.
He wasn’t speaking to his laird now; he was speaking to his childhood friend.
“I mean it, Alexander. I’m not ungrateful, but we both ken the truth. It’s unlikely I’ll ever ride again.”
Alexander scratched his beard, studying him with infuriating calm. Then, with a loud sigh, he said, “Can ye stop talking and let me finish?”
Liam’s temper deflated just enough for him to look away and nod. “Very well.”
“Good.” Alexander leaned against the table. “This is what I propose…”
And as he spoke, laying out a plan that used Liam’s strengths, his keen eye, his calm under pressure, his knowledge of the clans and their tensions, Liam felt the rigid tension in his shoulders loosen. His fists unclenched. His breathing smoothed.
It was a good plan. A damn good one.
By the time Alexander finished, Liam’s defensiveness had cracked, replaced by something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Excitement.
*
Liam walked past the village square, he’d returned just over a fortnight earlier, four weeks and he’d yet to speak with Beitris. It wasn’t that he didn’t wish to seek her out, but more that he was unsure of what he could say that would make her understand what he felt for her.
Walking into the blacksmith shop, he was assaulted by the heat of the forge and the tinge of metal in the air. Gowan, wearing a thick apron and long-sleeved tunic, hammered a red-hot piece of iron into submission.
The blacksmith lifted his hazel gaze to Liam, his expression unreadable. “What can I do fer ye?” The man’s tone was not unfriendly.
“I require more nails, a deep pot, and some kitchen utensils,” Liam spoke loudly to be heard over the hammering.
Gowan dipped the iron into a tub of water. The loud sizzling sound filled the air. “Nails are over there,” the blacksmith said, motioning to a large square box. “Take what ye need. Ye can pay me when I get the other things done.”
Counting out the nails, Liam slid a look back to Gowan. “Ye seem well recovered.”
The blacksmith nodded, sizing Liam up. His gaze moving over him. “Ye as well. Although I believe her injuries were far worse than mine.”
“Aye,” Liam stated. “The time it took sometimes made me forget to be thankful to be alive.”
“What are ye building out there in the field?” Gowan asked, wiping a cloth over his brow. “Looks interesting.”
“Right now, a cottage for myself. The laird gifted me the land. I’m going to live there.”
The blacksmith was keen, his gaze narrowing, seeming to understand he was not receiving the full story of what Liam was doing.
In actuality, Liam was surprised the men who were working for him in constructing what he required had not spread word all over the village yet.
Then again, they were a gruff lot that didn’t make idle conversation even with each other.
“Thank ye,” Liam said, lifting the pouch of nails. “I have five and twenty.”
He made his way back through the village, his hip a bit stiff after working for so many days hammering and lifting thick pieces of wood.
Pain dragged Liam from sleep like a hand clamping around his hip.
It stabbed along his left side the moment he turned, sharp enough to steal his breath.
He hissed between his teeth, clutching his hip until the ache ebbed from agony to a familiar, unpleasant throb.
A full day of labor had left him sore, but this lingering pain was becoming something he feared would remain with him the rest of his life.
Not ideal, but survivable. At least it didn’t torment him every waking moment anymore.