Page 37 of The Archer’s Wish

Camden’s lips twitched, a knowing smile. “Men do change, ye ken. Especially the ones who think they never will.”

Before she could reply, her mother appeared in the bakery doorway like a gust of maternal worry, sweeping her inside with a flurry of questions and gentle scolding. Beitris scarcely had time to breathe before she was ushered into bed.

It was only then that the weight of the day descended fully upon her. Her limbs felt heavy, her eyelids drooping as the tonic tightened its soft hold. She curled beneath the blanket, breath slowing.

But even as sleep pulled her under, there was one thought that beat at her steadily, insistently. Liam had defended her in front of the entire village and Keir had allowed it. What did it mean?

Chapter Ten

Returning home, Liam endured his mother’s scolding, equal parts fear and fury, followed by his father’s firm, wordless grip on his shoulder, and Effie’s fussing as she wrapped his battered knuckles.

When he finally escaped the cottage, the cool air hit him first, brushing against his face and grounding him in the way only the outdoors ever could.

He needed space, at the same time he needed noise. He needed something that didnae remind him of Beitris’s bruised cheek or the way her lip had trembled when he’d entered the apothecary.

So he made for the fields.

The archery competition had already begun. He heard it long before he reached the slope overlooking the range.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Arrows cut through the air with a keen whistle, sinking into targets with satisfying force. Archers stood in scattered clusters, men speaking loudly about how ailments could affect their aim, exaggerated shoulder stiffness, or sleepless nights.

Lies. All of it. Ritual and humor woven together. A game of false modesty they had all played since boyhood.

Liam paused at the edge of the field, letting the familiar sounds wash through him. Something in his chest loosened. This place, at least, felt like home. A bow in his hands always grounded him. A target hit lifted his spirits.

He spotted Hendry standing near a line of trees, arms crossed, expression sharp as a hawk observing prey. When Hendry noticed him, the intensity cracked into a softer look, relief, even concern.

“Liam,” Hendry said, stepping forward. “I hear ye were Cormac’s opponent this time.”

The corner of Liam’s mouth lifted, though his knuckles throbbed beneath their linen. “Opponent implies he had a chance. I was more… punisher.”

Hendry barked a laugh. “Aye, so I heard.”

Cynden, the laird’s younger brother, approached next, eyes bright with mischief. “Impressive, they say. That Cormac didnae land a single hit.” He let out a low whistle. “Ye’ve made half the village men jealous.”

Before Liam could respond, more warriors drifted toward him, drawn by curiosity, admiration, and the thrill of hearing firsthand what everyone was already exaggerating into legend.

“He needed a lesson, that brute.”

“About time someone put him on his arse.”

“Should’ve happened years ago.”

“Well done, Liam.”

“He deserved every bit of it.”

Each comment struck him differently, some as camaraderie, some as praise, some as justice shared among men who protected their own. Pride swelled through him but so did something else. Something quieter. He shifted on his feet, suddenly restless.

He had not fought Cormac to impress these men. He had not fought for reputation. He had fought because he had seen red, the moment he imagined Beitris crying out with no one to hear her. He clenched and unclenched his bandaged fists.

Would Cormac truly learn or was this only the beginning? A bully’s nature didnae vanish from a single beating, no matter how deserved.

Liam stared toward the distant line of trees, jaw tightening. If Cormac returned to his old ways or if he so much as looked at Beitris again Liam would face him all over. Even with an injured leg, bruised hands, or worse, it didnae matter.