Page 44 of The Archer’s Wish

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.