Page 3 of The Archer’s Wish

He raised a brow, attempting nonchalance. “If ye believe that, then why pursue me?”

A spark of irritation flickered in her gaze. “Pursue? Is that what ye call a person who cares about yer well-being?”

He didn’t answer. He could already guess the direction this storm was blowing.

“As ye ken, the laird has charged me with aiding in yer recovery,” she continued, folding her arms beneath her breasts in a motion that made his pulse lurch unhelpfully. “I take my duties seriously, and ye will not hinder me.”

His mouth went dry. Saints, she likely had no notion how that stance affected a man.

“Perhaps before last meal,” he said, striving for boredom while his heartbeat did its own frantic jig.

“No.” Her stubborn chin lifted. “It’s best to do it now. Get it over with. The healer insists on regular massages and fresh poultice.” She made a face as though remembering the foul smell of the stuff. “’Tis not my favorite chore either, but it must be done.”

He wondered if her distaste stemmed from tending a disfigured limb… or from hurting him with each touch. Either way, arguing would be useless.

“Very well.” Liam gestured back toward the doorway he’d just left behind.

The sooner this ordeal was finished, the sooner he could continue his escape into the woods. The treatments helped, he’d never deny that. His leg always felt looser, his hip more forgiving. But time alone with Beitris? That brought a different kind of ache… one he had no desire to examine too closely.

Not when wanting her was the most dangerous foolhardiness of all.

Chapter Two

Beitris Lewis tore her gaze away from Liam, fighting the urge to groan aloud. Patience, once one of her proudest virtues, was wearing perilously thin. Every few days the same pattern repeated itself, an exasperating dance between her duty and his stubbornness. She would spend half the afternoon searching for him, wandering through the keep, the courtyard, and the paths leading toward the forest. Some days he slipped away like smoke, impossible to find no matter how determined she was. On others, like today, she managed to catch him before he vanished into the trees.

And every time, without fail, they had the same conversation, her insisting, him resisting, both of them locked in a quiet tug-of-war until he finally relented and allowed her to tend to his care.

She understood why he resisted. She truly did. Every treatment, every poultice, every careful touch was a reminder of the body he no longer trusted. The strength he believed had abandoned him. But understanding did nothing to ease the frustration curling tight in her chest. His reluctance was chipping steadily at the edges of her patience.

On the surface, Liam McRay was the very same man she had known for years. Unyielding as a stone wall, obstinate as a mule, and determined to meet the world with a jaw clenched tight enough to crack. Yet everything beneath that carefully maintained façade had changed. His life had been reshaped and carved into something unrecognizable, though he refused to let anyone see the cracks.

Beitris suspected the truth. She saw the grief he tried to hide, the anger simmering beneath his skin, the quiet despair in the way he looked at his own leg as though it had betrayed him. Worse still, she knew what the loss of his role meant to him. Liam had once been many things: a fierce fighter, a loyal clansman, a man who could charm any lass with nothing more than a crooked smile and a well-placed word. He’d worn that reputation like armor, as if being desired made him invincible.

Now those parts of him had dimmed, and she suspected the blow to his pride cut deeper than any blade ever had.

Beitris had never approved of his roguish behavior in the past, especially when she’d watched girl after girl fall under his spell only to be cast aside once the thrill wore off. Yet seeing him now, wounded, struggling, stripped of the life he once knew softened something inside her. It truly saddened her how battle could take more than limbs and strength. It stole futures, reshaped spirits, and left men like Liam adrift.

Her own daily routine had changed as well, though in far gentler ways. Where she once spent all her days in the village, helping her parents run the bakery, or working under the healer’s watchful eye, now she traveled to the keep three times a week. She went to the keep with her brother, Kier, who served the laird as a guard. Normally he’d slept at the keep most nights, but now on the evenings before her scheduled visits, he returned home so they could travel together.

It made the journey easier for her, though she knew it complicated his rhythm. And yet he never complained. Just as she never once considered her new responsibilities a burden.

If anything, she saw them as a blessing. A chance to do good. To ease suffering. To help men who’d been broken by battle find some measure of comfort again.

Even if one of those men tested both her patience and her resolve more than all the others combined.

Liam gestured for her to enter first. Beitris hesitated just a heartbeat, but it was enough to make her startlingly aware of the warmth creeping up her neck. For reasons she refused to examine too closely, the idea of turning her back to him made her self-conscious. Still, she stepped inside, the familiar chamber that enveloped her with the faint scent of herbs, linen, and old stone.

Behind her came the steady, uneven rhythm of his gait, the dull thud of his cane against the floor, the soft drag of his injured leg. Each sound marked him, announced him, reminded her of what he’d survived and what he’d lost.

This was the same room where he had hovered between life and death, where the healer had once debated removing his leg entirely. She remembered the tension of those days, the hushed arguments, and how Liam, broken, fevered, half-conscious, had somehow still fought tooth and nail to keep his limb. Now he walked with it, though each step seemed to carve a fresh line of pain into his features.

“Lie down,” she instructed, nodding toward the bed.

She turned away to grant him privacy as he removed his boots and breeches. Even with her back turned, she could hear the faint hiss of breath he made when bending, the slight scrape of leather against stone.

He cleared his throat low, rough.

“I am ready.”