Page 21 of The Archer’s Wish

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.