Page 43

T he clang of steel and the shriek of sharpening metal filled the air just beyond the windows of MacLennan Castle, but Archer Fleming barely heard it. His jaw ticked as he sat in the council chambers, ink drying on a missive that he no longer remembered writing.

His mind drifted back to the busty blonde from the night before.

What was her name? Isla? Nay. Astrid? Aye, Astrid.

A smile played on his lips, remembering her… attributes.

And her friend with the strange horse-like name. Sorcha?

Both women had been so eager to please him, and he’d been glad for the distraction, if not the noise. Still, even the memory of Astrid’s lips on his ear and her friend’s wandering hands were not what held his attention that morning.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the strange woman who’d entered the tavern dressed as a man.

She’d done a fine enough job of it, even though her acting was a little theatrical.

Most of the patrons were drunk and could barely tell the difference between a man and a woman at that time of night, but he’d spotted her immediately.

It was not that he was attracted to her, certainly not with her hair hidden beneath a cap and in her plain breeches and shirt.

Perhaps if he had seen what was below, he would have had better memories.

Yet, there was something in her defiant gaze and the amusing way she thought she could fool him that was impressive and entertaining.

He’d bedded two busty women and had his way with them throughout the night, but it was the one dressed as a man who intrigued and plagued his thoughts. Recalling his recent conquests used to be enough to bring his mind back to the present, but for some reason, it just was not working.

Archer groaned quietly; stark ochre eyes flashed across his vision before he blinked his eyes open. His gaze shifted to the ink-stained paper before him, and he suddenly sat up, finally remembering what the devil he was writing.

This particular missive was a report for the council—a list of supply transfers between the outer villages. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Of course.

Then came the ache again, a pounding that started behind his eyes and spread like fire through his skull as the shriek of metal echoed through the stone walls around him. He winced and rubbed his temples.

“Ye need to get out more, Braither,” his sister, Ivy, said too cheerfully as she leaned against the door frame, her arms folded across her chest.

Her smile was mischievous, as always.

“Ye ken, take a walk. Speak to a bonny lass who might stick around longer than a few late hours. Or is Maither’s matchmaking wearin’ ye thin?”

Archer didn’t bother to look up. “Dinnae push me, Ivy. It’s too early for yer nonsense.”

“I’m only sayin’—”

“I ken what ye are sayin’. And I still dinnae wish to hear it.”

He finally looked at her, his eyes narrowed.

Ivy smiled wider, unfazed. She was sunshine wrapped in mischief, far too clever for her own good, and far too nosy for his.

“It’s just that ye are thirty- one now. And Maither is right, ye ken. The council’s grumblin’ louder with each week ye stay unwed. Soon, they’ll start grumblin’ every day.”

“They can keep grumblin’. Let them grumble in their sleep, for all I care.”

“It’ll nae be long before they start sendin’ lassies straight to yer door to try and trap ye into marriage… Again,” she added, earning a glare.

He opened his mouth, ready to retort, when hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor.

Calum appeared in the doorway, his tunic dusted with soot and worry clouding his face. He looked mighty fresh for a man who had been intent on drinking the tavern’s entire ale supply the previous night.

“Laird MacLennan,” he greeted, his voice clipped. “Ivy,” he added quickly, his eyes meeting hers before flitting back to Archer’s. “There’s been an accident at the main forge. A man’s dead. The fire caught too fast. Blacksmith says it smells of oil.”

Archer shot to his feet. “Sabotage?”

“Looks like it.”

“Find out who is behind it. Start now. I want names and motives.”

Calum nodded and turned, only to pause under Ivy’s dreamy stare. Archer didn’t miss the way her gaze lingered a second too long.

“Stop moonin’, Ivy. Let the man work,” he snapped. “He’s nae here to entertain ye.”

“I wasnae.”

“Ye were.”

She huffed but didn’t argue, to his surprise. “Would it kill ye to smile once in a while, Braither?”

Here it comes.

“Nae unless it’s required.”

He took off after Calum, headed toward the courtyard and the forge.

“Required? Of course, it’s required!” his sister called, her shorter gait hastening as he opened his to put space between them.

“Why would I smile at a dead man?”

“I didnae mean that . I meant th—” She broke off as they rounded the corner to the courtyard, the sun assaulting them both.

Calum slowly came into view as Archer blinked against the blinding light.

“Me Laird,” Archer heard his man-at-arms say.

His vision became clearer, and the look on Calum’s face was enough to give him pause. “Wha?—”

It took him a second too long to realize that his sister had not only cut her jab short, but she also hadn’t followed him.

Strange.

He whirled around to face her. “Sist?—”

Ivy was standing in the doorway between the keep and the garden, poised almost too perfectly. Her eyes never left his. Her smile was forced.

“What is it, lass?”

Her voice was sharp and dangerously low. “Someone is watchin’ us. Dinnae turn around yet .”

Her insistence made both men freeze.

Archer knew immediately that she wasn’t playing. The way her eyes nearly bulged but didn’t quite so as not to alert the stranger. He heard Calum take a step closer to him, positioning himself at his back.

“Where?” he asked softly, tilting his head to the side to seem nonchalant to the stranger, who was undoubtedly still watching them.

“The low stone wall. Off the garden. Cloaked. Trees.”

“Calum, stay with her. Keep her safe,” Archer ordered.

Calum shifted slightly to the left—a subtle, practiced movement that allowed his massive frame to block the stranger’s line of sight. It was all Archer needed.

Then, he was moving.

His body moved with the deadly ease of a man used to chasing danger. He was more than just a soldier—he was a predator on his own land, every muscle honed and alert.

His boots made barely a sound as he ducked low beneath the arching limbs of trees.

He darted sideways and slipped behind a thicket, using the natural rise of the land to conceal his path.

In less than a breath, he halved the distance between himself and the stranger before they realized he was gone.

The stranger’s posture stiffened when they noticed, their head snapping in the wrong direction—just a heartbeat too late.

Foolish and too slow.

Archer surged forward like a shadow loosed from stone.

His body was a blur, built of power and purpose.

Every inch of him—from the shoulders honed by blade work to the thigh made solid from years in the saddle—moved with coordinated, ruthless efficiency.

He was a man who could chase down a stag and fell it with his bare hands if he needed to. And this morning, he was hunting.

When the stranger turned to bolt, it was too late. Archer was nearly there, driven by instinct and the fury simmering just beneath his skin. He tackled the stranger hard, slamming them into the soft ground with a grunt.

The stranger yelped, twisting beneath him in a fierce struggle. They rolled once, limbs tangling, and Archer pinned their wrists under his knees.

Then, he saw the face beneath the hood.

Familiar eyes. Familiar mouth.

The lad from the tavern.

“Unhand me,” she snapped, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming fast. Her body writhed beneath his, but he held firm, his weight pressing her into the earth.

“Who are ye?” he asked through clenched teeth. “What is it ye want, sneakin’ around me lands?”

She turned her head, avoiding his gaze. “I am lookin’ for someone.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Aye, ye said as much last night, foolish lass. Sent by O’Gunn, were ye? A spy , perhaps?”

She stiffened in indignation. Her face had flushed red, and while she didn’t like being pinned to the ground, she made no attempt to escape his clutches.

“I am nae a spy. Ye are a fool ,” she spat.

Archer felt his lips parting, as if he had tasted her venom and wished for a second helping. He inhaled, and her scent hit him like a blow to the gut—earthy, warm, and distinctly feminine beneath layers of soil and sweat from travel.

He got a better idea of what might be hiding beneath her plain clothes. She wasn’t strictly dressed as a man, like she was in the tavern, wearing a long cloak with a hood.

Now that his hands were on her body, he could feel the clothes of a woman, and the intrigue he felt during their interaction in the tavern only fueled the fire of his intrigue. It was maddening, the way it crept up his spine, igniting heat low in his belly.

“Who are ye lookin’ for, lass?” he gritted out.

“Get off me!” she snapped, finally trying to wriggle free.

There is it again, that venom. I can almost taste it.

“Nay, nae yet.”

Her mesmerizing eyes widened at his remark, fear flashing in them before determination masked it. “Get. Off!”

“Nay. Now, answer me, lass. Ye arenae gettin’ out of this any other way.”

Her eyes snapped to his, brown and burning a hole through his head. “Me braither.”

“Yer braither?”

“Are ye deaf?”

Archer laughed at her insolence. Usually, if someone was so rude to him, especially when they were in the wrong, he would set them straight so they didn’t make the same mistake twice. Yet, her rudeness was amusing.

She didn’t like his response, glaring at him as she thrashed again, trying to free herself to no avail.

Archer grabbed her by the upper arms and firmly pressed her to the ground, giving her just enough of a knock to let her know he wasn’t taking no for an answer.