He dismounted from his horse, standing there for a moment to stare at the lake once more—the slight ripple over its surface as the breeze disturbed the water, the reeds that grew on the bank. Then, he offered River his hand and helped her from her horse before taking in the rest of the clearing. A blanket had already been spread under a cluster of birch trees, and baskets sat nearby alongside a bottle of wine and two cups.
His brows rose to his hairline in surprise. “River,” he said, his tone a mixture of emotions that he could hardly name.
“What?”
“Ye planned all this?”
A faint blush touched her cheeks, and Archer couldn’t look away from her in that moment, as the last of the light bathed her, as she looked at him with that bashful smile.
“I had assistance,” she said. “Keir.”
“Keir?” The name should have annoyed him, considering every single thought he had had about him on the way to the lake. Instead, Archer found himself smiling. “Then I shall have to thank him.”
The two of them walked side by side down to the lake, close to each other but not quite touching. Archer expected his hand to brush hers at some point as they were moving, but it only found air, and he didn’t try to force the contact. Behind them, their horses munched on grass near the tree where they were bound, none the wiser to his internal turmoil.
When they reached the lake—and the blanket with the picnic laid out beside it—he took a deep breath and took in the view from up close. The sight of it tugged unexpectedly at something deep inside him. Memories resurfaced, not forgotten by the attack, but rather muddied by the years. It had been so long since hehad last given this place any thought. It hadn’t been as long since he had last thought of his mother, but her memory, too, had begun to fade, as memories often did.
“When I was a lad, me maither used to bring me here.” His gaze remained fixed on the water, watching a dragonfly buzz over the surface. “I was the only place on the estate where me faither never seemed able to find us.”
When he turned to look at River, he found her already staring at him, a small frown on her face. “Ye would hide from him?”
Archer nodded ever so slightly. “If I wished to avoid his wrath, aye,” he said. “He liked to take his frustration out on me and me maither. Any time one of his actions would bring the clan to near ruin and the elders and the people would go against him, he had us to take it out on.”
Those were memories he had suppressed as well, pushing everything deep down inside him where the light wouldn’t reach. Sometimes, late at night, he would remember the man. He would remember everything he had done to ruin the clan, his wrath and his greed, the way he treated him and his mother.
The woman had not deserved it; no one did. But especially his mother, who had been a kind soul.
She would have liked River. She would have loved her like a maither.
“At first, I came out here with me maither,” he said with a small shrug. “Later, with Keir.”
Back then, Keir had been his only friend. There hadn’t been many children in the castle, and certainly not many with whom he was allowed to interact when his father was shaping him up to be a warrior, one as wrathful and bloodthirsty as he was. But Archer had never been like the old Laird. He had trained and he had fought. He had killed and had been injured in return. But he preferred to charm and trick his way through conflict rather than send his men to pointless battles, rather than thinning out their ranks just to prove some point.
River waited in silence, and Archer could feel her gaze on him even if he wasn’t looking directly at her.
“Me faither disliked gentleness. If I wasnae trainin’ with a sword, if I wasnae strategizin’ for a war that was only in his mind, if I was caught talkin’ to those he considered beneath me . . . he would make sure this wasnae the way he expected his heir to behave.”
River’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder, and Archer almost flinched away from it—not as a reaction to her, but rather out of surprise that she would willingly come this close. Even if she had agreed to come here with him, even if she was listening to him now, he still felt as if this illusion of peace between them could shatter at any moment.
“Here we could pretend he didnae exist,” added Archer, tentatively reaching with his own hand to lay it over River’s onhis shoulder. “Me maither, she couldnae stand the man. She was a kind woman, ye ken . . . too kind for her own good. She always tried to help those me faither hurt by wagin’ his senseless wars, by razin’ the land, by pillagin’ and lettin’ his men do as they pleased.”
River remained silent for a long time, her gaze fixed on the lake. In the end, she said, “I think I would have liked yer maither.”
Archer couldn’t help but laugh abruptly at that, the sound surprising both him and River.
“Aye,” he said. “So would she.”
“Ye’re naethin’ like yer faither,” River said. She was not the first one to say it, and every time Archer heard those words, a strange pride crept up his throat and cut off his words, choking him up.
“Aye.”
“How long since this clan has been at war?”
“Ever since I took over,” said Archer, and though others may have found him weak, he considered that his best achievement. He would fight if he had to. He would send his men to battle without another thought—but only if it was necessary, only if the conflict couldn’t be resolved in any other way. As long as he had peace in his lands, he had the greatest wealth of all.
With a smile, River lowered herself onto the blanket and began unpacking the food. Archer sat down next to her and was instantly amazed by the sheer volume and variety of what she had brought there. Surely, he thought, she hadn’t been the one to drag everything out there, to the lake, considering the basket had to be heavy.
Anything from cheeses and cured meat to apples and bannocks and tarts came out of the basket. Archer reached for a bit of cheese, popping it into his mouth, and then poured them both a cup of wine, handing one to River. For a while, they picked at the food in silence, the only sounds around them those of nature—the gentle lapping of the water on the back, the birds in the trees, the distant howl of the wind.
