Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dawn broke cold and gray over the Highland forest, mist rising from the ground like ghostly fingers. Tòrr flexed his left foot carefully, testing the throb that had kept him awake half the night. The pain was manageable, but he'd need to favor it today.
"Time tae go," he said quietly, shaking Cameron's shoulder.
His friend stirred, then sat up with the alert quickness of a man accustomed to danger. "All quiet?"
"Aye. But we should make distance while we can."
Beside them, Liliane remained stubbornly asleep despite their voices, though the rope connecting their wrists had gone taut several times during the night as she'd tested her bonds in her dreams.
"Lass." Tòrr gave her shoulder a gentle shake. "Wake up."
She awoke instantly, her body jerking against the rope before memory flooded back.
"Sleep well?" Cameron asked with false cheer as he rolled his bedding.
"Wonderfully," she replied, her voice dripping sarcasm. "Naethin’ like being tied tae yer captor tae ensure pleasant dreams."
"Could have been worse," Tòrr pointed out as he began untying the rope. "Could have been tied tae a tree."
She rubbed her wrist where the rope had chafed slightly. "How considerate of ye."
Cameron stood and stretched, his joints popping audibly. "Well, this has been delightful, but I need tae be headin’ back tae me own keep. Me steward will think I've been murdered by bandits."
"Ye're leavin’?" Liliane's voice held a note of panic.
"Aye, lass. Me business was with the auction, nae the aftermath." He shot Tòrr a meaningful look. "Though I'm sure I will be kept in the loop about how all this is will be settled."
"How what will be settled?" she demanded.
"When ye're safely wed and installed at Keppoch," Tòrr replied, coiling the rope and tucking it away.
"I havenae agreed tae any weddin’."
"Ye dinnae need tae agree. Ye just need tae be there."
Cameron shook his head. "On that cheerful note, I'll bid ye both farewell." He clasped Tòrr's forearm. "Try nae tae let her murder ye in yer sleep, friend."
"I'll consider meself warned."
After Cameron rode away, the forest felt smaller somehow, more intimate. Liliane sat rigidly in front of Tòrr as they continued their journey, her back straight as a sword blade.
"How much farther?" she asked after an hour of silence.
"We'll reach Keppoch by afternoon."
"And then?"
"And then ye'll have a proper room, proper food, and proper clothes while we arrange the wedding."
"How thoughtful. A comfortable prison."
"A comfortable home, if ye choose tae see it that way."
"I dinnae."
He sighed. "I ken."
The miles passed slowly, marked by her tense silence and his growing awareness of her soft curves pressed against him. By the time Keppoch's towers appeared on the horizon, his foot was throbbing in earnest and his patience was wearing thin.
"There," he said, pointing ahead. "Home."
She leaned forward, studying the stone walls and battlements. "It's large."
"Aye. The MacDonalds have held Keppoch fer three centuries."
"And now ye'll add a Munro bride tae yer collection of possessions."
"I'll add a MacDonald wife tae me household," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Before he could answer, shouts arose from the gatehouse as the guards recognized their laird's approach. The massive iron gates swung open, revealing the inner courtyard bustling with activity.
Two men emerged from the great hall as they dismounted, both tall and broad-shouldered, clearly cut from the same cloth as Tòrr himself. The older looking one had the same dark hair and green eyes, while the younger one looked different.
"Tòrr!" The older one strode forward, clasping his brother's arm. "We expected ye back yesterday. Trouble on the road?"
"Ye could say that." Tòrr glanced at Liliane, who stood frozen beside the horse. "Michael, Daemon, I'd like ye tae meet Miss Liliane Munro. Me bride."
The silence that followed could have been cut with a dirk.
"Yer what?" Michael's voice was carefully controlled.
"Me bride. We'll be wed soon."
Daemon's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "Tòrr, what in God's name is happenin’?"
"Nae here." Tòrr's voice carried quiet authority. "We'll discuss it inside."
He turned to Liliane, who looked as stunned as his brothers. "Agnes!" he called to a passing maid. "Prepare the blue chamber fer Miss Munro. She'll need a bath, food, and somethin’ proper tae wear. Borrow from me sisters' wardrobes if needed. And have the Moira clean and bandage her wound."
"Aye, me laird." The older woman bobbed a curtsy, her curious eyes flicking between Tòrr and Liliane.
"Go with Agnes," he told Liliane gently. "She'll see ye're comfortable."
For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Her face had gone pale, and she swayed slightly on her feet.
"This is really happenin’," she whispered.
"Aye, lass. It is."
She pressed her lips together, seeming to gather herself. "Very well. Thank ye, Agnes."
As she followed the maid across the courtyard, her spine straight despite everything, Tòrr felt an unexpected stab of admiration. She might be trapped, but she faced it with dignity.
"Yer study. Now." Michael's voice brooked no argument.
The solar was warm and familiar, lined with books and weapons in equal measure. Daemon poured whisky from a crystal decanter while Michael paced before the hearth.
"Explain," Michael said without preamble.
Tòrr settled into his chair, grateful to take weight off his injured foot. "Campbell orchestrated a bride auction as ye ken. Invitation only, all the clans he wants tae bind closer tae his precious Pact."
"And ye went tae observe. What changed exactly?" Daemon handed him a glass of amber liquid.
"Because Intelligence gatherin’ daesnae typically result in acquirin’ a wife," Michael pointed out dryly.
Tòrr took a long swallow of whisky, feeling it burn down his throat. “Munro was there tae sell his daughter tae the highest bidder.”
Both brothers went still.
“I saw Ross speakin’ with Munro and Campbell before the masks went on.
Couldnae hear what was said, but I ken Campbell’s face well enough tae recognize when he’s pullin’ strings.
Whatever that talk was, it reeked of schemin’, and I wasnae about tae stand by and let him tighten his grip on the west.”
Daemon’s brows knit. “Christ. And Campbell was behind it.”
“Aye. I saw the lass on that platform, and I kent exactly what he was daein’,” Tòrr said, voice low and controlled. “She was meant tae be a pawn, tae hand Campbell the advantage he’s been pushin’ fer.”
Michael leaned forward. “So ye bid.”
Tòrr nodded once. “Aye. Before he could tighten the noose. It was the only way to take the piece off his board without startin’ a bloodbath.”
"Ross," Daemon said slowly. "That would give Campbell control of…"
"The western sea routes. Aye." Tòrr set down his glass with deliberate care. "Our trade dominance would be strangled within two years."
"So ye bid fer the lass tae prevent the alliance." Michael nodded slowly. "It's nae the worst strategy."
"It's also nae without risk," Daemon pointed out. "Munro willnae take this insult lyin’ down."
"Nay, he willnae. Which is why we need tae move quickly." Tòrr met both their gazes. "The marriage has tae happen tomorrow. Before he can mount any kind of challenge."
Michael resumed his pacing. "This is madness, Tòrr. Ye've made an enemy of every clan in the Pact and stole another man's daughter."
"I bought her fair and square, followin’ all their rules."
“And now ye want tae force her intae marriage before the ink’s dry on the bid,” Daemon said, his voice low, not accusing—just weighing.
“I want tae protect what’s ours before Campbell can rip it out from under us,” Tòrr shot back.
“By marryin’ a lass who had nay say in it?”
The words struck hard, but not because they were wrong. He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Aye. Because there was nay other way. If I hadnae stepped in, she’d be in the hands of someone far worse right now. And Campbell would have the sea routes by spring.”
Cameron exhaled slowly. “Ye’re nae the kind of man who’d ruin a woman, Tòrr. We ken that.”
“I dinnae intend tae,” he said roughly. “I mean tae protect her, as me wife. She’s safer with me than with any of the bastards who bid there.”
Daemon’s gaze softened, but his voice stayed steady. “We just want tae make sure ye’re nae losin’ yerself in all this.”
Tòrr met his brother’s eyes. “I’m nae. I’m fightin’ tae keep what’s ours. And if marryin’ her is the price, I’ll pay it.”
The brothers exchanged a look of understanding, not judgment. They’d known him his whole life. He might be ruthless when he had to be, but never cruel.
"The lass," Michael said finally. "How is she takin’ this?"
Tòrr laughed bitterly. "About as well as ye'd expect. She hates me, fears me, and would probably slit me throat given half a chance."
"Can ye blame her?"
"Nay. But I cannae change it either."
Daemon moved to the window, looking out over the courtyard. "She's Munro's daughter. That means she's been raised on stories of MacDonald treachery and violence. In her mind, ye're probably the devil himself."
"Probably."
"And ye plan tae convince her tae be a willin’ bride how exactly?"
"I dinnae. I plan tae marry her whether she wills it or nae, then hope she comes tae see the advantages in time."
"Assumin’ she daesnae poison yer food first," Daemon observed.
"There is that risk."
Within the hour, the Council was gathered. The elders listened, weighed the risks, and agreed. The wedding would be held at first light, public, witnessed, unchallengeable.
“She may hate me fer it,” Tòrr said quietly as the meeting broke apart.
“She might,” Daemon replied. “But she’ll be safe. And we’ll still have a clan tae protect.”
Tòrr nodded once. The choice was already made.