Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Ye look lovely, miss," Agnes said, adjusting the final pin in Liliane's hair.
Liliane stared at her reflection in the polished silver mirror. The blue gown Sofia had chosen fit perfectly, her hair was elaborately dressed with tiny white flowers woven through the braids, and her face had been touched with subtle color. She looked like a proper bride.
But she felt like a woman walking to her execution.
"There now." Agnes stepped back, admiring her work. "The laird will be speechless when he sees ye."
"One can only hope he stays that way," Liliane muttered.
"Beggin' yer pardon, miss?"
"Naethin’. Is it time?"
"Aye, miss. Everyone's gathered in the great hall."
Liliane's hands trembled as she smoothed her skirts. This was it. Her last moment of being Liliane Munro. After today, she would be Liliane MacDonald, bound to a man she barely knew and certainly didn't love.
"Miss?" Agnes held out her arm. "Shall we?"
The walk to the great hall felt like miles. Each step brought her closer to a future she hadn't chosen, to vows she didn't want to speak, to a life that would cage her forever.
The massive doors swung open, and the hall fell silent. Rows of MacDonald clan members lined both sides of the aisle, their faces curious and expectant. At the far end, before the hearth where Father MacLeod waited in his robes, stood Tòrr.
He was dressed in formal clan attire, deep green plaid draped over a crisp white shirt, his dark hair brushed back from his face. He looked every inch the Highland laird, powerful and commanding.
He also looked like the man who'd bought her at auction.
Liliane forced one foot in front of the other, her spine straight, her chin lifted. If she had to walk to her doom, she'd do it with dignity.
"Smile, lass," Tòrr murmured as she reached his side. "Ye look like ye're attendin’ a wake."
"Perhaps I am," she replied, her voice barely audible.
Father MacLeod cleared his throat. "Shall we begin?"
"Aye," Tòrr said, his eyes never leaving Liliane's face. "Let's get this done."
The priest opened his book, his voice carrying through the silent hall. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Tòrr MacDonald, Laird of Clan MacDonald of Keppoch, and Liliane Munro, daughter of Roderick Munro..."
Liliane's mind drifted as the priest droned on about duty and honor and sacred bonds. None of this was sacred. It was political necessity wrapped in religious ceremony.
"Tòrr MacDonald," Father MacLeod intoned. "Dae ye take this woman tae be yer lawfully wedded wife, till death dae ye part?"
"I dae." Tòrr's voice was firm, certain.
"And dae ye, Liliane Munro, take this man tae be yer lawfully wedded husband, till death dae ye part?"
The words stuck in Liliane's throat. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse, to run, to fight it with every breath in her body.
"Liliane?" Tòrr's voice was quiet but held a note of warning.
She looked at him, at the assembled clan members watching with expectation, at the priest waiting for her answer.
"I dae," she whispered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue.
His fingers were warm as they slid the ring onto her finger. "With this ring, I thee wed."
The metal felt heavy, foreign. A shackle dressed up as jewelry.
"Yer turn, lass," Tòrr murmured, holding out his hand.
Liliane took the remaining ring with shaking fingers and pushed it onto his finger. "With this ring, I thee wed."
"By the power vested in me by God and the Holy Church," Father MacLeod proclaimed, "I now pronounce ye husband and wife."
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Liliane stood frozen, unable to process that it was done. She was married. Bound. Trapped.
"Ye may kiss yer bride," Father MacLeod said with a smile.
"Nay," Liliane began, but Tòrr was already stepping closer.
"We have an audience, wife," he said softly. "Try tae look like ye dinnae
despise me."
His hand cupped her face, tilting it up toward his. "Just follow me lead."
"Tòrr, dinnae."
His lips captured hers, silencing her protest. The kiss was gentle at first, almost tentative, as if he was giving her time to adjust. But then something shifted. His mouth moved more firmly against hers, and despite every intention to remain unmoved, Liliane felt heat bloom in her chest.
Her hands came up, intending to push him away, but somehow they ended up clutching his shirt instead. The cheering crowd faded to background noise as his kiss deepened, became something more than just performance.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"That was..." he started.
"A mistake," she finished, her voice sharp despite the trembling in her limbs. "And a liberty ye had nay right tae take."
"We're married, lass. I had every right."
Before she could respond, a clan member was there, clasping Tòrr's shoulder. "Congratulations, me laird."
"Thank ye." Tòrr's arm slid around Liliane's waist, keeping her anchored to his side. "Though I think me bride is still adjustin’ tae her new status."
"Perfectly natural," Michael said, appearing on her other side. "Give her time."
The sisters descended next, embracing Liliane with genuine warmth despite her stiff posture.
"Welcome tae the family," Alyson said, squeezing her hands. "Truly."
"Ye made a beautiful bride," Sofia added.
The celebration continued around them, food, drink, music, laughter. Liliane endured it all with a frozen smile, accepting congratulations from strangers who would now be her clan, her people, her family.
All she could think about was Nessa, alone at Foulis, unaware that her sister had just sealed both their fates.
"Are ye well, lass?" Tòrr asked during a brief lull in the festivities. "Ye've gone pale."
"I'm tired," she said, which wasn't entirely a lie. "May I retire tae me chamber?"
His expression hardened slightly. "Our chamber. And aye, I think it's time we took our leave."
Panic fluttered in her chest. "What?"
"We're married now, Liliane. Husband and wife share a chamber."
"But I thought, surely I could keep the blue room."
"Nay." His voice was firm. "Couples dinnae sleep apart. It raises questions we dinnae need asked."
"I dinnae care."
"I dae." He took her arm, his grip gentle but unyielding. "Come. We'll make our farewells and retire."
The walk to his chambers felt like a death march. Every step brought her closer to the moment she'd been dreading since the auction. Whatever reprieve she'd had was over. Tonight, Tòrr would claim his rights as her husband.
But he’d have to fight her for every inch of it. She’d be damned if she just let him take what little control she still had. If she couldn’t escape, then she’d delay him, outwit him, claw for every sliver of time she could steal back.
Her stomach churned, but beneath the fear was a stubborn thread of steel. She might be trapped in this marriage, but she would not surrender quietly.
His chambers, as she had seen the day before, were larger than hers, dominated by a massive four-poster bed that seemed to mock her fear. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the room.
“Wait.” Her voice came out higher than intended as he closed the door behind them. “I need… I cannae.”
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “Cannae what?”
“This. Any of this.” She pressed her hand to her forehead, thinking quickly. “I’m nae feelin’ well. I think I might have a fever.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “A fever.”
“Aye. Me head is poundin’, and I feel quite faint.”
He crossed the room in three strides, his hand coming up to rest against her forehead before she could retreat. The touch was cool, clinical, yet somehow intimate in the quiet chamber.
“Ye feel fine tae me.”
“Well, I’m nae.” She stepped back, breaking the contact. “I need rest. Real rest. Alone.”
“We’re married now, Liliane. There is no alone.”
“One night,” she pleaded, hating the desperation in her voice. “Just give me one night tae adjust.”
He studied her for a long moment, his jaw tight. “Ye’re afraid.”
“I’m tired.”
“Ye’re terrified.” His voice softened slightly. “Of me. Of this.”
Her throat tightened. He wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just him, it was everything. Every slammed door, every cruel word she’d grown up with had taught her what intimacy could become in the hands of a man with power. She’d seen what marriage looked like in her father’s house. She wanted no part of it.
"I willnae force meself on an unwillin’ woman," he said finally. "Despite what ye might think of me, I'm nae that kind of man."
Relief flooded through her so suddenly her knees weakened. "Truly?"
"Aye. But," he held up a hand as her relief began to show, "we cannae leave this union unconsummated indefinitely."
"Why nae?"
"Because without evidence of beddin’, our marriage can be challenged. Yer faither could petition fer annulment, claim I never actually claimed ye as me wife." His expression was grim. "We both ken he willnae hesitate tae use any weakness against us."
"So what are ye sayin’?"
"I'm sayin’ I'll give ye time tae adjust. A few days, perhaps. But nae ferever, Liliane. Eventually, this marriage must be made real in every sense."
"And if I refuse?"
“Then what?” Tòrr moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a measure of whisky. “Ye think I’ll hand ye back tae him?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Nay, lass. That door’s shut fer good.”
The thought of her father’s rage still made her stomach clench, she didn’t want to go back to him anyway. She wanted to get to Nessa. To protect her sister before he turned his fury on the only other person she loved.
“Nay, I didnae,” she said quietly, but with steel beneath the word.
"Then we understand each other." He took a long swallow of whisky. "Ye have a reprieve. Use it wisely."
"I want tae return tae me chamber."
"Nay."
"But ye said…"
"I said I wouldnae force intimacy on ye. I didnae say ye could sleep elsewhere." His voice was firm. "We're married. We share quarters. Non-negotiable."
"So I'm tae sleep here? With ye?"
“In the same room, aye. As tae the rest…” He gestured toward the bed, then the chair by the fire. “We’ll work that out.”
“I’m nae sharin’ a bed with ye.”
“I wasnae askin’ ye tae. Yet.” He settled into the chair, stretching his long legs toward the fire. “The bed’s yers fer taenight.”
She folded her arms, suspicion etched on every line of her face. “We’ve shared enough already.”
His mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile. “Aye. A cloak by the fire, if I recall.”
Her cheeks flushed hot. “Aye, and that ended with me tied like a sacrificial lamb.”
“That was different,” he drawled. “Ye were runnin’. I had tae keep ye in one place.”
“That’s yer excuse?”
“It worked, did it nae?” His gaze dragged over her, unhurried and deliberate. “And if I remember right, ye didnae complain about the warmth.”
Her pulse kicked hard in her throat. “That’s because I had nay choice.”
“Mm.” He leaned back, the firelight catching the sharp edge of his jaw. “If I ever tie ye again, lass, I promise it’ll nae be fer keepin’ ye from escapin’.”
Heat shot through her like lightning, shocking her as much as the words themselves. “Ye’re impossible.”
“Aye,” he agreed lightly. “And yet ye’re still standin’ here, arguin’ with me.”
She narrowed her eyes, but exhaustion and the pulse pounding in her ears warred with her indignation. “Fine. The bed’s mine.”
“Fer taenight,” he murmured.
“Fer every night.”
“We’ll see.” He raised his glass in a mock salute. “Sweet dreams, wife.”
“Dinnae call me that.”
“It’s what ye are.”
“Nae by choice.”
“Nay,” he agreed quietly, the teasing fading just enough to let the weight of the words settle. “But by law. And that counts fer more than choice in this world.”
"I need tae change," she said finally.
"There's a dressin’ screen in the corner. And nightclothes in the wardrobe, Agnes prepared everythin’.
Of course she had. Everyone had prepared for this marriage except the bride herself.
Behind the screen, Liliane fumbled with the buttons of her gown, her fingers clumsy with exhaustion and residual fear. When she finally emerged in a simple linen nightgown, Tòrr was still in his chair, staring into the fire.
"Better?" he asked without looking at her.
"Nay."
"Didnae think so." He drained his glass. "But ye're safe, Liliane. Whatever else ye think of me, ken that ye're safe in this room."
The words should have comforted her. Instead, they only highlighted how little control she had left.
She climbed into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin like armor. The sheets smelled of lavender and something else, something distinctly masculine that she recognized as Tòrr's scent.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep. But the moment she stilled, memory crept in uninvited. The unexpected heat of his mouth on hers earlier that day, the way the world had narrowed to nothing but the press of his lips and the roughness of his hand against her jaw.
Her breath caught. Against her will, her fingers drifted up, brushing lightly over her lips as if she could still feel the ghost of that kiss there. A shiver ran through her, not of fear this time, but something far more dangerous.
No. She shoved the thought away, burying herself deeper beneath the covers as if she could smother the warmth gathering low in her belly. Whatever that moment had been, it changed nothing. He was still her captor. She was still the unwilling bride.
But her traitorous heart wouldn’t stop remembering.
He was quiet for a long moment. "Give it time, lass. Things might nae be as bad as ye fear."
"Or they might be worse."
"Aye. That too."
The fire crackled, casting shifting shadows across the room. Outside, she could hear the distant sounds of the celebration continuing in the great hall.
"They're still celebratin’," she said softly.
"Weddin’s are cause fer joy in these parts."
"Even forced ones?"
"Most marriages are forced, one way or another. Daesnae mean they cannae become somethin’ more."
"Somethin’ more." She laughed bitterly. "Like what? Mutual tolerance? Polite indifference?"
"Or respect. Partnership. Maybe even affection, given time."
"I'll never feel affection fer ye."
"Never's a long time, lass."
"Go tae sleep, MacDonald."
"It's Tòrr. Or husband, if ye prefer."
"I prefer tae pretend this entire day never happened."
His low chuckle made her want to throw something at him. "Sleep well, wife. Tomorrow's another day."
She turned to face the wall, ending the conversation.
Tomorrow. When she'd wake as a married woman, bound to a man she barely knew. When the temporary reprieve would tick one day closer to its end. When she'd have to face the reality that escape was impossible and Nessa was lost to her.
Tomorrow, and all the days after, stretching into a future she couldn't bear to imagine.
But tonight, at least, she was alone in his bed. Safe from the intimacy she feared, if only temporarily. It was a small mercy she was willing to take.