Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Me laird left fer the hall an hour past, me lady."
Liliane's eyes flew open at the unfamiliar voice. A young maid stood by the door, her arms full of fresh linens, her expression carefully neutral.
"I'm sorry, what?" Liliane sat up, disoriented. Sunlight streamed through the windows, far brighter than it should be if it were still early morning.
"Laird MacDonald," the maid repeated. "He's already in the great hall. Shall I help ye dress?"
"Nay." Liliane clutched the blankets tighter. "I can manage meself."
"As ye wish, me lady." The maid set the linens on a chest near the hearth. "Shall I send fer a bath?"
"Later, perhaps. Thank ye."
After the maid left, Liliane collapsed back against the pillows, her heart racing. She'd survived the night.
Tòrr had kept his word, sleeping in that chair by the fire, never once approaching the bed despite being her legal husband with every right to do so. For reasons she couldn’t quite name, that unsettled her almost as much as the alternative would have.
The image of his tall frame slouched in that uncomfortable chair had made something in her chest twist unexpectedly.
Why dae I care?
Scowling at herself, she threw back the covers and sat up. Whatever aches he had were none of her concern. He was the one who’d dragged her there, after all.
But how long would that last?
She pressed her hands to her face, thinking furiously. The reprieve he'd given her was temporary, he'd made that abundantly clear. Eventually, he would expect to consummate their marriage, and she had no illusions about what that meant. No escape, no choice.
Unless she found another way to delay him.
Her mind turned to the books she'd read in secret at Foulis, the healing texts her mother had treasured before she died.
There were herbs that could bring on a woman's monthly courses, make her temporarily unsuitable for bedding.
Pennyroyal was one, dangerous in high doses, but effective in smaller amounts.
If she could find some, brew a tea, time it correctly... she might buy herself more days. Perhaps even weeks.
But where would she find pennyroyal in a strange castle?
The healer's chamber, of course! Every keep had one, and healers always kept pennyroyal on hand for various ailments.
Liliane dressed quickly in a simple day gown, braided her hair with trembling fingers, and slipped into the corridor. She had to find that chamber before Tòrr returned and started asking questions about how she'd spent her morning.
"Liliane?"
She spun to find Alyson approaching from the opposite direction, her face bright with morning cheer.
"Oh, good, ye're awake." Alyson linked her arm through Liliane's as if they'd been friends for years. "I was just comin’ tae check on ye. How are ye feelin’ this mornin’?"
"I'm..." Liliane seized on the opening. "Actually, I'm nae feelin’ entirely well. I think I may have had a slight fever last night. Naethin’ serious, but I wondered if ye could tell me where the healer’s chamber is?
She came tae me the day I arrived fer an ailment, but I dinnae ken where tae find her? "
Alyson's expression shifted to concern. "A fever? Did ye mention this tae Tòrr?"
"I didnae want tae worry him."
"Well, ye should have. He'd want tae ken if ye're unwell." Alyson squeezed her arm. "But let's get ye tae the healer first. She's wonderful, kens more about herbs and remedies than anyone in the Highlands."
"Aye, she seemed tae ken her job."
" Her chamber is just down this way." Alyson guided her along the corridor, still chattering. "Though sometimes she goes tae the village tae tend tae the crofters. She daesnae believe in lettin’ people suffer just because they cannae afford tae travel tae the castle."
They reached a heavy wooden door, and Alyson knocked briskly. "Moira? Are ye in?"
Silence.
"Hmm. She must be out." Alyson tried the latch, and the door swung open. "But we can wait fer her in here, or at least see if there's somethin’ simple that might help."
The healer's chamber was exactly what Liliane had hoped for. Walls lined with shelves holding dozens of jars, bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters, a large wooden table covered with mortars and pestles. The air smelled of lavender and sage and something sharper, more medicinal.
"What are yer symptoms exactly?" Alyson asked, moving toward the shelves. "Headache? Chills?"
"A bit of both." Liliane's eyes swept the jars, searching for labels. "And some... stomach unease."
"Weddin’ nerves, most likely. Perfectly natural." Alyson selected a jar and held it up to the light. "This is chamomile. Good fer settlin’ the stomach and calmin’ nerves. We could brew ye some tea. "
"That's kind, but perhaps I should wait fer the healer." Liliane moved closer to the shelves, pretending to examine the various herbs while her gaze darted from jar to jar. "I wouldnae want tae use somethin’ incorrectly."
Found it.
Liliane noticed a jar of pennyroyal but didn’t take it in Alyson’s presence. She couldn’t risk her knowing what she was truly there for.
"Nonsense. Chamomile is perfectly safe." Alyson said, but set the jar down anyway. "She might nae be back until this afternoon."
"I can wait," Liliane said quickly.
"Are ye sure? If ye're truly unwell, I could send someone tae fetch her."
"Nay, nay. It's naethin’ urgent." Liliane forced a smile. "Just wanted ae be cautious."
"Well, come down tae the hall fer breakfast then. Food might help settle yer stomach." Alyson took her arm again, gently steering her toward the door. "And I willnae hear any arguments about nae being hungry. Ye barely ate at the weddin’ feast yesterday."
"I wasnae particularly hungry yesterday."
"Understandable. It was rather overwhelmin’, wasnae it?" Alyson's voice was kind. "But ye're part of the family now. We take care of our own."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they only reminded Liliane how trapped she was.
As they walked toward the great hall, Liliane's mind was already racing. She'd seen where the healer's chamber was, knew it was unlocked when Moira was away. If she could find an excuse to return alone...
The great hall was less crowded than it had been the day before, but still bustling with activity. Servants moved between tables, clearing dishes and setting out fresh bread and cheese. At the high table, she could see Tòrr and Michael already seated, along with Catherine and Sofia.
"There she is!" Catherine called out, waving enthusiastically. "Come sit by me, sister. I want tae hear everythin’ about yer first night as Lady MacDonald."
Heat flooded Liliane's face as she took the seat Catherine indicated.
"Catherine," Sofia chided gently. "Give the poor lass some peace."
"I'm just curious." Catherine turned her bright gaze on Liliane.
From his seat, Tòrr's fork scraped against his plate with more force than necessary. “That willnae be necessary, Catherine.”
"Dinnae let Catherine interrogate ye. She has nay shame," Michael said, reaching out for another plate of food.
"I have plenty of shame," Catherine protested. "I'm just also curious."
"Leave the lass be. Her marriage is none of yer business." Michael added, taking his own seat.
Liliane found herself relaxing slightly under their easy banter.
“Would ye like me tae show ye the gardens after breakfast? They're quite lovely this time of year." Sofia chimed in.
"Or the library," Catherine suggested. "Dae ye like tae read? We have an excellent collection."
"I dae like tae read," Liliane admitted. "Very much, actually."
"Then the library it is!" Catherine clapped her hands. "Oh, and there's the village festival comin’ up in few days. Ye'll love it, music, dancin’, far too much ale. The whole clan celebrates."
Few days.
Liliane’s heart gave a sudden, sharp thud. “The whole clan attends?” she asked carefully, forcing her voice to sound casual.
“Aye, nearly everyone. It’s tradition,” Catherine said brightly. “Ye cannae miss it.”
"Everyone who can make the journey," Michael confirmed. "Happens twice a year, once in spring, once in autumn."
Liliane nodded, but her mind was already racing. A festival meant crowds. Distraction. Laughter. Chaos. Everyone’s attention would be on the celebration, not on her.
If she could keep Tòrr at bay until then, play the part of the compliant bride just long enough, the festival might give her the opening she needed. A chance to disappear. A chance to reach Nessa before it was too late.
She smiled faintly, hoping Catherine wouldn’t notice how tight it felt. “It sounds… wonderful.” She tried to keep her voice neutral. "Will... will we be goin’?"
"Of course!" Catherine looked surprised by the question. "Tòrr never misses the festivals. He's required tae attend, actually. The laird's presence is part of the tradition."
"And his new wife will be expected as well," Sofia added gently. "It'll be yer first public appearance as Lady MacDonald. The clan will want tae meet ye properly."
A public appearance. In the village. Away from the castle walls. Surrounded by crowds and confusion and countless opportunities to slip away unnoticed.
"That sounds..." Liliane struggled to keep the hope out of her voice. "Interestin’."
"It'll be wonderful," Catherine assured her. "Ye'll see. Everyone will adore ye."
"I doubt that." Liliane took a bite of bread, her mind already racing with possibilities. "I'm a Munro. Yer clan has nay reason tae trust me."
"Ye're a MacDonald now," Michael corrected. "The moment ye spoke those vows, ye became one of us. The clan understands that."
If circumstances were different, she might have actually wanted to be part of this family.
They were loud, warm, and full of life in a way the Munro keep had never been.
No heavy silences hanging like chains. No waiting for her father’s temper to snap like a whip.
Here, there was laughter in the halls. Sisters who teased each other without fear.
People who seemed to care for one another not because of power or bloodlines, but because they chose to.
For the briefest, traitorous moment, she wondered what it would be like to stay. To live in a place where kindness wasn’t a weakness. Where she wasn’t a bargaining chip or a burden. Where she could build something of her own instead of being sold off like cattle.
But circumstances weren't different. And by the time the festival arrived, she might have her chance to escape.
"Tell me more about this festival," she said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. "What should I expect?"
Catherine launched into an animated description of past festivals, the music, the dancing, the competitions between villages. Michael added his own stories, making Liliane laugh despite herself when he described Tòrr's disastrous attempt at the caber toss two years prior.
"He threw it backward," Catherine giggled. "Nearly took out three clansmen."
"It was the wind," Michael defended. "Anyone could have made that mistake."
As they talked and laughed, Liliane found herself relaxing into the conversation. Michael was easy to talk to, his humor gentle and self-deprecating. Catherine was irrepressible, her energy infectious. Even serious Sofia unbent enough to share a few stories.
This was what family could be, she realized. This warmth, this acceptance, this sense of belonging. And she was planning to abandon all of it.
The thought should have made her feel guilty. Instead, it only reinforced her determination. These people were kind, but they weren't hers. They were Tòrr's family, bound to him by blood and loyalty. She was an outsider, a political acquisition, a problem to be managed.
Nessa was her family. Nessa was who mattered.
"Ye look thoughtful," Michael observed, breaking into her reverie.
"Just tired," she lied. "It's been... an eventful few days."
"That's puttin’ it mildly." He grinned at her. "But ye're handlin’ it well. Better than most would, I'd wager."
"Am I?"
"Aye. Ye havenae killed Tòrr yet. That shows remarkable restraint."
Liliane couldn't help but smile. "The day is young."
"Fair point." Michael leaned back in his chair.
"Wife. A word, if ye please."
Liliane's stomach dropped. "Now?"
"Aye. Now."
She stood on unsteady legs, acutely aware of his siblings still watching. "Very well."
Tòrr led her to a small alcove off the main corridor, far enough from the hall for privacy but not so far that she felt truly isolated.
“Ye seem tae be enjoyin’ yerself,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the stone wall. His voice was deceptively casual, but there was a tightness beneath it. “Laughin’, talkin’, all smiles after givin’ me hell last night.”
Her brows shot up. “Hell? I asked ye tae stay out of the bed and ye agreed.”
“Aye. And ye were quite pleased tae see me there.” His mouth curved, though it wasn’t exactly a smile. “Yet this mornin’, ye’re all sunshine with Michael.”
She folded her arms. “He’s easy tae talk tae.”
Tòrr’s gaze sharpened. “Easier than me?”
She tilted her chin, meeting his look head-on. “Well, he didnae tie me up and force me tae marry him.”
His jaw worked, the muscle ticking. “So ye’re more than willin’ tae get cozy with me braither.”
That did it. The way his voice dropped – low, possessive, barely reined in– made it very clear what that was about. A slow, incredulous smile curved her lips.
"Ye're jealous that I was talkin’ tae yer braither."
"I'm nae jealous. I'm... concerned about appearances."
"Appearances?" She couldn't help the laugh that escaped. "We're married. What possible appearance could there be from me speakin’ with me braither-by-marriage?"
"Ye seemed very comfortable with him."
"He's easy tae talk tae, like I said. Unlike some people."
Tòrr's jaw tightened. "Meanin’ me."
"If the shoe fits."
They glared at each other for a long moment.
Then he turned and walked back to the breakfast table, leaving her alone in the alcove with three days until the festival and a desperate plan taking shape in her mind.
A few days until freedom, or a few days until everything fell apart. She wasn't sure which was more likely.