Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Again!"
Tòrr circled the two warriors, his sword moving in controlled arcs as they pressed their attack. Sweat stung his eyes despite the cool evening air, but he ignored it, focused entirely on the dance of steel and strategy.
"Ye're leavin’ yer left side open," he called out, parrying a strike from the younger man. "Anyone with eyes could exploit that."
"Aye, me laird." The guard adjusted his stance, but not quickly enough.
Tòrr feinted right, then pivoted left, catching the warrior off guard. He stumbled backward, and Tòrr followed through, too aggressively, he realized a heartbeat too late.
His boot caught on uneven ground. His ankle twisted viciously beneath his weight.
Pain shot up his leg like lightning as he hit the ground hard, his sword clattering away across the packed earth.
"Me laird!" Both warriors dropped their weapons and rushed forward.
"I'm fine." Tòrr pushed himself up, testing his weight on the injured ankle. Fresh pain lanced through him. "Damn it."
"That daesnae look fine," Michael observed, striding across the yard. "Can ye stand?"
"I am standin’!" he snapped.
He watched Michael grimace. "Okay then. Can ye walk?"
Tòrr took a step and barely suppressed a curse. "Aye."
"Liar." Michael moved to support him. "Trainin’s done fer today. Get that ankle seen tae before it swells worse."
"It's naethin’."
"It's an injury that'll get worse if ye keep being stubborn about it." Michael's voice brooked no argument. "Go. That's an order from yer second."
"Ye cannae order me. I'm the laird."
"Then I'm askin’ nicely. Which we both ken means the same thing when I'm right."
Tòrr wanted to argue but the throbbing in his ankle was already intensifying. He'd twisted it badly, probably strained something important. Walking would be difficult, riding worse.
Perfect timing, ye idiot, with unkent riders on the borders and the festival coming up soon.
"Fine. But I want double patrols maintained through the night. And I want reports every two hours on any movement."
"Consider it arranged." Michael pointed to one of the guards. "Ye guard! Take the laird tae his chamber before he falls over and makes it worse."
The guard scurried toward them, but one scalding look from Tòrr and he froze, stepping back.
He gave Michael another look that spoke volumes, before he walked, or more accurately, limped back to his chambers.
A journey made practically endless because he pretended not to be as hurt as he felt, while also keeping his weight off the foot.
Every step sent fresh jolts of pain up his leg, and by the time he reached his door, sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool corridor.
He pushed the door open and stopped.
Liliane knelt by the hearth, grinding something in a small mortar. The scent of herbs filled the room, sharp and medicinal. She looked up as he entered, her eyes widening at his obvious limp.
"What happened?" She set down the mortar and stood quickly.
"Trainin’ accident. It's naethin’."
"Ye're limpin’. That's nae naethin’." She moved toward him. "Sit down before ye fall down."
"I'm nae goin’ tae."
"Sit. Down." The command in her voice surprised him enough that he obeyed, settling heavily into the chair by the fire.
She knelt before him, her hands moving to his boot. "May I?"
"What are ye daein’?"
"Examinin’ yer ankle. What daes it look like I'm daein’?" She began unlacing his boot with careful efficiency. "I watched the trainin’ from the window. Saw ye go down hard."
"Ye were watchin’?"
"I had naethin’ else tae occupy meself with." She eased the boot off, and he couldn't quite suppress a hiss of pain. "There, there. I ken it hurts."
"I've had worse."
"I'm sure ye have. Daesnae make this isnae worth tendin’." She pushed up his trouser leg, revealing an ankle already swelling and darkening with bruises. "Christ, Tòrr. This is badly twisted."
"It's naethin’."
"And I'm tellin’ ye it's somethin’." She sat back on her heels, gesturing to the mortar. "I've been preparin’ a paste. Comfrey, arnica, and yarrow. It'll help with the swellin’ and pain."
He stared at her. "Ye made medicine fer me?"
"As soon as I saw ye slip. Dinnae sound so surprised. I told ye I ken healin’." She stood and retrieved the mortar, then knelt before him again. "This might sting a bit."
"I can handle… Christ!" The paste was cold against his inflamed skin, and her fingers were gentle but thorough, working the medicine into the swollen tissue.
"Ye need tae be more careful," she scolded, not looking up from her work. "A laird with a twisted ankle is vulnerable. What if those riders we saw decide tae attack?"
"They willnae."
"How dae ye ken?"
"Because if they were plannin’ an immediate attack, they wouldnae have been scoutin’ so obviously." He watched her hands move over his ankle, trying to ignore how intimate the gesture felt. "They were testin’ our awareness, seein’ how quickly we'd respond."
"And ye responded by injurin’ yerself in trainin’." Her voice held exasperation. "Very strategic."
He grimaced. "It was an accident."
"Accidents happen when people push too hard." She glanced up at him, her hazel eyes sharp. "When was the last time ye actually rested?"
"I rest."
"Sleepin’ in a chair daesnae count."
"I sleep fine in the chair."
"Ye sleep like a man who expects attack at any moment." She returned her attention to his ankle, wrapping it with clean linen. "Which is probably accurate, given yer circumstances, but still."
He caught her wrist gently, stilling her movements. "If ye're so concerned about where I sleep, lass, ye need only say the word."
Her hands froze on the bandage. "What?"
"The chair." His thumb traced a slow circle against her pulse point. "I'd abandon it gladly. All ye have tae dae is invite me back tae our bed."
Color flooded her cheeks, spreading down her neck. "I—that's nae what I meant."
"Nay?" His lips curved into a slight smile. "Ye seem awfully worried about me comfort only a second ago."
"I'm worried about ye bein' a fool and injurin' yerself further." But her voice had gone breathless, and her hands trembled as she fumbled with tying off the bandage.
"Mmm." He watched her struggle with the knot, making no move to help. "And here I thought ye were offerin' tae keep me warm."
"Tòrr MacDonald, stop this."
He leaned back slightly, giving her space but keeping his gaze steady on her flushed face. "One word from ye, Liliane, and I'll never sleep in that damned chair again."
She jerked the bandage tight—perhaps harder than necessary—and he hissed through his teeth.
"There." She sat back, her hands trembling slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. "All done. Try nae tae dae anythin' else foolish today."
"I make nay promises." Especially not when teasing her brought such lovely color to her cheeks.
He didn’t miss the flush creeping up her neck.
"Ye're nervous," he observed.
"I'm nae nervous. I was… I was concentratin’."
"And yer hands are shakin’."
"They are nae." She looked down at her own hands, saw the fine tremor, and snatched them back. "It's just... this is the first time I've actually treated someone. I wanted tae dae it properly."
"Ye did fine." He caught her wrist gently before she could retreat. "Better than fine. Did ye learn all this from yer maither?"
"Some, but books, mostly. Me mother taught me the basics before she died, but after..." She trailed off. "I read everythin’ I could find. Medical texts, herbals, anythin’ that might help me understand how tae heal."
"Tell me again why ye want tae dae this?"
She glanced sharply as him. "Like I said, there's too much sufferin’ that could be prevented."
"Nay. I mean why the urgency? Why dedicate yerself tae learnin’ somethin’ most noblewomen consider beneath them?"
She was quiet for a long moment, her wrist still caught in his loose grip. "Because when I watched me mother die, I experienced the pain of there being nay hope, and I never wanted tae feel that helpless again."
The raw honesty in her voice struck him somewhere in the vulnerable parts of his heart. "Liliane."
"The paste will need tae be reapplied tomorrow mornin’." She stood quickly. "Try nae tae put too much weight on it taenight."
"Thank ye." The words felt inadequate. "Fer this. Fer carin’ enough tae prepare it."
"Dinnae read too much intae it. Ye're me husband."
"Is that the only reason?"
Her cheeks colored. "Daes there need tae be another?"
"Were ye nae even slightly worried about me?" He couldn't resist teasing her, watching the way her blush deepened.
Ye are so bonnie with all that color on ye cheeks, I feel like kissin’ ye right now.
"Dinnae be ridiculous," she snapped.
"So ye spent all that time watchin’ me trainin’, noticed the exact moment I got injured, and immediately prepared medicine purely out of... what? Boredom?" Tòrr tisked.
"Civic duty."
"Hmmm. Civic duty." He arched a brow. "That's what we're callin’ it?"
"What else would it be?"
"Concern. Care. The beginnin’s of actually givin’ a damn whether I live or die."
"Dinnae flatter yerself, MacDonald." But she wouldn't meet his eyes.
He studied her, noting the defensive set of her shoulders, the way she'd put distance between them, the lingering flush on her face. Something had shifted during their ride that morning, and her tending his injury, her obvious agitation, only confirmed it.
"Have ye changed yer mind?" he asked quietly.
"About what?"
"About leavin’. About this marriage. About whether ye can find somethin’ bearable here."
Her defiance returned instantly, her chin lifting. Her voice was hard and dry when she spoke. "If I had the chance, I'd still try tae flee. Naethin's changed."
The admission shouldn't have stung as much as it did. "Naethin’?"
"Naethin’ that matters."
"Hmm. Naethin’ that matters?" He leaned forward despite the protest from his ankle. "Because from where I sit, somethin's definitely changed."
"Ye're imaginin’ things."
"Am I? Then why are ye blushin’?"
"I'm nae." She pressed her hands to her cheeks. "It's warm in here. The fire is too hot."
"The fire's been burnin’ at the same temperature all evenin’." He watched her squirm with pleasure. "Just admit it, lass," he smirked. "Ye're startin’ tae see me as somethin’ other than the monster that won ye in a bid."
"That's a low bar tae clear."
"But I'm clearin’ it. That's progress."
She made a frustrated sound and moved to rise from the bed. "I should check on…"
His hand shot out, catching her wrist. "Stay."
"Why?" But she didn't pull away.
"Because we're married. Because we share this chamber. Because runnin' away every time things get uncomfortable willnae solve anythin'."
"I'm nae runnin'."
"Are ye nae?" He pulled gently, and she lost her balance, tumbling back onto the bed and landing across his legs. "Every time we have an actual conversation, every time somethin' real happens between us, ye bolt like a frightened deer."
"Maybe that's because there shouldnae be anythin' real between us." She tried to sit up, but his hand on her shoulder kept her in place. "This is a political arrangement, naethin' more."
"Is it?" He shifted, her weight settled on his thighs. "Because that paste ye made suggests otherwise."
"That paste is practical medicine."
"That paste is ye carin' despite yerself." His hand moved to her waist, holding her steady when she tried to rise. "And it daesnae have tae scare ye."
"Ye dinnae ken what scares me."
"Dinnae I?" He was close enough to see the rapid pulse in her throat and her chest. "Ye're terrified that if ye stop fightin' long enough tae actually see me, really see me, ye might find somethin' worth stayin' fer."
"That's nae true." Her breath caught as his free hand moved up to cup her face.
"Is it nae?" His thumb traced the line of her jaw. "Tell me I'm wrong, lass. Tell me ye feel naethin' when I touch ye like this."
She stared up at him, her eyes wide and conflicted. "Tòrr, I cannae."
His thumb traced the line of her jaw. "Dinnae run," he whispered.
"I'm nae runnin’. I'm being sensible." Her voice was breathless. "Yer ankle."
"Me ankle's fine." It wasn't, but he didn't care. Not with her that close, her hands pressed against his chest for balance, her lips parted in surprise.
"This isnae… we shouldnae dae this."
"Probably nae," he agreed. But he didn't let go.
Her breathing had gone shallow, her pupils dilated. He could feel her heart racing beneath his palm where his hand had somehow found its way to her ribs.
"Tell me tae stop," he said, his voice rough.
"I—" Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and his gaze followed the movement. "This is a terrible idea."
"Aye. Then tell me tae stop."
But she didn't. She just stared at him, conflict and want warring in her expression. He leaned in, giving her every chance to pull away. Their lips were a breath apart when he saw something flicker in her eyes. Fear, or perhaps desire, he couldn't tell which.
Then his better judgment finally caught up with his desire.
He pulled back abruptly, releasing her so quickly she had to catch herself on the edge of the bed.
"That was… " He stood, putting necessary distance between them despite the protest from his ankle. "I shouldnae have, lass."
She sat frozen where he'd left her, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "Why did ye stop?"
"Because ye're nae ready. Because forcin’ this would ruin whatever progress we've made."
Because I saw fear in yer eyes, and I'll be damned if I become the monster ye already half-believe me tae be.
But he couldn't say that. Couldn't admit how much her opinion of him had started to matter.
"I need tae..." He moved toward the door. "The library. I have work tae dae."
"Tòrr, wait."
"Get some rest, Liliane. Ye'll need yer strength."
He didn't wait for her response, didn't trust himself to stay in that room with her another moment. His ankle screamed protest with every step, but he ignored it, focused entirely on putting distance between himself and the woman who was rapidly becoming more dangerous to him than any enemy army.
In the corridor, he leaned against the cool stone wall and tried to steady his breathing. Three days. He'd given himself three days to win her over, and he'd almost just destroyed everything by moving too fast.
She'd been willing, he was almost certain of that. And there'd been something else in her eyes too. Something that looked like disappointment when he'd pulled away. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part.
Either way, staying in that chamber that night would be a mistake. His self-control was already hanging by a thread, and the way she'd looked at him, the way she'd felt in his arms...
No. The library was safer. Even if every instinct screamed at him to go back, to finish what they'd started, to claim his wife properly and damn the consequences.
He just hoped they both survived it with their hearts intact. Though increasingly, he suspected his own was already compromised beyond repair.