Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The afternoon sun the next day hung low over Keppoch, casting long shadows across the healer's garden.
Tòrr stood at the edge of the yard, watching Liliane kneel among the herbs, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency as she plucked leaves and stems, placing them carefully in the basket beside her.
Saints, but ye are beautiful lass.
The memory of their kiss still burned through him, the taste of her, the way she'd melted against him before pulling away. The way everything had felt right for those few perfect moments before he'd ruined it with talk of alliances and political necessity.
Fool.
He'd spent most of the morning in council meetings, dealing with patrol reports and security measures. But his mind had kept drifting back to her, to the way she'd looked at him with disappointment in her eyes when he'd reduced what was between them to practical terms.
I need tae fix this. Explain meself better, dae what it takes tae make ye understand that even as important as the alliance is, ye matter me tae more.
Drawing a breath, he started across the yard toward her, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. But as he drew closer, he heard something that stopped him in his tracks.
Laughter. Liliane's laughter, bright and genuine, floating on the afternoon air.
And it wasn't directed at him.
A guard stood near the garden wall; young, barely twenty, with an easy smile and the kind of carefree demeanor that came from not yet bearing the weight of command.
He was saying something to Liliane, his expression animated, and she was laughing in response, her whole face lighting up in a way Tòrr had never seen.
"Och, I cannae believe ye actually did that!" she was saying, grinning up at the guard. "Yer poor sister must have been mortified."
"She didnae speak tae me fer a week," Malcolm replied cheerfully. "But it was worth it tae see the look on her face when that frog jumped out of her basket."
Liliane laughed again, the sound doing something strange to Tòrr's chest. "Ye're terrible. Remind me never tae cross ye."
"Och, ye could never cross me, me lady. Ye're far too kind fer that."
Something hot and unpleasant twisted in Tòrr's gut. Jealousy, sharp and unexpected, flooded through him like poison. He'd been walking toward her with the intention of apologizing, of trying to rebuild what he'd damaged the night before.
Instead, he found her laughing with another man. Looking at Malcolm the way she'd never looked at him; open, unguarded, genuinely pleased.
His jaw clenched as he closed the remaining distance between them, his earlier lightness evaporating like morning mist.
"Malcolm," he said, his voice coming out harder than he'd intended. "Dinnae ye have patrol duties tae attend tae?"
The young guard straightened immediately, his easy smile faltering. "Aye, me laird. And... "
"And ye were just leavin'. Now."
Malcolm's eyes widened slightly, and he glanced at Liliane briefly before Tòrr stepped between them, blocking the guard's view of her completely.
"Go."
"Aye, me laird." Malcolm backed away quickly, shooting one last apologetic look in Liliane's direction before hurrying toward the keep.
Silence settled over the garden, broken only by the rustle of wind through the herbs and the distant sounds of the keep. Tòrr turned to face Liliane, who had risen to her feet and was now regarding him with an arched eyebrow.
"What are ye daein' here?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral.
"I came tae see ye." The words came out more awkwardly than he'd intended, his earlier jealousy making him clumsy. "Tae see what ye were doin'."
"I'm collectin' herbs." She gestured to her half-filled basket. "As ye can clearly see."
"Aye. I can see that."
They stared at each other for a moment, the tension from the previous night hovering between them like a living thing. Tòrr felt uncharacteristically uncertain, unsure how to navigate that strange territory between them.
Finally, desperate to do something with his hands, he knelt beside her basket and reached for a sprig of rosemary. "What are ye collectin' them fer?"
"The healer needs them fer her remedies. And I'm learnin' how tae use some fer different purposes." She knelt as well, though she maintained a careful distance between them. "Why are ye really here, Tòrr?"
"I told ye. I came tae see ye."
"Aye, but why?" Her fingers moved deftly through the lavender, selecting stems with practiced care. "Ye're the laird. Surely ye have more important things tae dae than watch me pick herbs."
He should talk to her about last night. Should apologize for making her feel like she was just a political tool. Should explain that the kiss had meant more to him than any alliance ever could.
Instead, he heard himself ask, "What were ye laughin' about?"
"What?"
"With Malcolm. Just now. Ye were laughin'." He plucked at the rosemary stem, not meeting her eyes. "What was so amusin'?"
There was a beat of silence. Then, in a carefully controlled voice, Liliane said, "He was tellin' me a story about his sister. Somethin' that happened when they were children."
"Ah." Tòrr schooled his face to hide his annoyance, jabbing at another herb from the soil, though he had no idea what it was. "Must have been quite the story tae make ye laugh like that."
"It was charmin'. Innocent." She paused in her work, tilting her head to study him. "Why dae ye ask?"
"Just curious." He kept his eyes fixed on the plants, aware that he was being ridiculous but unable to stop himself. "Ye seemed very entertained."
"I was. Young Malcolm's good company. Easy tae talk tae."
The words shouldn't have stung, but they did.
Easy tae talk tae. Unlike me, apparently.
Unlike the husband who'd upset her with his clumsy attempts to explain their situation.
"I'm sure he is," Tòrr muttered, yanking another plant from the ground with more force than necessary.
"Tòrr." Liliane's voice carried a note of amusement now. "What is this really about?"
"Naethin'. It's about naethin'."
"It daesnae sound like naethin'. It sounds like somethin' is botherin' ye." She set down her basket and shifted to face him fully. "So tell me. What is it?"
He should let it go. Should change the subject. Should act like the mature, reasonable laird he was supposed to be.
Instead, he heard himself say, "Why were ye laughin' with him?"
"With Young Malcolm?"
"Aye. With Young Malcolm." He finally looked up, meeting her eyes. "Why were ye laughin' with another man?"
Understanding dawned in her expression, followed by something that might have been surprise. And was that amusement flickering at the corners of her mouth?
"Are ye..." She tilted her head, her eyes searching his face. "Are ye jealous?"
"Nay, dinnae be ridiculous." But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. "I just... I dinnae like seein' ye so comfortable with other men."
"Other men." She repeated the words slowly, as if testing their weight. "Ye mean the young guard who was assigned tae protect me? Who was daein' his duty by keepin' me company while I worked?"
"He was daein' more than keepin' ye company. He was makin' ye laugh."
"And that bothers ye?"
"Aye. Nay. I dinnae ken." Tòrr pushed to his feet, frustrated with himself and the entire conversation. "Ferget I said anythin'."
But Liliane rose as well, and there was definitely amusement in her eyes now, mixed with something warmer. Something that made his chest tighten in an entirely different way.
"Ye are jealous," she said softly. "Ye dinnae like that I was laughin' with him."
"I didnae say that."
"Ye didnae have tae. It's written all over yer face." She took a step closer, her head tilted in that considering way she had. "Daes it truly bother ye? That I might enjoy someone else's company?"
"Ye're me wife." The words came out rougher than he'd intended. "So aye, it bothers me when ye laugh with other men the way ye've never laughed with me."
"Never laughed with ye?" Her eyebrow arched higher. "And whose fault is that? Ye're the one who keeps tellin' me about alliances and political necessity. Hard tae find the humor in that."
The words hit like a landslide of rocks, all the more painful because they were true. He had reduced what was between them to practicality. Had made her feel like she was nothing more than a strategic asset.
"Liliane." He reached for her hand, but she pulled it back, though not unkindly.
"Dae ye ken what I find interestin'?" she asked, her voice taking on a teasing lilt that he'd never heard before.
"Young Malcolm makes me laugh. So daes Michael, and even Daemon when he's nae broodin'.
The stable master told me a joke yesterday that had me grinnin' fer hours.
Even Elder Malcolm, grumpy old Malcolm, managed tae coax a smile from me this mornin' with his complaints about the weather. "
"What's yer point?"
"Me point is that I laugh with many people around this keep. " She took a step closer, and he could smell the lavender on her fingers. "It's only ye who brings out me claws. Only ye who makes me want tae fight and argue and put up walls."
"Ye seem tae want tae provoke me," he murmured through clenched teeth.
"Why dae ye think that is?" She interrupted, her eyes dancing with something that looked almost like mischief. "Why would I be comfortable with everyone except the one man I'm married tae?"
He had no answer. Or rather, he had several answers, none of which he wanted to examine too closely.
"Well, that's nae the point." She stepped back, putting distance between them again. "The point is that yer jealousy is misplaced. Malcolm is nae a threat tae ye. Nay one here is."
"Then who is?" The question escaped before he could stop it.
She regarded him for a long moment, something complicated flickering across her face. "Ye are. Ye're yer own worst enemy when it comes tae me."
She adjusted the basket on her arm. "Ye dinnae have tae be jealous of Malcolm or anyone else, Tòrr.
They're nae competition. But if ye want me tae stop puttin' up walls around ye, if ye want me tae laugh with ye the way I laugh with others.
.. then perhaps ye should stop reducin' what's between us tae political strategy. "
"That's nae fair."
"Then explain tae me what that kiss meant. Without mentionin' alliances or politics or yer position as laird." She waited, her eyes steady on his. "Go on. Tell me."
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because the truth was complicated and frightening and not something he was ready to put into words. Not when he was still figuring it out himself.
"That's what I thought." She turned back toward the keep.
"When ye can answer that question, when ye can tell me what I am tae ye beyond a political asset, then maybe we'll have somethin' worth buildin'.
Until then..." She shrugged, the gesture somehow both casual and devastating.
"Until then, I'll keep laughin' with Malcolm and the others.
Because at least with them, I ken where I stand. "
She started walking toward the keep, her spine straight and her head high. Tòrr stood frozen for a moment, her words echoing in his head.
"Liliane, wait."
She didn't stop. Didn't even slow down.
She walked through the gate and disappeared around the corner of the keep, leaving him standing alone among the herbs with a half-filled basket and a chest full of words he didn't know how to speak.
Tòrr stood there for a long moment, her challenge echoing in his mind.
She wanted him to show her what he felt, to be the man rather than the laird.
But the problem was that he'd been the laird for so long, he wasn't sure he remembered how to be just a man anymore.
Every decision, every action, every word was filtered through the lens of duty and responsibility.
Except when he'd kissed her. Then, for those few perfect moments, he'd been nothing but a man wanting a woman. Feeling rather than thinking. Acting on instinct rather than strategy.
And it had terrified him as much as it apparently terrified her. He bent to retrieve the basket she'd left behind, gathering it along with the one he'd been filling. His hands moved automatically through the herbs, though his mind was miles away.
She was right. He did reduce things to practical terms, did frame everything in the context of duty and necessity. It was safer that way. Cleaner. Less likely to result in the kind of messy emotional entanglements that could cloud judgment and lead to poor decisions.
But it was also cowardly. A way of protecting himself from admitting how much he was starting to care. How much she'd gotten under his skin in the short time she'd been here.
Jealousy over a young guard making her laugh. Christ, he was pathetic.
But the sight of her face lighting up like that, the sound of her genuine pleasure at someone else's company... it had driven home just how little of that warmth she directed at him. How carefully she guarded herself in his presence.
And whose fault is that?
Tòrr straightened, the baskets heavy in his hands.
He needed to fix it. Needed to find a way to show her that she was more to him than a strategic asset or a means to an end.
But how did he do that when he'd spent the last decade of his life viewing everything through the lens of clan responsibility?
When every personal desire had been subjugated to duty?
The answer, he suspected, was exactly what she'd said. Stop being the laird for just a moment. Stop calculating and strategizing and protecting himself behind walls of necessity.
Be the man who'd kissed her. The man who'd killed three people without hesitation to keep her safe. The man who'd held her while she cried and felt her pain as if it were his own. That man who knew what she meant to him. That man didn't need political justifications or practical reasons.
That man just wanted her. Period.