Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Aword, me laird."
Tòrr's hand froze halfway to reaching for a piece of bread.
The great hall still held the quiet hush of early morning, the embers in the hearth glowing faintly against the grey light creeping in through the narrow windows.
The scents of oatcakes, roasted meat, and strong ale hung in the air.
A simple breakfast after a long, complicated night.
Elder Malcolm stood at his elbow, his weathered face grave, with Elder Gregor close behind. Michael sat across the table, his expression carefully neutral in that way that meant trouble was coming.
"Can it nae wait until after I've had somethin’ tae eat?" Tòrr asked, though he already knew the answer.
"I'm afraid nae, me laird." Malcolm's voice carried across the hall, drawing curious glances from the other clansmen breaking their fast. "It's a matter of some... delicacy."
Tòrr set down his bread with more force than necessary. "Very well. Speak."
"Perhaps somewhere more private?" Gregor suggested, his gaze sweeping the crowded hall.
"Here is fine," Tòrr replied. Let them say whatever they'd come to say where others could hear. He had nothing to hide.
Malcolm shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "As ye wish. It's about the marriage, me laird."
"What about it?"
"The consummation, specifically." Malcolm's weathered cheeks colored slightly. "When should the maid collect the bridal sheet? Fer the proof, ye understand."
The bread Tòrr had been reaching for suddenly held no appeal. "The proof."
"Aye, me laird. Ye ken it's customary fer the sheet tae be presented tae the elders. Tae verify that the marriage has been properly..." Malcolm trailed off, apparently unable to find a delicate way to finish the sentence.
"Properly completed," Gregor supplied helpfully.
Tòrr's jaw tightened so hard his teeth ached. "I'm aware of the custom."
"Then ye'll understand our concern." Malcolm leaned forward slightly. "It's been a full night since the ceremony, and yet."
"And yet what?" Tòrr's voice dropped dangerously low. "Ye're questionin’ whether I've fulfilled me duty tae me wife?"
"Nay one's questionin’ yer ability, me laird," Gregor said quickly. "But there are... procedures. Expectations. The clan needs assurance that the marriage is legally bindin’."
"The marriage is legally bindin’. We spoke vows afore a priest and the entire clan."
"Aye, but without physical proof..."
“Physical proof.”
Tòrr stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. The sound cracked through the hall like a whip.
Malcolm flinched at the sudden movement, but Tòrr wasn’t raging at the mention of the custom itself. It was part of the bloody tradition, as old as the stones beneath their feet.
“What exactly are ye sayin’?” His voice came out low, controlled, but edged with steel. “That ye’ll nae accept me word as laird of this clan?”
“Of course we will, me laird,” Malcolm said quickly, his face reddening. “But the law is the law. Without proof of consummation, Munro could challenge the marriage, claim it was never binding.”
Gregor folded his hands calmly. “It’s practicality, Tòrr. If Munro moves against ye, we must be able tae defend the union. Words alone willnae hold in court.”
Tòrr’s jaw clenched hard. He wasn’t furious at them, not truly. He was furious at the noose tightening around him. He’d given Liliane his word. A few days of distance. A sliver of trust. And now these old men were demanding the one thing he’d promised not to take.
"The lass has been through an ordeal,” Tòrr said, forcing his voice to remain level. “Dragged tae an auction, sold tae a stranger, wedded within days. The least I can dae is give her time tae breathe."
"Time?" Gregor turned. "Time is precisely what we dinnae have. Every day that passes without consummation is another day Munro can use against us."
"She's exhausted," Michael finally spoke up, his voice cutting through the tension. "Terrified, if I'm being honest."
Malcolm’s eyebrows rose. “Me laird, with respect, this isnae about kindness. It’s about protectin’ the clan.”
“Protectin’ the clan daesnae require me tae force meself on an unwillin’ woman,” Tòrr said flatly.
“Nay one’s sayin’ force,” Gregor countered. “But the law’s clear. Without proof, Munro can challenge the union.”
“Aye, I ken how the law works,” Tòrr snapped, the steel in his voice silencing them. “I dinnae need a lesson in Highland customs.”
Malcolm shifted uneasily. “A fortnight at most. After that, the other lairds will start whisperin’.”
“They already are,” Gregor added. “Munro’s spreadin’ word that the marriage is a sham. That ye’ve taken his daughter but nae claimed her.”
Tòrr’s jaw flexed. He’d expected Munro to move quickly—but not that fast. Still, he wouldn’t let these old men smell blood in the water.
“He can spread whatever lies he wants,” Tòrr said coolly. “I’ll provide the proof soon enough.”
“Ye mean the sheet,” Gregor said. “Witnessed, properly.”
Tòrr gave a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Aye. The sheet. Ye’ll have it.”
Malcolm studied him carefully. “Ye’re certain, then?”
“I said I’ve got it under control,” Tòrr cut in, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Worry about the clan. I’ll handle me wife.”
A beat of silence followed. No more protests. No more questions. He’d drawn the line.
“Very well, me laird,” Malcolm said at last.
Tòrr turned away, his appetite long gone. Outwardly, he projected calm authority. Inwardly, the clock was already ticking, and the promise he’d made to Liliane sat like a blade against his ribs. The elders exchanged glances and strode from the hall leaving Michael sitting beside him.
"That went well," his brother observed dryly.
"Shut up."
"A fortnight isnae much time."
"I ken."
"The lass already fears ye. Pushin’ her willnae help."
"I said I ken." Tòrr stopped at the base of the tower stairs, running a hand through his hair. "Christ, Michael. What have I done?"
"Ye did what ye thought was necessary."
"Aye. And now I've trapped us both in a marriage neither of us wants, with a deadline I cannae meet without becomin’ the monster she already thinks I am."
"Ye're nae a monster."
"Arenae I? I bought her at auction, dragged her here, married her against her will, and now I'm plannin’ tae seduce her afore she's ready. What would ye call that?"
"Politics," Michael said quietly. "Survival. The price of power."
"It's a hell of a price."
"Aye. But ye're nae the first laird tae pay it, and ye willnae be the last."
"I have few days tae turn a terrified bride intae a willin’ wife."
"Stranger things have happened."
"Name one."
Michael grinned. "Ye're already married tae her. That's fairly strange."
Despite everything, Tòrr found himself smiling. "I need tae figure out how tae face me wife without her throwin’ somethin’ at me head."
"Good luck with that." Michael clapped him on the shoulder. "Fer what it's worth, I think ye're daeing the right thing. Even if the elders dinnae see it."
"The right thing that might destroy everythin’?"
"Sometimes the right thing and the smart thing arenae the same. Ye're tryin’ tae dae both. That takes courage."
"Or stupidity."
"Often the same thing."
Christ help him, it wasn't enough time. But it was all he had.