Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Where the hell did she go?"
Tòrr stood at the entrance to the great hall, scanning the corridors. One moment Liliane had been in the alcove, the next she'd slipped away while his attention was diverted by a passing servant.
Michael appeared at his elbow. "Lost somethin’?"
"Me wife."
"Already?" His brother's lips twitched. "That's got tae be some kind of record."
"This isnae amusin’."
"It's a little amusin’." Michael pointed down the corridor. "I saw her headin’ toward the east wing a few minutes ago. Near the healer’s chamber."
The healer's room. What business did Liliane have there? Was she really sick, like she claimed last night? She seemed okay during the breakfast, but maybe her wound was giving her trouble?
Tòrr strode down the corridor, his boots striking the stone with sharp purpose. When he reached the door, it stood slightly ajar, and he could hear the soft sound of movement inside.
He pushed it open quietly.
Liliane stood with her back to him, reaching for a jar on the upper shelf. Her movements were careful, secretive, as if she didn't want to be caught.
"What are ye daein’?"
She spun so fast the jar slipped from her fingers. It fell, shattering against the stone floor in an explosion of glass and dried leaves.
"Saints!" Liliane jumped back, her hand flying to her chest. "Ye scared me half tae death!"
"That was the general idea." Tòrr moved into the room, eyeing the mess on the floor. "What were ye lookin’ fer?"
"Naethin’. Just, I was curious about the herbs."
"Curious." He didn't believe her for a second. "So curious ye felt the need tae sneak in here alone?"
"I wasnae sneakin’. The door was open."
"Because the healer is in the village. Which means ye kent she wouldnae be here tae see ye rummagin’ through her supplies."
Liliane's chin lifted defensively. "I wasnae rummagin’. I was lookin’."
"Fer what?"
"Daes it matter?"
"Aye. It daes." He crossed his arms. "Ye're in the healer's chamber, alone, reachin’ fer jars ye have nay business touchin’. So I'll ask again, what were ye lookin’ fer?"
Her eyes flashed with anger. "Perhaps I was lookin’ fer somethin’ tae poison yer breakfast with."
"Were ye?"
"Nay." She knelt to collect the broken glass, her movements jerky with irritation. "Though it's temptin’."
Tòrr crouched beside her, his knee brushing the edge of her skirts. The movement brought them eye-to-eye, close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.
“Let me help,” he said quietly.
“I dinnae need yer help.”
“Ye never dae. Yet here ye are, bleedin’ again.”
She glanced down at the thin line of red blooming on her fingertip. “It’s naethin’.”
“It’s never naethin’ with ye.”
When he reached for her hand, she jerked back instinctively.
“I said I can manage.”
"It needs cleanin’," he said.
"I'll clean it meself."
"Will ye? Or will ye ignore it and risk infection out of sheer stubbornness?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm nae stubborn."
"Ye're the most stubborn woman I've ever met." His voice carried that quiet, iron weight she was learning to recognize. “Give me yer hand, Liliane.”
For a heartbeat she hesitated, their faces so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Then, with reluctant grace, she extended her hand.
The cut was shallow but clean. He held her wrist carefully, his calloused fingers steady against her softer skin. She smelled of crushed herbs and something faintly sweet, and when she bit her lip against the sting, his gaze snagged on the movement.
For one reckless moment, he remembered the taste of her mouth beneath his, the way she’d gone still against him, shocked, breathless. A pulse of heat curled low in his gut, sharp and unwanted.
He cleared his throat, forcing his attention back to the cut as if it demanded all his focus.
“It’ll heal fine,” he muttered, though his voice was rougher than he intended.
As he cleaned the cut, their proximity forced an intimacy neither was ready for. Her hand was small in his, delicate despite the calluses he felt on her palm. Those were hands of someone who'd done more than just needlework.
"What are these from?" he asked, running his thumb over one.
She stiffened. "None of yer concern."
"Everythin’ about ye is me concern now. We've established this."
"Ye've established it. I never agreed."
"Ye said vows yesterday. That's agreement enough."
"Vows I was forced tae speak."
"Forced." He looked up at her. "Was there a knife at yer throat?”
"There might as well have been."
"That's nae the same thing." He finished cleaning the cut and reached for a strip of linen to bind it. "But ye're right. Ye didnae choose this any more than I chose tae want ye here."
The admission seemed to surprise her. "Ye didnae want me here?"
"I wanted tae prevent an alliance. I wanted tae protect me clan's interests." He wrapped the linen around her finger with efficient movements. "What I got was a wife who looks at me like I'm the devil himself."
"Dae ye blame me?"
"Nay. But I can wish it were different."
Rain pattered against the window, the sound filling the sudden silence.
He released her hand, and they both stood, the broken glass forgotten at their feet.
"We started poorly," he said finally.
"That's an understatement."
"Aye. But we're stuck with each other now, fer better or worse." He moved to the window, watching water stream down the thick glass. "I'd prefer better."
"What are ye suggestin’?"
"A truce. Of sorts." He turned to face her. "Let me show ye the land. Help ye see that this place could be more than a prison."
"Now?" She glanced at the window. "It's rainin’."
"Once it clears." He studied her face, trying to read her thoughts. "Unless ye'd prefer tae spend the day locked in our chamber, tryin’ tae avoid me."
"That daes sound appealin’."
"I'm sure it doas. But it willnae make any of this easier."
She was quiet for a long moment. "If I agree tae this... ride, what dae ye expect in return?"
"Naethin’. Just yer company. Yer willingness tae see what I'm offerin’."
"And what are ye offerin’ exactly?"
"A chance tae understand each other. Tae find some common ground before… " He stopped himself.
"Before what? Before ye decide yer patience is exhausted and ye claim yer rights?"
His jaw tightened. "Before we destroy whatever small chance we have at makin’ this bearable."
She stared at him, those remarkable eyes searching his face for whatever it was she sought. Finally, she nodded.
"Fine. When the rain stops, we'll ride."
"Good." He gestured to the broken glass. "I'll have someone clean this up. Come. I'll walk ye back tae the chamber."
"That's nae necessary."
"Humor me. I've already lost ye once today. I'd rather nae dae it again."
As they walked through the corridors, the silence between them was different than before, less hostile, perhaps, but still wary.
They were like two fighters circling before a match, each assessing the other's weaknesses.
Tòrr offered his hand to her and without thinking, she placed her hands on his.
They passed through the portrait gallery, and Tòrr slowed despite himself. The paintings lined the walls in chronological order, generations of MacDonald lairds staring down with varying degrees of sternness.
"Who are they?" Liliane asked, following his gaze.
"Me ancestors. Every laird since the clan settled at Keppoch three hundred years ago."
"Hmm. But I cannae see any laird that resembles ye here."
"That's because I'm nae here yet. Me portrait will be painted when..." He trailed off.
"When what?"
"When I've proven meself worthy of the honor." His voice was flat. "Tradition dictates the portrait is painted only after the laird has secured the succession. Marriage, an heir, stability."
"So ye need me fer yer portrait." Her voice was teasing. "‘Tis good tae ken."
"I need ye fer a lot more than a portrait, dear wife." He muttered with a wink, before moving forward. He stopped before the portrait of a handsome couple in their prime.
"These… are me maither and faither."
Liliane almost gasped, struck by his parent’s painting. His father was obviously very tall, even from the portrait, and broad-shouldered, but his mother was built delicately, with eyes tough as steel.
“They look happy. Genuinely content with each other.”
The thought had never crossed Tòrr’s mind. He had taken his parent’s relationship for granted, never really dwelling on whether they were happy or not. Not until this moment.
"They were..." He searched for words. "They loved each other. Truly. It wasnae a political match or an alliance. They chose each other."
"That must have been nice," Liliane said quietly.
"It was. Fer them." He stared at his mother's painted face. "She died when I was nineteen. A fever took her in three days. Me faither followed two years later, killed on a battlefield that shouldnae have claimed him."
"I'm sorry."
The simple words caught him off guard. "Why? Ye didnae ken them."
"Nay. But I ken what it's like tae lose a parent." Her voice softened. "Me own maither died when I was fifteen."
He turned to look at her. "How?"
"Illness. A winter fever that her body couldnae fight." She stared at the portrait, but he suspected she wasn't really seeing it. "She'd been... weakened. Over the years. By the time the fever came, she had naethin’ left tae fight with."
There was something in her tone, something bitter and knowing, that made his stomach clench.
"Weakened how?"
"It daesnae matter now. She's gone." Liliane wrapped her arms around herself. "At least she's at peace. That's more than while she was livin’."
"Liliane."
"I said it daesnae matter." But her voice hardened slightly. "She's dead. Me faither is... what he is. And I'm here."
Tòrr studied her profile, noting the rigid tension in her shoulders, and the way she held herself so stiffly. Whatever had happened to her mother, it had left deep scars.
"Me maither was kind," he said, surprising himself with the need to share, even if it was only to take her mind off her own parents.
"Too kind, some said. She believed in healin’, in helpin’ those who couldnae help themselves." He gestured to the painted woman. "She spent hours in the healer's chamber, learnin’ remedies, treatin’ the clan's ailments."
He watched surprise flash across Liliane’s face. "Is that why ye have such a well-stocked healin’ room?"
"Aye. Moira was her student. Me mother taught her everythin’ she kent."
Liliane's expression softened slightly. "She sounds wonderful."
“She was,” he said quietly, his gaze still on the portrait. “Though she’d have boxed me ears fer half the choices I’ve made.”
Liliane smiled faintly, her eyes moving to the portrait. “She looks kind.”
“She was that too. Fierce when she had tae be.” He hesitated, then glanced at her. “Ye remind me of her sometimes.”
Her brows rose. “That’s either a compliment or an insult, dependin’ on what ye mean.”
“Comparin’ ye tae me maither? Definitely a compliment,” he said without hesitation. “She had a way of challengin’ a man without ever liftin’ her voice. Could cut straight through pride with a look. Much like ye.”
Liliane blinked, unsure how to answer that. For a moment, the usual walls between them didn’t feel quite so high.
“She’d have liked ye,” he added, softer now. “Though she might’ve asked why I went about things the hardest way possible.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “I would ask the same question too. But, it daes seem ye prefer the hard way.”
“Aye.” He turned from the portrait, meeting her gaze. “But maybe we can begin changin’ that.”
Something eased in her chest. The air between them felt… different. Not friendly, not yet. But less like a battlefield.
“Maybe,” she said.
He nodded once, then offered his arm. “Come on, lass. The rain’s stoppin’. Feels like the world’s finally lettin’ go of its breath.”
She hesitated only a moment before winding her fingers around it.
As they walked, Tòrr found himself acutely aware of her presence beside him. The way she moved, the set of her shoulders, the small bandage on her finger that he'd placed there.
She’s me wife. Me responsibility. Me burden and me obligation.
And despite everything, despite the impossibility of their situation, he found himself wanting her to see Keppoch through his eyes. To understand what he was trying to protect, what he'd sacrificed for, what he'd continue to fight for.
Even if that fight now included winning over a woman who had every reason to hate him.
"Tòrr?" Her voice was small, uncertain.
"Aye?"
"Yer maither. Did she... was she truly happy? With yer faither? I mean… they seemed happy in the portrait, but sometimes… "
The question surprised him, but he didn’t need her to finish the sentence. "Very. Why?"
"Just wonderin’." She was quiet for a moment. "Wonderin’ if it's possible. Fer two people who start as strangers tae become somethin’ more."
"They werenae strangers. They grew up together, kent each other's families."
"But they must have been strangers once. Before they grew up. Before they kent each other."
He considered this. "I suppose that's true."
"So, it's possible then. In theory."
"In theory, aye." He stopped at the door to their chamber. "Why? Are ye hopin’ we might become somethin’ more?"
"Nay." He watched the way color flooded her cheeks, and how she wouldn't meet his eyes. "I'm just... tryin’ tae understand how any of this is supposed tae work."
"When ye figure it out, let me ken." He opened the door for her. "I made an impulsive move, which I dinnae regret, by the way, and here we are. And now I'm just lost as ye are, lass, and that's the God's honest truth."
She slipped past him into the chamber, and for a moment, they stood close enough that he could smell the faint smell of roses from her.
"The ride," she said softly. "When the rain stops. We can go."
"Aye."
"Dinnae be happy about it yet. I havenae agreed tae anythin’ beyond a ride."
"A ride is more than I expected."
She looked up at him then, and something in her expression made his chest tighten. Vulnerability, maybe. Or fear. Or hope she was desperately trying to suppress.
"We'll see," she whispered.
All Tòrr could think of after that was, God help us both.