Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"Again!"
Tòrr's blade met Michael's with a sharp clang, the impact jarring up his arm. Sweat dripped into his eyes despite the cool afternoon air.
"Ye're distracted," Michael observed, circling to his left. "That's the third openin’ ye've given me."
"I'm fine." Tòrr adjusted his grip and pressed forward, forcing his brother onto the defensive.
"Ye're thinkin' about somethin' else. The lass, I'm guessin'?" Michael parried a thrust and countered with one of his own. "How'd the sheet business go?"
"Done. Elders have their proof." Tòrr blocked the counter and stepped back. "Malcolm looked satisfied enough, though Gregor muttered somethin' about 'convenient timin'.'"
"Let him mutter. He got what he wanted." Michael feinted right, then struck left. "Though I'm curious how ye managed it without actually daein’ it."
"Dinnae ask questions ye dinnae want answered." Tòrr caught the blade and twisted, nearly disarming his brother. "Focus on yer footwork. Ye're leavin' yer right side exposed."
"Me footwork's fine. Ye're just avoidin' the subject."
They broke apart, both breathing hard. Around them, other warriors trained in pairs, the clash of steel and shouts of instruction filling the yard.
"Any word from Daemon?" Tòrr asked, reaching for the water skin.
Michael's expression darkened. "Nay. It's been too long. He should've returned by now." Michael drove his sword into the packed earth and wiped sweat from his brow. "The scout tae Munro lands shouldnae have taken more than two, three days at most."
"Ye think somethin's happened?"
"I think Daemon's careful. Too careful tae be this late without reason." Michael's jaw tightened. "Unless he ran intae trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"The kind that involves Munro realizin' we're watchin' his movements. The kind that ends with our braither in a cell or worse."
Tòrr's hand clenched around the water skin. "He wouldnae be careless enough tae get caught."
"He wouldnae be careless at all. Which means if he's late, it's because somethin' went wrong." Michael pulled his sword from the ground. "We need tae consider sendin' someone after him."
"And risk losin' more men? If Munro has him, sendin' others could start the war we're tryin' tae avoid."
"And if we dae naethin', we might lose Daemon entirely." Michael's voice was hard. "He's our braither, Tòrr. Nae some expendable scout."
"Ye think I dinnae ken that?" Tòrr's temper flared. "Every hour he's gone, I'm thinkin' about what might be happenin' tae him. But rushin' in blind helps nay one."
"Then what dae we dae?"
"We wait. One or two more days. If he's nae back by tomorrow night, we send a small party. Quiet, careful, nae enough tae draw attention."
"And if they find him dead?"
The blunt question hung between them like a blade. Tòrr had no good answer.
"Then we deal with it," he said finally. "But until we ken fer certain, we assume he's alive and capable."
"Ye're puttin' a lot of faith in assumptions."
"I'm puttin' faith in our braither. He's survived worse than Munro's lands." Tòrr picked up his sword again. "Now, are we trainin' or standin' about worryin' like old women?"
"Both, apparently." But Michael raised his blade. "Come on then. Let's see if ye can actually land a hit this time."
They engaged again, harder, the worry channeling into controlled violence. Steel rang against steel, neither giving quarter, both using the fight to burn off the helpless feeling that came with waiting.
After another ten minutes, Michael called halt. "Enough. Ye're favorin' that ankle still, and I've had me fill of beatin' ye fer one day."
"Ye didnae beat me."
"I landed four touches tae yer two. That's a beatin' in any man's count. Mainly because yer mind is elsewhere today." Michael sheathed his blade. "Where are the rest?"
“Should be in gardens."
“We should catch up with them.”
"Open yer mouth and close yer eyes!"
Catherine dangled a berry over Sofia's head, giggling when her sister tried to catch it and missed. The berry bounced off Sofia's nose and rolled into the grass.
“I dinnae see why we’d bother pickin’ berries when the kitchen’s full of sweets,” Sofia continued, popping one into her mouth.
“Because these are fresh,” Alyson replied primly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Besides, ye ate half the kitchen’s sweets yesterday.”
Sofia made a face. “Ye sound like Faither.”
“Because I’ve more sense than ye.”
Liliane sat on the stone bench, watching the sisters play with something that felt like longing. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this light, this free to simply exist without constant worry.
"Yer turn, Liliane!" Alyson tossed a berry her direction.
She caught it on instinct, surprised by her own reflexes. "I thought we were eatin' them, nae throwin' them about."
"Where's the fun in that?" Catherine plopped down beside her and grabbed a handful from the bowl. "Besides, we've plenty."
"Aye, ye lot eat like starvin' wolves," Tòrr's voice came from behind them.
Liliane's spine went rigid as he and Michael approached, both still sweaty from training, both carrying that particular alertness that came from sparring.
"Braither!" Catherine jumped up. "Perfect timin'. We need someone tall tae help us…"
"Nay," Tòrr said flatly.
"Ye dinnae even ken what I was goin' tae ask!"
"Ye were goin' tae ask me tae climb that tree tae get berries from the top branches. And the answer's nay."
"Ye're nay fun anymore," Catherine pouted, but she sat back down.
“Ye all have been busy.”
“More productive than swingin’ swords, I’m sure,” Sofia said lightly.
“Ye’d be surprised what swords accomplish when words fail.”
Michael dropped onto the bench beside Alyson with a groan. “Saints preserve me, I think he near broke me arm.”
“That’s because ye talk too much,” Tòrr muttered.
Tòrr moved to stand beside Liliane's bench, close enough that she could smell leather and sweat. "Mind if I join ye, wife?"
The casual use of "wife" sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach. "It's yer garden."
"Aye, but it's yer bench at the moment." He sat anyway, his thigh pressing against hers. "Been playin' games all afternoon?"
"Hide and seek," Sofia supplied. "Liliane's surprisingly good at findin' hidin' spots."
"I'd wager she is." Tòrr's eyes found hers. "Years of practice, probably."
The subtle jab wasn't lost on her, but she couldn’t respond.
"So what's the plan?" he asked. "The festival starts in few days."
"We're all goin', obviously," Catherine said. "It's tradition."
"And we need tae show off our new sister properly," Sofia added. "Let the clan see her as Lady MacDonald."
The title made Liliane's chest tighten. Lady MacDonald. As if she belonged there. As if it was permanent.
"Ye're quiet," Tòrr observed, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Somethin' troublin' ye?"
Liliane kept her eyes on the flames, but she could feel his gaze, steady, searching, as if he were trying to read the thoughts she was working so hard to hide.
"Nay. Just tired from all the runnin' about."
"Liar." His hand rested casually on the bench behind her, not quite touching but close enough to feel. "Ye've been on edge since we got here. What's wrong?"
She should brush him off, make an excuse, keep her fear to herself. But his steady presence, the genuine concern in his voice, it broke something in her.
"When we were playin'," she said quietly so only he could hear, "I went behind the outer wall. Near the storage buildings."
His body went taut. "And?"
"I saw men. Three of them. In the forest beyond, watchin' the keep."
"Christ." His jaw clenched. "Why didnae ye tell someone immediately?"
"I didnae want tae raise alarm if it was naethin'. Maybe just travelers or people that didnae want tae cause any harm."
"Travelers or guards dinnae lurk in forests watchin' keeps." His voice was hard. "What did they look like? Their plaids?"
"I couldnae see clearly. Too far away. But they were definitely watchin'."
He was quiet for a moment, tension radiating from him. Then his hand moved from the bench to her shoulder, warm and solid. "Ye're safe. I willnae let anythin' happen tae ye."
"How can ye promise that? Ye dinnae even ken who they were."
"I dinnae have tae ken who they are tae ken they willnae get past me walls, me guards, or me." His voice carried absolute certainty. "Ye're under me protection now, Liliane. That means somethin'. I’ll kill anyone who tries tae harm ye."
The quiet certainty in his tone sent a strange warmth through her, frightening in its intensity. She looked away quickly. “Ye say that as if it’s simple.”
“It is.”
Against all reason, all logic, she believed him. The protective weight of his hand, it made her feel safer than she'd felt in years.
"Thank ye," she whispered.
"Dinnae thank me fer daein' me duty as yer husband." But his hand squeezed gently before dropping away. "Though I appreciate ye tellin' me."
Catherine sing-songed, breaking the moment they shared between them. "Ye've got that look. The protective one."
"I dinnae have a look."
"Ye absolutely have a look," Michael agreed. "Same one Faither used tae get when anyone threatened Maither."
"Ye're all seein' things." But Tòrr's arm had somehow found its way around the back of the bench again, closer to Liliane's shoulders.
Alyson wrinkled her nose. “Och, ye two are enough tae ruin a sunny afternoon with all that broodin’.”
Tòrr ignored her, turning to face Liliane again. “If ye see anythin’ again, tell me. Dinnae keep it tae yerself.”
“I can handle a shadow, me laird.”
He straightened, a faint smirk curving his mouth. “Aye, I’ve noticed ye like tae handle things yerself. Usually badly.”
Sofia sliced a cake she had prepared that morning in the kitchen and brought to their gathering with practiced ease, handing the first piece to Alyson. “There,” she said. “If this daesnae sweeten the day, naethin’ will.”
Alyson grinned, taking a generous bite. “Saints, that’s good. Sofia, ye could make a feast fit fer kings out of scraps.”
“I dae what I can,” Sofia replied modestly, cutting another slice for Catherine. “Now, tell me, are the dancers from Glen Etive comin’ tae the festival this year?”
“Aye,” Catherine said, accepting her plate. “They always bring the best pipers. Last year, they near drowned out the singers from Balquhidder.”
“Better that than the weather drownin’ everyone,” Alyson quipped. “Last festival, the rain started just as the dancin’ began. Poor Hamish slipped and near broke his nose tryin’ tae impress Morag.”
Liliane laughed softly. “Did he succeed at all?”
“Only in makin’ a fool of himself,” Alyson said with a wicked grin. “Though Morag still married him, so maybe fallin’ on his face was a charm.”
Michael leaned back in his chair, taking a bite of his own slice. “I heard the lads from Strathspey are sendin’ their best this year. They say their chief’s daughter dances like she’s got fire in her feet.”
“Then she’ll fit right in here,” Tòrr said dryly, his gaze sliding briefly to Liliane. “We’ve nay shortage of fire.”
Liliane met his eyes for only a moment before looking back at her plate, pretending to focus on the crumbs. “At least it’ll be lively,” she said. “After so much war talk, a bit of music sounds like heaven.”
Sofia nodded. “Aye, and maybe the weather will show mercy this year.”
“It willnae,” Alyson declared. “The Highlands only ken rain and wind.”
Michael chuckled. “Then we’ll dance in the mud again. Better that than sittin’ quiet.”
Alyson raised her cup in mock toast. “Tae muddy shoes.”
“Tae that,” Catherine laughed, clinking her cup against hers.
Even Tòrr allowed a faint smile, the edge of tension fading for a rare moment as laughter rippled through the group and the afternoon light settled warm and golden across the garden.
Liliane found herself relaxing despite the earlier fear. The sisters' easy chatter, Michael's dry humor, even Tòrr's quiet presence beside her, it all felt oddly normal. Safe.
"Ye've got somethin' right there," Tòrr murmured.
"What?" She looked up at him.
"Crumb. Corner of yer mouth." Before she could react, his thumb brushed her lips, wiping away the offending crumb with casual intimacy.
Time seemed to stop.
His thumb lingered a heartbeat too long, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. Heat flooded through her, pooling low in her belly, and she couldn't look away from him.
"Well," Alyson's voice broke the moment like shattering glass. "Why dinnae ye two just go tae yer room already?"
"Alyson!" Sofia gasped, but she was grinning.
"What? We're all thinkin' it. Look at them, they're practically consumin' each other with their eyes."
Liliane's face exploded with heat. She jumped to her feet so fast she nearly knocked over the berry bowl. "I… I need tae… I should go. Rest."
"Liliane," Tòrr started, but she was already moving.
"Thank ye fer the berries. And the game. It was lovely. I'll see ye all later."
She fled before anyone could stop her, her heart racing, her lips still tingling from that brief touch.
Behind her, she could hear Catherine's delighted laughter and Michael's low comment that made the sisters giggle harder.
She didn't stop until she reached the safety of the chamber, closing the door behind her and leaning against it, breathing hard.
What was wrong with her? A simple touch, a casual gesture, and she'd reacted like… like… like a woman affected by her husband.
That was the problem. Somewhere between the forced marriage and the present, something had shifted. He wasn't just the man who'd bought her anymore. He was Tòrr. Complicated, protective, infuriating, and somehow worming his way past every defense she'd built.
She crossed to the window and stared out at the courtyard below, watching people walk around. Standing there, her lips still remembering the warmth of his touch, she wasn't sure she wanted to leave anymore.
When did this second thought start to grow?