Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
"Breathe, lass."
Liliane whispered to herself, pressing cold water against her burning cheeks and wringing her hands dry with the small linen towel beside the basin. The noise of the festival outside was a dull hum now — laughter, pipes, and cheers blending into a muffled thrum behind the thick walls of the inn.
She took a steadying breath, forcing her reflection to still. “Ye’re fine,” she whispered to the mirror. “It was only a dance.”
The basin in the inn's washroom offered temporary refuge, a quiet space away from the music, the dancing, the weight of Tòrr's confession still ringing in her ears.
"If things had started differently, I would have courted ye proper."
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of his voice, the way he'd looked at her like she was something precious rather than purchased.
"Pull yerself taegether," she muttered, splashing more water on her face. "Ye cannae stay in here forever."
But the alternative, which was going back out there, facing him, pretending his words hadn't shaken something loose inside her, felt impossible.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Liliane spun, heart leaping into her throat. "I'll be out very soon."
Before she could turn around, rough hands seized her arms, yanking her backward with brutal force. Her scream died as she was slammed against the wall, the impact driving the air from her lungs.
"Got her!" a voice growled, thick with triumph.
Three men surrounded her, their faces shadowed but their intent crystal clear. The closest one pressed his forearm across her throat, cutting off her air.
"Dinnae make this harder than it needs tae be, lass," he said, his breath rank with ale. "We're just here tae bring ye home."
Terror exploded through her veins like lightning. "Let me go!"
The man cursed and caught her wrists, pinning them above her head. “Easy, lady. Wouldnae want tae spoil that pretty face.”
“Ye, ye’ve mistaken me fer another,” she managed, voice shaking but fierce. “Unhand me this instant!”
The third man chuckled darkly. “Oh, we ken exactly who ye are.”
Her stomach turned to ice.
“She’s worth a fortune,” one of them said. “The laird will reward us well fer takin’ her back.”
She thrashed wildly, her nails raking across the nearest man's face. He cursed, jerking back, and she used the momentum to drive her knee upward. It connected with something soft, and he doubled over with a wheeze.
"Grab her arms! Both of them!"
Hands closed around her wrists, wrenching them behind her back. She screamed again, louder this time, putting every ounce of fear and fury into the sound.
"Shut her up!" The third man stepped forward, his hand raised.
"Dinnae touch me!" She kicked out, her foot connecting with his shin. "Dinnae ye dare touch me!"
The washroom door exploded inward with a crack that made everyone freeze.
Tòrr filled the doorway, with Daemon a half-step behind him. The fury blazing in Tòrr's eyes was so raw, so absolute, that Liliane felt intense fear for her capturers.
"Get yer hands off me wife," he growled, even though his voice was deadly quiet. "Now."
"This daesnae concern ye, MacDonald." The man holding her arms tightened his grip. "We're just collectin' what belongs tae our laird."
"She belongs tae me." Tòrr's hand moved to his sword hilt. "And ye've got three seconds tae release her before I paint this room with yer blood."
"Three against two," the man in front sneered. "Daesnae look like those odds are against us."
"I assure ye they are." Daemon's blade whispered free of its sheath. "Because ye just laid hands on our lady, and that's a death sentence."
"One," Tòrr said, taking a step forward.
The man holding Liliane jerked her in front of him like a shield. "Stay back! We'll hurt her if we have tae!"
"Two."
"Our laird wants her returned, and we're nae leavin' without her."
"Three."
Tòrr moved.
Liliane had seen him fight in the training yard, had watched him spar with practiced efficiency. But this, this was something else entirely. This was violence stripped of all pretense, raw and brutal and utterly terrifying.
His sword cleared its sheath in a blur of steel. The first man, the one who'd threatened to strike her, barely had time to raise his hands before Tòrr's blade took him across the throat. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as he dropped, gurgling.
"Great Highlands gods!" The man holding Liliane yanked her tighter against him, one arm locking hard around her ribs as his free hand shot toward the hilt of his sword.
Pain flared where his grip bruised her, her breath knocked short as his stance shifted, using her like a shield between himself and any attacker.
Liliane struggled, panic flooding through her as steel rasped free beside her ear. Through the tangle of her hair, she watched as Daemon engaged the third attacker, their blades clashing with sharp, ringing strikes.
"Ye made a mistake," Tòrr said to the man now facing him alone. "A fatal one."
"We're just followin' orders!"
"Then ye'll die followin' orders." Tòrr's sword moved in a controlled arc, forcing the man back against the wall. "Who sent ye? Was it Munro?"
"I dinnae ken." The man tried to duck sideways, but Tòrr anticipated it, his blade catching him across the ribs.
"Wrong answer."
The man screamed, blood blooming across his shirt. "It was Munro! He sent us tae retrieve his daughter durin’ the festival! Said there'd be too much chaos fer anyone tae notice!"
"He was wrong." Tòrr's voice was ice. "I always notice when it comes tae me clan or me wife."
Behind them, Daemon finished his opponent with brutal efficiency, the man's body crumpling to the floor with a wet thud.
"Two down," Daemon said, breathing hard. "One tae go."
Liliane barely had time to draw breath before the wounded man lurched upright, blood streaking his side. His hand shot out, seizing her wrist.
"Stay back!" he barked, dragging her toward him.
"Let her go!" Tòrr’s voice cut through the din like thunder, his sword raised.
The man’s grip tightened cruelly, yanking her against him. Pain flared up her arm as his other hand tangled in her hair, jerking her head back to bare her throat.
"Another step and I’ll break her neck," he snarled, eyes wild. "Ye think I’ll go alone? I’ll drag her tae hell with me if I must!"
Liliane gasped, struggling against him, nails clawing at his wrist. The pressure on her scalp burned, fear flashing sharp and cold through her chest.
Tòrr moved with lethal focus, circling, searching for an opening. The man’s breath came ragged, his stance faltering from blood loss, but desperation lent him strength.
When the blade finally flashed, it happened fast. Steel met steel, the clash ringing through the courtyard. The man shoved Liliane aside, turning his fury on Tòrr.
"Ye’ll regret this!" he spat, slashing wildly.
Tòrr met the blow head-on, the force jarring up his arm. Another strike, then another — the man’s movements were frantic, reckless, but strong. They grappled, swords locking, the smell of blood thick in the air.
Then Tòrr twisted, driving his elbow into the man’s jaw before slamming him hard against the wall. The attacker staggered, dazed, just long enough for Tòrr’s blade to find its mark.
The man froze, eyes wide, a strangled sound escaping his throat before he crumpled to the ground.
Tòrr stood over him, chest heaving, rage still burning in his eyes. His gaze flicked to Liliane, shaken but unharmed, and something inside him twisted painfully.
He sheathed his sword with a sharp motion. "Nay one," he said, voice low and deadly, "touches what’s mine."
The man froze, eyes wide, a strangled sound escaping his throat before he crumpled to the ground.
Tòrr stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from his blade. For a moment, he didn’t move — only stared down at the fallen man, jaw clenched tight, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering torchlight.
Liliane pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, her whole body shaking. The inn was still, save for the ragged sound of Tòrr’s breathing.
He wiped his blade clean with a sharp motion, the anger still burning behind his eyes. Then, without a word, he turned and strode toward her.
She flinched before she could stop herself.
He stopped short, the movement barely perceptible, but it was enough. Something flickered in his gaze, before he turned away again and went straight for the last man and put his blade at the man's throat, fury and control warring in his expression.
“If ye kill me, ye’ll regret it MacDonald. Our laird wants her back and…”
He never finished. Tòrr’s blade met his throat, and silence fell. Liliane’s breath came in shallow bursts. She could hear her own pulse roaring in her ears.
“He didnae deserve tae live. Ye saw it.” He sheathed his sword with a sharp motion.
Daemon stood near the door, chest heaving, his sword slick with blood. One of the attackers lay dead at his feet. Daemon sheathed his own sword and moved to examine the three bodies. "Well. That was bracin’."
"Are ye hurt?" Tòrr turned to Liliane, and the fury drained from his expression, replaced by concern so raw it made her chest tighten. "Did they hurt ye?"
"I'm fine. Just shaken." But even as she said it, she felt something warm trickling down her cheek.
"Ye're bleedin'." He was across the room in three strides, his hands coming up to cup her face with surprising gentleness. "Where? Where did they hurt ye?"
"It's naethin', just a scratch."
"It's nae naethin'." His thumb brushed carefully along her cheekbone, and she winced. "Christ, they cut ye."
"One of them had a ring. When he grabbed me face, it must have cut me." She stopped, seeing the muscle jump in his jaw. "Tòrr, it's just a small cut."
"They marked ye." His voice was low, dangerous. "They put their hands on ye and marked ye."
"Aye, but ye stopped them. Ye saved me." She touched his wrist, feeling the tension coiled there. "I'm safe now. Because of ye."