Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
"Where are we goin'?" she asked for the third time since they'd left.
The morning air was crisp and clean as Tòrr guided his horse along the narrow path leading away from the keep.
Liliane sat in front of him, her back pressed against his chest, a small basket of food secured to the saddle beside them.
In his other hand, he carried a leather satchel that she'd seen him fill with books from the library.
"Somewhere quiet. Where we can talk without interruptions." His breath was warm against her ear. "And where ye can finally relax without worryin' about every person who walks past."
"I'm nae worried."
"Ye are. Ye've been tense as a drawn bowstring since yesterday." His arm tightened around her waist. "So I'm takin' ye somewhere peaceful. Just fer a few hours. We’ll be very careful."
Her first instinct was to argue and point out that there were still threats lurking in the forests, still dangers everywhere.
But the warmth of him at her back and the steady rhythm of the horse beneath them made her objections fade.
When was the last time she'd simply... existed?
Without fear or planning or constant vigilance?
She couldn't remember.
They rode in comfortable silence until the trees opened up to reveal the same cliff overlooking the loch where he'd taken her before.
But this time, instead of stopping at the viewpoint, he guided the horse down a narrow trail she hadn't noticed, winding along the cliff face until they reached a small clearing nestled between rocks and overlooking the water.
"Here," he said, dismounting and reaching up to help her down. "Private, peaceful. And close enough that we can return quickly if needed."
"It's beautiful." She turned slowly, taking in the view—the loch spread out below them like hammered silver, mountains rising in the distance, the sky so blue it hurt to look at.
He settled onto the blanket and patted the space beside him. "Come. Sit. We've got fresh bread, cheese, some of that honey ye like. And books, if ye want tae read."
"What kind of books?" She sat, tucking her skirts around her legs.
"Poetry. History. A medical text I thought might interest ye." He pulled them from the satchel one by one. "Take yer pick."
She reached for the medical text immediately, her fingers reverent on the worn leather. "I've never seen this one before."
"It's from me maither's collection. She was always collectin' texts about healin'." His voice softened. "I thought ye might appreciate it."
"I dae. More than ye ken." She opened it carefully, her eyes scanning the neat script. Then she looked up at him. "Thank ye. Fer this. Fer all of it."
"Ye're welcome." He leaned back on his elbows, his long legs stretched out before him. "Now read. Relax. Pretend fer just a few hours that the world isnae fallin' apart around us."
So she did. The pages crackled softly as she turned them, her finger tracing lines of text about yarrow for wounds and willow bark for pain.
"Listen tae this," she said after a while, her voice animated. "It says here that feverfew can prevent headaches if taken regularly, nae just treat them after they start. I've never heard of using it that way."
Tòrr shifted closer, peering at the page. "How much would ye need tae take?"
"A few fresh leaves daily, or dried in tea." She looked up at him. "Dae ye get headaches often?"
"Sometimes. After long days of trainin'." He reached past her to turn back a page. "What about this one? Comfrey?"
"Good fer broken bones and wounds, but..." She hesitated, running her finger down the margin notes. "Yer maither wrote here that it shouldnae be used on deep puncture wounds. It can heal the surface too quickly and trap infection inside."
"She learned that the hard way." His voice went quiet. "After that, she was careful tae note every caution she discovered."
Liliane traced the careful script with reverence. "She was wise."
They fell back into comfortable silence, Liliane reading while Tòrr lay back fully, one arm behind his head, watching clouds drift across the sky. The sun climbed higher, and she felt its warmth seep into her shoulders, loosening muscles she hadn't realized were tight.
"Are ye hungry?" Tòrr asked eventually, pushing himself up.
"Starvin'." She closed the book reluctantly as he reached for the basket.
He unpacked thick slices of brown bread, a wedge of sharp cheese, crisp apples, and a small pot of honey and placed it between them. She broke off a piece of bread and was spreading honey on it when Tòrr reached over and snatched the piece of cheese.
"That was fer both of us," she protested, swatting at his hand.
"Was it?" He held it just out of her reach, grinning.
"Give it here, ye great thief." She lunged for it, but he was quicker, pulling it back with a laugh.
"Ye'll have tae be faster than that, lass."
"Fine." She crossed her arms. "Keep it. I didnae want it anyway."
"Liar." He broke off half and offered it to her. "Here. I'll share."
She took it with exaggerated dignity, then yelped when his fingers found her ribs, tickling mercilessly. The cheese fell forgotten to the blanket as she tried to squirm away, but his other arm came around her waist, holding her in place.
"Tòrr! Stop!" But she was laughing too hard to sound remotely serious.
"Say I'm the finest warrior in all of Scotland."
"Never!"
His fingers danced along her sides and she dissolved into helpless giggles, pushing at his chest. "All right! All right! Ye're... ye're the finest warrior—in this clearing at least!"
"I'll take it." He released her, and she slumped back against his chest, breathless and still smiling.
"Ye're impossible," she gasped.
"And ye're bonnie when ye laugh." The words were simple, honest, and they made her heart stutter.
The laughter died in her throat. She became suddenly, acutely aware of his arm still around her waist, the solid warmth of him at her back, the way his breath stirred the hair at her temple.
"Tòrr." His name came out softer than she'd intended.
"Aye?" He was looking at her with such warmth, such open affection, that she almost forgot what she'd been about to say.
Almost.
"Yesterday. The council meetin'." She sat up, suddenly serious. "What did they decide? About Nessa?"
His expression shifted, wariness replacing warmth. "They approved the plan."
"What plan exactly?"
He sat up as well, his shoulders tensing. "The plan tae retrieve her from Foulis. Tae bring her here where she'll be safe."
"And then?" She watched his face carefully.
"Then she stays here. With us. Where yer faither cannae reach her." His voice was firm, certain. "I gave ye me word I'd protect her, Liliane. That word stands."
She felt something tight in her chest loosen. "Just like that? Ye'll nae use her tae bargain with me faither?"
"The Council thinks we'll use her as leverage fer negotiation." He reached for her hand, and this time she let him take it. "But what the Council thinks and what I intend are two different things. Nessa stays here. Nay matter what."
"Ye promise?"
"I swear it. On me life, on me clan, on everythin' I hold sacred." His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. "I'd never dae tae her what was done tae ye. Never."
She felt tears prick her eyes—relief, gratitude, something deeper she wasn't ready to name. "Thank ye."
"Ye dinnae need tae thank me fer keepin' me word." He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her. "She's yer sister. That makes her me responsibility too."
Liliane leaned into his chest, letting herself draw comfort from his solid warmth. For the first time since learning about the plan, she felt like she could breathe properly.
"When will ye go fer her?"
"Soon. We need tae plan it carefully. Foulis is well-guarded and yer faither will be expectin' retaliation after what happened at the festival." His voice rumbled against her ear. "But we'll get her out. I promise ye that too."
His hands found her waist, pulling her against him with an urgency that stole her breath. His lips crashed down on hers before she could even gasp, his kiss a storm of need—desperate, yet threaded with a tenderness that made her heart ache.
"I'll never break me word tae ye, Liliane. Never. And if that means defyin' theCouncil, defyin' tradition, defyin' every political calculation that says I should use Nessa as leverage... then so be it. Yer trust matters more than any of that."
She melted into him, her fingers curling into the strands of his hair. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her with a hunger that left no room for doubt. This was no gentle seduction. This was possession.
His hands roamed over her body, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the dip of her spine. Every touch was fire, branding her, marking her as his. She arched into him, her breasts pressing against the hard plane of his chest, her nipples tightening under the friction of his skin.
"Tòrr," She moaned, the sound spilling from her lips into his mouth, swallowed by his growl of approval.
His manhood, thick and heavy, pressed against her thigh, the heat of it searing through the fabric of her shift.
She rocked her hips instinctively, seeking more, needing more, and he groaned, his grip tightening on her buttocks as if he could already imagine sinking into her.
He broke the kiss only to drag his lips down the column of her throat, his breath hot against her skin.
She shivered, not from the chill of the night, but from the promise of what was to come.
His teeth grazed her pulse point, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips, and she gasped, her head falling back to give him better access.
“Ye’re mine,” he murmured against her skin, his voice rough, his accent thick with the brogue of the Highlands.
The words sent a thrill through her, settling low in her belly, where a familiar ache had begun to build.
She wanted to argue, to tease, to tell him she belonged to no one—but the way his hands gripped her, made it impossible to deny the truth. In this moment, she was his.
His hands slid under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly, and she wrapped her legs around his waist on instinct.
With a growl, he shifted her slightly, his free hand tearing at the fabric between them until it gave way with a rip. The cool air hit her exposed folds, but the chill was short-lived. His fingers found her first, thick and calloused, sliding through her folds with a possessive stroke.
She moaned, her hips jerking against his hand, her body begging for more.
"Look at me," he commanded softly. "I need ye tae see me. Tae ken who's lovin' ye."
She met his eyes, saw the desire there mixed with tenderness, with care she'd never expected. "I see ye."
"Good." He kissed her again as he began to press forward, his entry slow and careful despite the trembling in his arms. "Tell me if it hurts. Tell me if it's too much."
It did hurt at first, a burning stretch that made her tense despite her determination.
But he felt it immediately, stopping, his hand sliding between them to touch her the way he had before.
The pleasure that sparked at his touch distracted her from the discomfort, and when he pressed forward again, she was able to take more of him.
"That's it," he murmured against her lips. "Just breathe. Let yer body adjust."
She did, focusing on the feel of him filling her, the way their bodies fit together like they'd been made for this. And then he was fully seated, his forehead pressed against hers as they both struggled to adjust to the sensation.
She gasped, her back arching as he filled her completely, every sensation more intense.
Then he began to move, slow at first, giving her time to adjust to the rhythm.
The initial discomfort faded quickly, replaced by building pleasure as he angled his hips to hit places inside her that made her gasp and arch.
His manhood dragged against her inner walls, hitting a spot deep inside that made her see stars. She clung to him, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Gods, ye feel like heaven,” he groaned, his voice rough, his thrusts growing harder, deeper. The sounds of their passion filled the air.
His lips found her ear, his breath hot as he whispered filthy promises, his words as wild as the land around them.
She whimpered, her folds clenching around him, her orgasm building like a storm on the horizon. He felt it, his grip on her hips tightening as he angled his thrusts, hitting that perfect spot over and over.
“Come fer me,” he demanded, his voice a rough command, his body coiling like a spring.
The words sent her crashing over the edge. Her orgasm hit her like a wave, her body tightening around him as pleasure ripped through her. She cried out, her voice echoing across the water, her nails raking down his back as she trembled in his arms.
He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, his thrusts growing erratic as his own release approached. With a final, deep stroke, he buried himself to the hilt, his manhood pulsing inside her as he came, his seed spilling into her with a heat that matched the fire in his kiss.
For a moment, they were still, their hearts pounding in sync, their breaths ragged and uneven. The water around them had stilled, as if the loch itself held its breath. Then, slowly, he lifted his head, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was soft, almost reverent.
“That’s just the beginning, lass,” he murmured against her lips, his voice a promise. She could only nod, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, her mind racing with the possibilities of what else this man might have in store for her.