Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The herb garden had become Liliane's sanctuary over the previous few days. While Tòrr and his men trained relentlessly for the coming ambush, she'd found peace there among the lavender and rosemary, the thyme and chamomile. The scents grounded her, reminded her of simpler times with her mother.
She knelt now beside a row of feverfew, her fingers gentle as she examined the small white flowers. The plant was hardy, resilient, it had to be, to survive Highland winters. Rather like herself, she supposed.
"Ye're miles away."
Tòrr's voice made her look up, shading her eyes against the afternoon sun. He stood at the garden's edge, still dusty from training, his shirt clinging to his shoulders with sweat. Even after days of watching him drill with his men, the sight of him made her breath catch.
"Just thinkin'," she said, rising to her feet and brushing dirt from her skirts. "The feverfew's doin' well. Should be ready fer harvest within the week."
"That's nae what had ye lookin' so serious." He moved closer, his eyes searching her face. "What's troublin' ye?"
She hesitated, then decided there was no point in pretending. "The ambush."
"Aye." His expression grew guarded.
"I want tae come with ye."
The words hung between them like a thrown gauntlet. Tòrr's jaw tightened, and she could see him marshaling arguments, building walls of logic against her request.
"Absolutely nae," he said flatly.
"Tòrr, listen…"
"I said nay. It's too dangerous. Ye've nay trainin’ and nay experience."
"She's me sister!" The words burst from her with more force than she'd intended. "Dae ye really think I can just sit here, safe and comfortable, while ye risk yer life tae bring her tae me? Kenning she's frightened and alone, wonderin' if anyone's comin' fer her?"
"Ye'll nae be sittin' comfortable. Ye'll be worried sick, I ken that." His voice softened slightly. "But at least ye'll be alive tae worry. If somethin' goes wrong, if the ambush is discovered…"
"Then I want tae be there. I need tae be there.
" She moved closer, looking up into his face.
"Please, Tòrr. I cannae just wait and wonder.
I cannae sit by the fire and pretend I'm nae imaginin' every terrible thing that might happen.
I need tae see her with me own eyes. Need tae ken she's truly safe… and ye."
"And if seein' her means puttin' yerself in danger? If yer presence compromises the entire operation?" His hands came up to grip her shoulders. "I cannae risk that, Liliane. I cannae risk ye. Or the operation."
"Ye willnae be riskin' me. I'll stay back, hidden, dae exactly as ye say." Her own hands came up to rest on his chest. "But please. Let me come. Let me be there when we bring her out."
He stared down at her for a long moment, conflict warring in his expression. She could see him weighing risks, calculating possibilities, trying to find a way to keep her safe while also understanding what she needed.
She pressed closer. "Nessa needs tae see a familiar face. Needs tae ken that her sister came fer her, that she wasnae abandoned. Can ye understand that?"
"Aye." The word came out rough. "I understand it better than ye might think."
She waited, hope and fear tangled tight in her chest.
"If I agree tae this," he said slowly, "and I'm nae sayin' I am, but if I dae, it would be under strict conditions."
"What conditions?"
"First, ye'd need tae be disguised, as one of the men." His eyes traveled over her face, her hair, her frame.
She nodded. "I can dae that."
"Second, ye'd need some basic trainin’. Nae enough tae make ye a warrior, but enough that if somethin' goes wrong, ye can defend yerself." His grip on her shoulders tightened slightly. "I willnae have ye completely helpless if things turn bad."
"I ken the risks. Please, Tòrr, I'm askin' ye as yer wife. Let me dae this."
He closed his eyes, and she could see the internal struggle playing out across his features. Finally, he nodded.
"Two conditions, as I said. Disguise and trainin’. And ye follow every order I give without question or hesitation." His eyes opened, fierce and unyielding. "If I tell ye tae run, ye run. If I tell ye tae hide, ye hide. If I tell ye tae stay back while we handle somethin', ye stay back. Agreed?"
She nodded once, tersely. "Agreed."
"And if at any point I decide it's too dangerous, that yer presence is compromisin' the mission, I reserve the right tae send ye back tae Keppoch with an escort." His voice brooked no argument. "That's nae negotiable."
"I understand."
"Dae ye? Because I need tae hear ye say it, Liliane. Say ye'll obey me orders even if ye disagree with them."
She took a breath, weighing the promise against her determination. "I'll obey yer orders. Even if I disagree."
"Good." He released her shoulders and stepped back. "Then we start tomorrow. Be in the training yard an hour after the men finish their drills. Wear somethin' ye dinnae mind gettin' dirty or torn."
"Thank ye." The words felt inadequate for what he was giving her. "Truly, Tòrr. Thank ye."
"Dinnae thank me yet. Ye might hate me by the time we're done." But his lips curved in a small smile.
Later that day, Liliane found herself restless. Her mind kept circling back to the ambush, to Nessa, to the promise she'd extracted from Tòrr. She had to do something, anything, to feel prepared.
The idea came to her as she was staring at the ceiling. If she was going to disguise herself as a man, she should practice. Learn how to move differently, speak differently, carry herself with masculine confidence rather than feminine grace.
She made her way down to the kitchens with a small mirror.
A bowl of clay used for making poultices sat on the worktable, and she borrowed it, then crept out to the back courtyard.
Liliane set down her supplies and studied her reflection in the mirror, trying to imagine herself as a young man rather than a woman.
Her hair was the most obvious problem, too long, too distinctly feminine. She'd have to tuck it under a cap or cut it shorter. But even beyond that, her face was too soft, her features too delicate. She needed to look rougher, harder, more weathered.
She scooped up a handful of clay and began smearing it across her cheeks and forehead, darkening her skin to look sun-weathered and dirty. Then she rubbed more along her jawline, trying to create the illusion of shadow that might pass for stubble in dim light.
"There," she muttered, studying the effect through a silver tray. "That's better. More... masculine."
She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and tried walking across the courtyard with a longer, more confident stride. Less hip movement, more swagger. Like the guards she'd seen moving about the keep.
"Aye, that's right," she said to herself, deliberately deepening her voice. "Just walk like ye own the place. Like ye've never been afraid of anythin' in yer life."
She practiced a few more steps, then tried lowering her voice even further. "Good mornin', me laird. Aye, the weather's fine today. Would ye like me tae fetch yer horse?"
"What in God's name are ye daein'?"
Liliane spun so fast she nearly dropped the mirror. Tòrr stood in the courtyard entrance, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and alarm.
"Tòrr! Ye scared me half tae death!"
"I scared ye? Look who’s talkin’." He moved closer, his eyes traveling over her clay-smeared face. He stopped a few feet away, taking in her appearance more fully. "What are ye daein' covered in mud?"
"It's nae mud, it's clay." She set down the mirror, suddenly feeling foolish. "I was practicin'."
"Practicin' what? Becomin’ a bog creature?"
"Practicin' bein' a man!" The words came out more defensive than she'd intended. "Ye said I'd need tae be disguised, so I thought I should work on it. Learn how tae look and sound like a young warrior rather than a laird's wife."
His lips twitched. "I see. And the clay is fer?"
"Makin' me face look darker. More weathered. Like I've spent days out in the sun." She gestured at her handiwork. "Daes it work? Dae I look more masculine?"
He moved closer, studying her with exaggerated seriousness. "Well, ye certainly look... somethin'."
"That's nae helpful."
"Ye look like someone dumped ye in a mud puddle and forgot tae rinse ye off." His mouth quirked into a smile. "But I suppose with the right light and enough distance, it might pass fer dirt rather than intentional disguise."
"Ye're mockin' me."
"I'm nae mockin'. I'm just..." He lost the battle against his smile and laughed. "Och, Liliane, ye should see yerself. Ye've got clay in yer hair, on yer nose, and is that supposed tae be stubble on yer chin?"
"Aye! I was tryin' tae make it look like I hadnae shaved in days." She touched her jaw self-consciously. "Daes it nae look believable?"
"It looks like ye rolled in dirt and hoped fer the best." But his laughter was warm, not cruel. "Come here."
She moved closer reluctantly, and he caught her chin in his hand.
"The idea's sound," he said, his voice gentling.
"Clay or dirt tae darken yer skin, make ye look weathered.
But ye need tae blend it better, make it look natural rather than applied.
" His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, smearing the clay.
"Like this. Uneven, patchy, as if ye've actually been workin' outdoors rather than paintin' yerself in a courtyard. "
"Ye're still laughin' at me."
"I'm laughin' with ye. There's a difference." He released her chin but didn't step back. "Though I have tae ask, what was that voice ye were usin'? The deep one?"
Heat flooded her face. "I was practicin' soundin' more masculine."
"Ye sounded like ye'd swallowed a frog."
"I did nae!"
"Ye did. A very large, very unhappy frog.
" His grin widened at her outraged expression.
"Liliane, ye daenae need tae deepen yer voice that much.
Most young warriors still have higher voices anyway.
Just speak a bit more curtly, less melodically.
Like this—" He demonstrated, his tone becoming clipped and businesslike.
"Aye, me laird. Right away, me laird. Whatever ye say, me laird. "
She tried to copy his cadence. "Aye, me laird. Right away."
"Better. Less singin’, more statin’. Ye're reportin' information, nae tellin' a story." He circled around her, studying her from different angles.
They practiced for several more minutes, Tòrr offering corrections and suggestions, until Liliane felt she had a better grasp of masculine movement and speech. Finally, he called a halt.
He reached out and wiped a smudge of clay from her forehead. "Though I have tae say, even covered in mud and walkin' like a warrior, ye're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
The casual compliment, so simply stated, made her throat tight. "I look like a bog creature, ye said so yerself."
"Aye, but ye're me bog creature." His hand lingered on her face, his expression growing serious. "And even disguised, even covered in clay and pretendin' tae be someone ye're nae, ye're still beautiful. That willnae change no matter how ye dress or what voice ye use."
"I never thought I'd feel this way."
"What way?"
"Safe. Comfortable." She met his eyes in the moonlight. "I never thought I'd stand in a courtyard with a man, covered in clay, and feel... peaceful. Never thought I'd trust someone enough tae let them see me like this, foolish and uncertain and tryin' so hard tae be somethin' I'm nae."
"Ye deserve everythin'." He kissed her then, soft and sweet, tasting of night air and promises. "Now come. Let's get ye cleaned up afore someone sees us and starts spreadin' rumors about the laird and his mud-covered wife."
She laughed, the sound surprising her with its lightness. "What kind of rumors?"
"Oh, ye ken. That I've driven ye mad with me demands. That ye've taken tae rollin' in dirt rather than share me bed." His eyes danced with amusement. "That we're secret druids performin' strange rituals."
"Druids?"
"It's the clay. Very druidic." He tugged her toward the door. "Come on. I'll help ye wash it off."
Back in their chamber, Liliane scrubbed the clay from her face and hands, watching the water in the basin turn muddy brown.
The cool water felt good against her skin, washing away the tight, uncomfortable feeling of dried clay.
When she was done, she looked up to find Tòrr watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
She felt his chest shake with quiet laughter, his lips pressing to the top of her head. "Aye, wife. Whatever ye say." His hand stroked down her spine, and she shivered despite the warmth flooding through her.
And sitting there, clean-faced and held close, wrapped in his arms with his hands slowly exploring the curves of her back, Liliane felt something settle inside her—a sense of rightness, of belonging, that she'd never experienced before.
This man had somehow become the person she trusted most in the world. Who saw her as beautiful even when she was covered in clay and trying to be something she wasn't. Whose touch set her skin on fire and made her feel safe all at once.
Maybe, just maybe, she was falling in love with him.
And, wrapped in his arms with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear and his hands warm on her body, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.