"Never laughed with ye?" Her eyebrow arched higher. "And whose fault is that? Ye're the one who keeps tellin' me about alliances and political necessity. Hard tae find the humor in that."
The words hit like a landslide of rocks, all the more painful because they were true. He had reduced what was between themto practicality. Had made her feel like she was nothing more than a strategic asset.
"Liliane." He reached for her hand, but she pulled it back, though not unkindly.
"Dae ye ken what I find interestin'?" she asked, her voice taking on a teasing lilt that he'd never heard before. "Young Malcolm makes me laugh. So daes Michael, and even Daemon when he's nae broodin'. The stable master told me a joke yesterday that had me grinnin' fer hours. Even Elder Malcolm, grumpy old Malcolm, managed tae coax a smile from me this mornin' with his complaints about the weather."
"What's yer point?"
"Me point is that I laugh with many people around this keep. " She took a step closer, and he could smell the lavender on her fingers. "It's only ye who brings out me claws. Only ye who makes me want tae fight and argue and put up walls."
"Ye seem tae want tae provoke me," he murmured through clenched teeth.
"Why dae ye think that is?" She interrupted, her eyes dancing with something that looked almost like mischief. "Why would I be comfortable with everyone except the one man I'm married tae?"
He had no answer. Or rather, he had several answers, none of which he wanted to examine too closely.
"Well, that's nae the point." She stepped back, putting distance between them again. "The point is that yer jealousy is misplaced. Malcolm is nae a threat tae ye. Nay one here is."
"Then who is?" The question escaped before he could stop it.
She regarded him for a long moment, something complicated flickering across her face. "Ye are. Ye're yer own worst enemy when it comes tae me."
She adjusted the basket on her arm. "Ye dinnae have tae be jealous of Malcolm or anyone else, Tòrr. They're nae competition. But if ye want me tae stop puttin' up walls around ye, if ye want me tae laugh with ye the way I laugh with others... then perhaps ye should stop reducin' what's between us tae political strategy."
"That's nae fair."
"Then explain tae me what that kiss meant. Without mentionin' alliances or politics or yer position as laird." She waited, her eyes steady on his. "Go on. Tell me."
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because the truth was complicated and frightening and not something he was ready to put into words. Not when he was still figuring it out himself.
"That's what I thought." She turned back toward the keep. "When ye can answer that question, when ye can tell me what I am tae ye beyond a political asset, then maybe we'll have somethin' worth buildin'. Until then..." She shrugged, the gesture somehow both casual and devastating. "Until then, I'll keep laughin' with Malcolm and the others. Because at least with them, I ken where I stand."
She started walking toward the keep, her spine straight and her head high. Tòrr stood frozen for a moment, her words echoing in his head.
"Liliane, wait."
She didn't stop. Didn't even slow down.
She walked through the gate and disappeared around the corner of the keep, leaving him standing alone among the herbs with a half-filled basket and a chest full of words he didn't know how to speak.
Tòrr stood there for a long moment, her challenge echoing in his mind. She wanted him to show her what he felt, to be the man rather than the laird. But the problem was that he'd been the laird for so long, he wasn't sure he remembered how to be just a man anymore. Every decision, every action, every word was filtered through the lens of duty and responsibility.
Except when he'd kissed her. Then, for those few perfect moments, he'd been nothing but a man wanting a woman.Feeling rather than thinking. Acting on instinct rather than strategy.
And it had terrified him as much as it apparently terrified her. He bent to retrieve the basket she'd left behind, gathering it along with the one he'd been filling. His hands moved automatically through the herbs, though his mind was miles away.
She was right. He did reduce things to practical terms, did frame everything in the context of duty and necessity. It was safer that way. Cleaner. Less likely to result in the kind of messy emotional entanglements that could cloud judgment and lead to poor decisions.
But it was also cowardly. A way of protecting himself from admitting how much he was starting to care. How much she'd gotten under his skin in the short time she'd been here.
Jealousy over a young guard making her laugh. Christ, he was pathetic.
But the sight of her face lighting up like that, the sound of her genuine pleasure at someone else's company... it had driven home just how little of that warmth she directed at him. How carefully she guarded herself in his presence.
And whose fault is that?
Tòrr straightened, the baskets heavy in his hands. He needed to fix it. Needed to find a way to show her that she was more to him than a strategic asset or a means to an end. But how did he do that when he'd spent the last decade of his life viewing everything through the lens of clan responsibility? When every personal desire had been subjugated to duty?
