"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 Itell 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'."
