Ten days after the battle at Foulis, Keppoch's great hall blazed with light and life.
Torches lined the stone walls, their flames dancing in the drafts that snaked through the ancient keep. The long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, wheels of cheese, and pitchers of wine and ale. The air was thick with the scent of food and the sound of laughter, genuine laughter, the kind that came from relief as much as joy.
Tòrr stood at the head table, Liliane at his side in a gown of deep blue. Her hand rested in his, their fingers intertwined, and he couldn't stop himself from glancing at her every few moments. His wife. Truly his wife now, bound not just by necessity or strategy, but by choice. By love.
The wedding ceremony had been brief but meaningful, conducted in the castle's small chapel with his siblings and Nessa as witnesses. Father Benedict had spoken the words, blessed their union, and pronounced them man and wife beforeGod and the clan. When Tòrr had kissed Liliane, sealing their vows, he'd felt something settle in his chest, a rightness that went beyond duty or desire.
Now, watching his people celebrate around them, he felt that same sense of rightness expand to encompass everything. The hall was full of MacDonald warriors and their families, all gathered to honor their laird's marriage and to celebrate something more.
They'd struck a blow against the Pact. Against Campbell's schemes. Against men like Roderick Munro, who treated women as commodities.
And they'd won.
"Ye look happy," Liliane murmured, leaning close enough that her words wouldn't carry beyond him. "Truly happy."
"I am." He squeezed her hand. "Are ye?"
"Aye." Her smile was radiant. "More than I ever thought possible." Her gaze swept the hall, taking in the faces turned toward them with respect and affection. "They've accepted me. Yer people. Nae just as yer wife, but as their lady. I never expected..."
"What? That they'd see ye fer who ye are?" Tòrr lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "A woman of strength and courage who risked everythin' fer her sister? A woman whostood beside me on a battlefield and didnae flinch? Of course they accept ye. How could they nae?"
Color rose in her cheeks, but before she could respond, Michael stood, raising his cup high.
"A toast!" His voice carried across the hall, silencing conversations. "Tae me braither and his bride. May their union be blessed with health, happiness, and enough sense tae avoid any more suicide missions intae enemy territory."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Tòrr shot his brother a look that promised retribution later, but Michael just grinned, unrepentant.
"Tae Tòrr and Liliane!" the hall chorused, cups raised high.
They drank, and the celebration continued. Musicians struck up a lively tune, and some of the younger warriors began clearing space for dancing. Tòrr watched it all, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over him once more. These people trusted him. Followed him. And he'd led them into a conflict that was far from over.
Campbell was still out there, nursing his wounded pride and plotting revenge. The Pact would respond eventually, they had to, or risk appearing weak. And when they did...
"Ye're thinkin' too hard again," Liliane said softly. "I can see it in yer eyes. The worry."
"Just considerin' what comes next."
"Later." She turned his face toward hers with gentle fingers. "Think about that later. Taenight is fer celebration. Fer us."
She was right. That night should be about joy, not fear. About what they'd accomplished, not what might still come. He kissed her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair, and allowed himself to just be present in that moment.
Down the table, his sisters sat with Nessa between them, all four women deep in animated conversation. Nessa had blossomed over the previous ten days, the fear slowly leaving her eyes as she realized she was truly safe. Catherine had taken her under her wing immediately, while Sofia and Alyson fussed over her like mother hens.
Daemon sat nearby, watching the hall with the same assessing gaze Tòrr recognized from a mirror. His youngest brother caught his eye and raised his cup in a silent salute. Tòrr returned the gesture, gratitude swelling in his chest. Daemon had held Keppoch while they were gone, kept their home safe. That loyalty meant everything.
And then there was Aidan Cameron, seated further down the table, his expression carefully neutral as he listened to something Catherine was saying. The Cameron laird had arrived two days before in response to Tòrr's urgent message, and they'd spent hours discussing the situation, weighing options, considering contingencies.
It was time.
Tòrr stood, and the hall gradually quieted, all eyes turning toward him. Liliane's hand slipped from his as he stepped forward, but he felt her presence at his back, steady and supportive.
"Me friends," he began, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "Me clan. Taenight we celebrate nae just a weddin’, but a victory. We've brought Nessa Munro—" he gestured to where she sat wide-eyed between his sisters, "—tae safety. We've sent a message tae those who would treat women as property. And we've reminded the Highlands that the MacDonalds bow tae no one."
Cheers erupted, warriors banging their cups on the tables. Tòrr waited for the noise to die down before continuing.
"But victory comes with consequences. Angus Campbell escaped. He'll spread his version of events tae every clan loyal tae the Pact. And they will respond." He let that sink in, watching faces grow serious. "I willnae lie tae ye. Dangerous times are ahead. But we'll face them as we always have, taegether, with courage and honor."
More cheers, though quieter now. The weight of his words had settled over the hall like a cloak.
