He gathered wood, working in silence while watching her from the corner of his eyes as she watched him while pretending not to. He gathered enough wood to light a small fire, and as he fanned the embers, Tòrr watched Liliane from across the flames as she wrapped her arms around herself, her thin silk gown providing little protection against the Highland night's bite.
He unfastened his heavy woolen cloak and stood, moving around the fire toward her.
"I'm fine," she replied through chattering teeth.
"Ye're stubborn, is what ye are."
She pressed her back harder against the pine tree. "What are ye daein’?"
"Keepin’ ye from freezin’ tae death." He held out the cloak. "Take it."
"I dinnae want anythin’ from ye."
"And I dinnae want tae explain tae yer faither how his daughter died of stubbornness in me care." He shook the cloak impatiently. "Take the damn thing, lass."
"So ye can claim I owe ye another debt?"
"So ye can stay alive long enough tae hate me properly tomorrow mornin’." He moved closer, and she flinched. "Stop being foolish. Warmth keeps ye breathin’, and breathin’ keeps ye able tae cause me trouble. Simple mathematics."
She pulled the heavy wool tight around herself, and he saw relief flicker across her features despite her glare.
From his other side, Cameron snorted with amusement. "She's got yer measure, Tòrr. Suspects every kindness comes with a price."
"Every kindness daes come with a price," Liliane said quietly, her voice muffled by the cloak's high collar.
Something in her tone made Tòrr study her more carefully. There was old pain there, deeper than that night's troubles.
He pulled his flask from his belt and held it out to her. "Here. This'll help with the cold."
She eyed the silver container suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Whisky. Good Highland brew."
"Tryin’ tae intoxicate me so I'll be more... compliant?"
The accusation stung because it held an edge of real fear. "I'm tryin’ tae keep ye warm through the night. Whisky heats the blood, makes the cold easier tae bear."
"How convenient fer ye."
"Christ, lass, ye think I'm tryin’ tae poison ye or bed ye by the roadside?" His voice sharpened with irritation. "If I wanted ye senseless, there are easier ways than gettin’ ye drunk on good whisky."
She stared at him for a long moment, then reluctantly reached for the flask. Their fingers brushed as she took it, and he felt that same jolt of awareness that had surprised him when he'd tended her wound.
She jerked her hand back quickly, nearly dropping the flask.
"Easy," he murmured, steadying her grip. "Just a sip or two. Enough to warm ye."
She lifted it to her lips with obvious reluctance, took a small taste, then grimaced. "It's strong."
"Aye. Highland whisky’s nae meant fer gentle sippin’."
"Unlike Highland men, who are meant fer... what exactly?" The sarcasm in her voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Highland men are meant fer survivin’," Tòrr replied evenly.
The fire crackled lower, its fading warmth no match for the creeping chill of the night. Cameron had already burrowed into his bedroll a short distance away, close enough to be near but not part of them. As the cold deepened, the small pocket of heat by the dying embers narrowed, drawing Liliane and Tòrr unconsciously closer until the space between their bodies thinned to almost nothing. Her scent, clean and somehow sweet despite the night's ordeal, seemed to fill his nostrils every time he breathed. It was distracting in a way he hadn't expected.
She smelled like lavender and something else that made him acutely aware of how close she was, how the curve of her shoulder pressed against his arm, how her hair had escaped its pins and now fell in waves across her back.
