"And then ye'll have a proper room, proper food, and proper clothes while we arrange the wedding."
"How thoughtful. A comfortable prison."
"A comfortable home, if ye choose tae see it that way."
"I dinnae."
He sighed. "I ken."
The miles passed slowly, marked by her tense silence and his growing awareness of her soft curves pressed against him. By the time Keppoch's towers appeared on the horizon, his foot was throbbing in earnest and his patience was wearing thin.
"There," he said, pointing ahead. "Home."
She leaned forward, studying the stone walls and battlements. "It's large."
"Aye. The MacDonalds have held Keppoch fer three centuries."
"And now ye'll add a Munro bride tae yer collection of possessions."
"I'll add a MacDonald wife tae me household," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Before he could answer, shouts arose from the gatehouse as the guards recognized their laird's approach. The massive iron gates swung open, revealing the inner courtyard bustling with activity.
Two men emerged from the great hall as they dismounted, both tall and broad-shouldered, clearly cut from the same cloth as Tòrr himself. The older looking one had the same dark hair and green eyes, while the younger one looked different.
"Tòrr!" The older one strode forward, clasping his brother's arm. "We expected ye back yesterday. Trouble on the road?"
"Ye could say that." Tòrr glanced at Liliane, who stood frozen beside the horse. "Michael, Daemon, I'd like ye tae meet Miss Liliane Munro. Me bride."
The silence that followed could have been cut with a dirk.
"Yer what?" Michael's voice was carefully controlled.
"Me bride. We'll be wed soon."
Daemon's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "Tòrr, what in God's name is happenin’?"
"Nae here." Tòrr's voice carried quiet authority. "We'll discuss it inside."
He turned to Liliane, who looked as stunned as his brothers. "Agnes!" he called to a passing maid. "Prepare the blue chamber fer Miss Munro. She'll need a bath, food, and somethin’ proper tae wear. Borrow from me sisters' wardrobes if needed. And have the Moira clean and bandage her wound."
"Aye, me laird." The older woman bobbed a curtsy, her curious eyes flicking between Tòrr and Liliane.
"Go with Agnes," he told Liliane gently. "She'll see ye're comfortable."
For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Her face had gone pale, and she swayed slightly on her feet.
"This is really happenin’," she whispered.
"Aye, lass. It is."
She pressed her lips together, seeming to gather herself. "Very well. Thank ye, Agnes."
As she followed the maid across the courtyard, her spine straight despite everything, Tòrr felt an unexpected stab of admiration. She might be trapped, but she faced it with dignity.
"Yer study. Now." Michael's voice brooked no argument.
