CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Ye look lovely, miss," Agnes said, adjusting the final pin in Liliane's hair.
Liliane stared at her reflection in the polished silver mirror. The blue gown Sofia had chosen fit perfectly, her hair was elaborately dressed with tiny white flowers woven through the braids, and her face had been touched with subtle color. She looked like a proper bride.
But she felt like a woman walking to her execution.
"There now." Agnes stepped back, admiring her work. "The laird will be speechless when he sees ye."
"One can only hope he stays that way," Liliane muttered.
"Beggin' yer pardon, miss?"
"Naethin’. Is it time?"
"Aye, miss. Everyone's gathered in the great hall."
Liliane's hands trembled as she smoothed her skirts. This was it. Her last moment of being Liliane Munro. After today, she would be Liliane MacDonald, bound to a man she barely knew and certainly didn't love.
"Miss?" Agnes held out her arm. "Shall we?"
The walk to the great hall felt like miles. Each step brought her closer to a future she hadn't chosen, to vows she didn't want to speak, to a life that would cage her forever.
The massive doors swung open, and the hall fell silent. Rows of MacDonald clan members lined both sides of the aisle, their faces curious and expectant. At the far end, before the hearth where Father MacLeod waited in his robes, stood Tòrr.
He was dressed in formal clan attire, deep green plaid draped over a crisp white shirt, his dark hair brushed back from his face. He looked every inch the Highland laird, powerful and commanding.
He also looked like the man who'd bought her at auction.
Liliane forced one foot in front of the other, her spine straight, her chin lifted. If she had to walk to her doom, she'd do it with dignity.
"Smile, lass," Tòrr murmured as she reached his side. "Ye look like ye're attendin’ a wake."
"Perhaps I am," she replied, her voice barely audible.
Father MacLeod cleared his throat. "Shall we begin?"
"Aye," Tòrr said, his eyes never leaving Liliane's face. "Let's get this done."
The priest opened his book, his voice carrying through the silent hall. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Tòrr MacDonald, Laird of Clan MacDonald of Keppoch, and Liliane Munro, daughter of Roderick Munro..."
Liliane's mind drifted as the priest droned on about duty and honor and sacred bonds. None of this was sacred. It was political necessity wrapped in religious ceremony.
"Tòrr MacDonald," Father MacLeod intoned. "Dae ye take this woman tae be yer lawfully wedded wife, till death dae ye part?"
"I dae." Tòrr's voice was firm, certain.
"And dae ye, Liliane Munro, take this man tae be yer lawfully wedded husband, till death dae ye part?"
The words stuck in Liliane's throat. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse, to run, to fight it with every breath in her body.
"Liliane?" Tòrr's voice was quiet but held a note of warning.
She looked at him, at the assembled clan members watching with expectation, at the priest waiting for her answer.
"I dae," she whispered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue.
His fingers were warm as they slid the ring onto her finger. "With this ring, I thee wed."
