"I need tae change," she said finally.
"There's a dressin’ screen in the corner. And nightclothes in the wardrobe, Agnes prepared everythin’.
Of course she had. Everyone had prepared for this marriage except the bride herself.
Behind the screen, Liliane fumbled with the buttons of her gown, her fingers clumsy with exhaustion and residual fear. When she finally emerged in a simple linen nightgown, Tòrr was still in his chair, staring into the fire.
"Better?" he asked without looking at her.
"Nay."
"Didnae think so." He drained his glass. "But ye're safe, Liliane. Whatever else ye think of me, ken that ye're safe in this room."
The words should have comforted her. Instead, they only highlighted how little control she had left.
She climbed into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin like armor. The sheets smelled of lavender and something else, something distinctly masculine that she recognized as Tòrr's scent.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep. But the moment she stilled, memory crept in uninvited. The unexpected heat of his mouth on hers earlier that day, the way the world had narrowed to nothing but the press of his lips and the roughness of his hand against her jaw.
Her breath caught. Against her will, her fingers drifted up, brushing lightly over her lips as if she could still feel the ghost of that kiss there. A shiver ran through her, not of fear this time, but something far more dangerous.
No. She shoved the thought away, burying herself deeper beneath the covers as if she could smother the warmth gathering low in her belly. Whatever that moment had been, it changed nothing. He was still her captor. She was still the unwilling bride.
But her traitorous heart wouldn’t stop remembering.
He was quiet for a long moment. "Give it time, lass. Things might nae be as bad as ye fear."
"Or they might be worse."
"Aye. That too."
The fire crackled, casting shifting shadows across the room. Outside, she could hear the distant sounds of the celebration continuing in the great hall.
"They're still celebratin’," she said softly.
"Weddin’s are cause fer joy in these parts."
"Even forced ones?"
"Most marriages are forced, one way or another. Daesnae mean they cannae become somethin’ more."
"Somethin’ more." She laughed bitterly. "Like what? Mutual tolerance? Polite indifference?"
"Or respect. Partnership. Maybe even affection, given time."
"I'll never feel affection fer ye."
"Never's a long time, lass."
"Go tae sleep, MacDonald."
"It's Tòrr. Or husband, if ye prefer."
"I prefer tae pretend this entire day never happened."
His low chuckle made her want to throw something at him. "Sleep well, wife. Tomorrow's another day."
She turned to face the wall, ending the conversation.
