Tomorrow. When she'd wake as a married woman, bound to a man she barely knew. When the temporary reprieve would tick one day closer to its end. When she'd have to face the reality that escape was impossible and Nessa was lost to her.
Tomorrow, and all the days after, stretching into a future she couldn't bear to imagine.
But tonight, at least, she was alone in his bed. Safe from the intimacy she feared, if only temporarily. It was a small mercy she was willing to take.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Aword, me laird."
Tòrr's hand froze halfway to reaching for a piece of bread. The great hall still held the quiet hush of early morning, the embers in the hearth glowing faintly against the grey light creeping in through the narrow windows. The scents of oatcakes, roasted meat, and strong ale hung in the air. A simple breakfast after a long, complicated night.
Elder Malcolm stood at his elbow, his weathered face grave, with Elder Gregor close behind. Michael sat across the table, his expression carefully neutral in that way that meant trouble was coming.
"Can it nae wait until after I've had somethin’ tae eat?" Tòrr asked, though he already knew the answer.
"I'm afraid nae, me laird." Malcolm's voice carried across the hall, drawing curious glances from the other clansmen breaking their fast. "It's a matter of some... delicacy."
Tòrr set down his bread with more force than necessary. "Very well. Speak."
"Perhaps somewhere more private?" Gregor suggested, his gaze sweeping the crowded hall.
"Here is fine," Tòrr replied. Let them say whatever they'd come to say where others could hear. He had nothing to hide.
Malcolm shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "As ye wish. It's about the marriage, me laird."
"What about it?"
"The consummation, specifically." Malcolm's weathered cheeks colored slightly. "When should the maid collect the bridal sheet? Fer the proof, ye understand."
The bread Tòrr had been reaching for suddenly held no appeal. "The proof."
"Aye, me laird. Ye ken it's customary fer the sheet tae be presented tae the elders. Tae verify that the marriage has been properly..." Malcolm trailed off, apparently unable to find a delicate way to finish the sentence.
"Properly completed," Gregor supplied helpfully.
Tòrr's jaw tightened so hard his teeth ached. "I'm aware of the custom."
"Then ye'll understand our concern." Malcolm leaned forward slightly. "It's been a full night since the ceremony, and yet."
"And yet what?" Tòrr's voice dropped dangerously low. "Ye're questionin’ whether I've fulfilled me duty tae me wife?"
"Nay one's questionin’ yer ability, me laird," Gregor said quickly. "But there are... procedures. Expectations. The clan needs assurance that the marriage is legally bindin’."
"The marriage is legally bindin’. We spoke vows afore a priest and the entire clan."
"Aye, but without physical proof..."
“Physical proof.”
Tòrr stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. The sound cracked through the hall like a whip.
Malcolm flinched at the sudden movement, but Tòrr wasn’t raging at the mention of the custom itself. It was part of the bloody tradition, as old as the stones beneath their feet.
“What exactly are ye sayin’?” His voice came out low, controlled, but edged with steel. “That ye’ll nae accept me word as laird of this clan?”
“Of course we will, me laird,” Malcolm said quickly, his face reddening. “But the law is the law. Without proof of consummation, Munro could challenge the marriage, claim it was never binding.”
Gregor folded his hands calmly. “It’s practicality, Tòrr. If Munro moves against ye, we must be able tae defend the union. Words alone willnae hold in court.”
