"It's a hell of a price."
"Aye. But ye're nae the first laird tae pay it, and ye willnae be the last."
"I have few days tae turn a terrified bride intae a willin’ wife."
"Stranger things have happened."
"Name one."
Michael grinned. "Ye're already married tae her. That's fairly strange."
Despite everything, Tòrr found himself smiling. "I need tae figure out how tae face me wife without her throwin’ somethin’ at me head."
"Good luck with that." Michael clapped him on the shoulder. "Fer what it's worth, I think ye're daeing the right thing. Even if the elders dinnae see it."
"The right thing that might destroy everythin’?"
"Sometimes the right thing and the smart thing arenae the same. Ye're tryin’ tae dae both. That takes courage."
"Or stupidity."
"Often the same thing."
Christ help him, it wasn't enough time. But it was all he had.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Me laird left fer the hall an hour past, me lady."
Liliane's eyes flew open at the unfamiliar voice. A young maid stood by the door, her arms full of fresh linens, her expression carefully neutral.
"I'm sorry, what?" Liliane sat up, disoriented. Sunlight streamed through the windows, far brighter than it should be if it were still early morning.
"Laird MacDonald," the maid repeated. "He's already in the great hall. Shall I help ye dress?"
"Nay." Liliane clutched the blankets tighter. "I can manage meself."
"As ye wish, me lady." The maid set the linens on a chest near the hearth. "Shall I send fer a bath?"
"Later, perhaps. Thank ye."
After the maid left, Liliane collapsed back against the pillows, her heart racing. She'd survived the night.
Tòrr had kept his word, sleeping in that chair by the fire, never once approaching the bed despite being her legal husband with every right to do so. For reasons she couldn’t quite name, that unsettled her almost as much as the alternative would have.
The image of his tall frame slouched in that uncomfortable chair had made something in her chest twist unexpectedly.
Why dae I care?
Scowling at herself, she threw back the covers and sat up. Whatever aches he had were none of her concern. He was the one who’d dragged her there, after all.
But how long would that last?
She pressed her hands to her face, thinking furiously. The reprieve he'd given her was temporary, he'd made that abundantly clear. Eventually, he would expect to consummate their marriage, and she had no illusions about what that meant. No escape, no choice.
Unless she found another way to delay him.
Her mind turned to the books she'd read in secret at Foulis, the healing texts her mother had treasured before she died. There were herbs that could bring on a woman's monthly courses, make her temporarily unsuitable for bedding. Pennyroyal was one, dangerous in high doses, but effective in smaller amounts.
