"Good." He gestured to the broken glass. "I'll have someone clean this up. Come. I'll walk ye back tae the chamber."
"That's nae necessary."
"Humor me. I've already lost ye once today. I'd rather nae dae it again."
As they walked through the corridors, the silence between them was different than before, less hostile, perhaps, but still wary. They were like two fighters circling before a match, each assessing the other's weaknesses. Tòrr offered his hand to her and without thinking, she placed her hands on his.
They passed through the portrait gallery, and Tòrr slowed despite himself. The paintings lined the walls in chronological order, generations of MacDonald lairds staring down with varying degrees of sternness.
"Who are they?" Liliane asked, following his gaze.
"Me ancestors. Every laird since the clan settled at Keppoch three hundred years ago."
"Hmm. But I cannae see any laird that resembles ye here."
"That's because I'm nae here yet. Me portrait will be painted when..." He trailed off.
"When what?"
"When I've proven meself worthy of the honor." His voice was flat. "Tradition dictates the portrait is painted only after the laird has secured the succession. Marriage, an heir, stability."
"So ye need me fer yer portrait." Her voice was teasing. "‘Tis good tae ken."
"I need ye fer a lot more than a portrait, dear wife." He muttered with a wink, before moving forward. He stopped before the portrait of a handsome couple in their prime.
"These… are me maither and faither."
Liliane almost gasped, struck by his parent’s painting. His father was obviously very tall, even from the portrait, and broad-shouldered, but his mother was built delicately, with eyes tough as steel.
“They look happy. Genuinely content with each other.”
The thought had never crossed Tòrr’s mind. He had taken his parent’s relationship for granted, never really dwelling on whether they were happy or not. Not until this moment.
"They were..." He searched for words. "They loved each other. Truly. It wasnae a political match or an alliance. They chose each other."
"That must have been nice," Liliane said quietly.
"It was. Fer them." He stared at his mother's painted face. "She died when I was nineteen. A fever took her in three days. Me faither followed two years later, killed on a battlefield that shouldnae have claimed him."
"I'm sorry."
The simple words caught him off guard. "Why? Ye didnae ken them."
"Nay. But I ken what it's like tae lose a parent." Her voice softened. "Me own maither died when I was fifteen."
He turned to look at her. "How?"
"Illness. A winter fever that her body couldnae fight." She stared at the portrait, but he suspected she wasn't really seeing it. "She'd been... weakened. Over the years. By the time the fever came, she had naethin’ left tae fight with."
There was something in her tone, something bitter and knowing, that made his stomach clench.
"Weakened how?"
"It daesnae matter now. She's gone." Liliane wrapped her arms around herself. "At least she's at peace. That's more than while she was livin’."
"Liliane."
"I said it daesnae matter." But her voice hardened slightly. "She's dead. Me faither is... what he is. And I'm here."
