Tòrr studied her profile, noting the rigid tension in her shoulders, and the way she held herself so stiffly. Whatever had happened to her mother, it had left deep scars.
"Me maither was kind," he said, surprising himself with the need to share, even if it was only to take her mind off her own parents.
"Too kind, some said. She believed in healin’, in helpin’ those who couldnae help themselves." He gestured to the painted woman. "She spent hours in the healer's chamber, learnin’ remedies, treatin’ the clan's ailments."
He watched surprise flash across Liliane’s face. "Is that why ye have such a well-stocked healin’ room?"
"Aye. Moira was her student. Me mother taught her everythin’ she kent."
Liliane's expression softened slightly. "She sounds wonderful."
“She was,” he said quietly, his gaze still on the portrait. “Though she’d have boxed me ears fer half the choices I’ve made.”
Liliane smiled faintly, her eyes moving to the portrait. “She looks kind.”
“She was that too. Fierce when she had tae be.” He hesitated, then glanced at her. “Ye remind me of her sometimes.”
Her brows rose. “That’s either a compliment or an insult, dependin’ on what ye mean.”
“Comparin’ ye tae me maither? Definitely a compliment,” he said without hesitation. “She had a way of challengin’ a man without ever liftin’ her voice. Could cut straight through pride with a look. Much like ye.”
Liliane blinked, unsure how to answer that. For a moment, the usual walls between them didn’t feel quite so high.
“She’d have liked ye,” he added, softer now. “Though she might’ve asked why I went about things the hardest way possible.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “I would ask the same question too. But, it daes seem ye prefer the hard way.”
“Aye.” He turned from the portrait, meeting her gaze. “But maybe we can begin changin’ that.”
Something eased in her chest. The air between them felt… different. Not friendly, not yet. But less like a battlefield.
“Maybe,” she said.
He nodded once, then offered his arm. “Come on, lass. The rain’s stoppin’. Feels like the world’s finally lettin’ go of its breath.”
She hesitated only a moment before winding her fingers around it.
As they walked, Tòrr found himself acutely aware of her presence beside him. The way she moved, the set of her shoulders, the small bandage on her finger that he'd placed there.
She’s me wife. Me responsibility. Me burden and me obligation.
And despite everything, despite the impossibility of their situation, he found himself wanting her to see Keppoch through his eyes. To understand what he was trying to protect, what he'd sacrificed for, what he'd continue to fight for.
Even if that fight now included winning over a woman who had every reason to hate him.
"Tòrr?" Her voice was small, uncertain.
"Aye?"
"Yer maither. Did she... was she truly happy? With yer faither? I mean… they seemed happy in the portrait, but sometimes… "
The question surprised him, but he didn’t need her to finish the sentence. "Very. Why?"
"Just wonderin’." She was quiet for a moment. "Wonderin’ if it's possible. Fer two people who start as strangers tae become somethin’ more."
"They werenae strangers. They grew up together, kent each other's families."
"But they must have been strangers once. Before they grew up. Before they kent each other."
