His voice carried like thunder, cutting through the sudden commotion. "Move!"
"Aye, me laird!" Warriors responded as one, pouring from the training yard, buckling sword belts as they ran. Steel rang against stone as weapons were drawn from the armory. Hoofbeats echoed from somewhere beyond the gate. Whether it was scouts returning or guards repositioning, Liliane couldn't tell.
Around her, the courtyard transformed. A guard ran past, nearly knocking into her. Another shouted something about the eastern path. The blacksmith emerged from his forge, hammer still in hand, looking to Tòrr for orders.
And at the center of it all stood her husband, every inch the Highland laird. His shoulders squared, his voice unwavering as he directed the organized chaos swirling around him.
"Ye heard me!" he barked at a warrior. "North wall, now!"
The man scrambled to obey.
Tòrr strode toward the practice yard, Michael falling into step beside him. Their voices carried back, clipped and tactical. "If they're scoutin', they'll test us before nightfall."
"Then we'll be ready. I want archers?—"
Their words faded as they disappeared through the yard entrance, swallowed by the gathering of armed men.
Liliane lowered her hand from her cheek. Her heart was still racing, though whether from the sudden alarm or from that fleeting touch, she couldn't say.
The easy peace of the morning shattered completely. Where there had been warmth and laughter, now there was only cold efficiency. The same man. Two faces. Both real. Both unpredictable in their own way.
She forced herself to move, heading toward the keep's entrance where she could see Sofia standing in the doorway, worry creasing her brow.
But Liliane's mind was already turning. The festival was soon. Her last best chance for escape. But with riders sighted near their borders and Tòrr’s defenses rising, getting away would be harder than ever.
Unless the threat, whatever it was, provided the distraction she needed.
The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth, guilt and determination warring in her chest. But Nessa’s safety mattered more than her conscience. It always had.
She climbed the stairs toward the keep, the sound of distant commands echoing behind her, already thinking of new plans, new chances, new ways to turn chaos into opportunity.
Soon.One way or another, everything would change. She just had to survive until then.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Again!"
Tòrr circled the two warriors, his sword moving in controlled arcs as they pressed their attack. Sweat stung his eyes despite the cool evening air, but he ignored it, focused entirely on the dance of steel and strategy.
"Ye're leavin’ yer left side open," he called out, parrying a strike from the younger man. "Anyone with eyes could exploit that."
"Aye, me laird." The guard adjusted his stance, but not quickly enough.
Tòrr feinted right, then pivoted left, catching the warrior off guard. He stumbled backward, and Tòrr followed through, too aggressively, he realized a heartbeat too late.
His boot caught on uneven ground. His ankle twisted viciously beneath his weight.
Pain shot up his leg like lightning as he hit the ground hard, his sword clattering away across the packed earth.
"Me laird!" Both warriors dropped their weapons and rushed forward.
"I'm fine." Tòrr pushed himself up, testing his weight on the injured ankle. Fresh pain lanced through him. "Damn it."
"That daesnae look fine," Michael observed, striding across the yard. "Can ye stand?"
"I am standin’!" he snapped.
He watched Michael grimace. "Okay then. Can ye walk?"
