She swiped a tear from her eye, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. The bitter scent filled the room, and she wrinkled her nose as she waited for it to steep. This would buy her time, a few days at least. Time to hatch her plan clearly without the pressure of consummation hanging over her head.
"Ye look like ye're plottin' murder."
Liliane jumped, spilling the tea in her cup. She'd thought she was alone in the chamber, but Catherine had returned now dressed for bed. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.
"I'm nae plottin' anythin'," Liliane said quickly, setting the cup down on the table by the hearth.
"Then why are ye drinkin' tea in the dark like some kind of witch brewin' potions?" Catherine moved into the room uninvited. "What is that anyway? Smells... medicinal."
"Just somethin' fer sleep." The lie came easily. "I've been havin' trouble restin' proper."
"Hmm." Catherine's knowing look suggested she wasn't fooled, but she didn't press. "Well, try nae tae drink too much. Tòrr will be up soon, and ye daenae want tae be fallin' asleep before he gets here."
"Catherine." Heat flooded Liliane's face. "That's none of yer concern."
Catherine grinned. "Now I'll leave ye tae yer... medicinal tea. Good night, sister."
After she left Liliane closed the door and cursed. The tea was mostly spilled. By the time she cleaned up the mess she feared it was too risky to make more lest her husband walk in on her too. Thus, she tucked it back into the cabinet. No evidence. No questions.
By the time she'd changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed, her heart was racing. Tòrr would return eventually, andshe had to look asleep. She needed him to believe she was too exhausted for anything more than rest.
She arranged herself carefully, forcing her breathing to slow and deepen, every muscle deliberately relaxed. The minutes stretched, the fire crackled and popped. Outside, she could hear distant voices from the courtyard, the clang of the gate being secured for the night.
Then, footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, unmistakable. Liliane closed her eyes and willed her body to stillness.
The door opened. Lamplight spilled across the floor, the latch clicked shut. Then she heard footsteps and some rustling.
"I ken ye're awake, lass," Tòrr said after a few minutes.
His voice was low, rich with amusement. She didn't respond, didn't move.
"Yer breathin's too controlled. When people sleep, their rhythm's nae so... practiced." She heard him moving about the room. "But if ye want tae play at sleep, I'll nae spoil yer game."
Damn him and his observant eyes.
More rustling. The clink of his belt buckle, the soft thud of fabric hitting the floor. Her curiosity burned, but she kept her eyes firmly shut.
"Though if ye're goin' tae pretend, ye might want tae stop bitin' yer lip."
Her teeth released her lower lip immediately. His low chuckle sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach.
"That's what I thought." She heard the whisper of linen, the sound of him removing his shirt. Every instinct screamed at her to look.
Nay! Absolutely nae.
But her eyes cracked open just the tiniest bit, just enough to?—
Sweet Lord.
Tòrr stood beside the bed, his back to her, bare from the waist up. Lamplight played across muscles that spoke of years wielding weapons, of constant training and physical labor.
Scars marked his skin, a long one across his ribs, a smaller one near his shoulder blade. Each one a testament to battles she'd never know about.
He bent to remove his boots, and she watched the way each muscle rippled beneath his skin, completely transfixed despite every intention to the contrary.
Her breath caught, barely audible, but not quiet enough.
Tòrr stilled, one hand resting on his knee. He turned his head slightly, not enough for her to see his expression, but enough to tell her he knew she was awake.
