He pressed it against the wound, feeling the fabric grow warm and damp. "How long?"
"Until it soaks through proper. They'll want tae see enough fer it tae be convincin'."
They stood there in awkward silence, Liliane studiously avoiding looking at anything below his neck while he held the increasingly bloody sheet to his abdomen.
"Ye ken," he said conversationally, "this is probably the strangest mornin' I've had me entire life."
"Aye, well. Ye're the one who bought a wife at an auction. Strange comes with the territory."
"There ye go again, remindin’ me. But I give it tae ye. That’s a fair point." He lifted the sheet slightly to check the stain. "How's that look?"
She glanced quickly, then away. "Enough. More than enough, actually."
"Good." He pulled the fabric away and examined the cut. Shallow, like she'd said, but bleeding freely. "Ye wouldnae happen tae have any of that paste ye made fer me ankle, dae ye?"
"Fer a cut ye just gave yerself tae fake deflowerin' yer wife? Nay, I dinnae have anythin' prepared fer that particular situation."
Despite everything, he laughed. "Point taken. I'll manage."
He pressed a clean cloth to the wound until the bleeding slowed, then pulled his shirt back on. The cut stung, but it was manageable. He'd had far worse in training.
"Right then." He picked up the stained sheet and folded it carefully. "Time tae satisfy the elders and their nosiness."
"Tòrr?"
He paused at the door. "Aye?"
"Thank ye." She gestured vaguely. "Fer nae actually... ye ken, forcin’ me tae dae it."
"Fer nae forcin' ye?" His voice was flat. "That's a low bar fer gratitude, lass."
"Maybe. But it's more than a lot of men would offer."
"Then a lot of men are bastards." He opened the door, then looked back. "Get dressed. Breakfast will be soon, and if I ken me sisters, they'll want ye tae join them for whatever mischief they're plannin' today. The kind that usually ends with someone muddy, someone cryin', and someone swearin' vengeance. It's how they show affection."
He left before she could respond, striding down the corridor until he found one of the guards stationed near the stairwell.
"Ye." He thrust the folded sheet at the startled man. "Take this tae Elder Malcolm. Tell him his concerns about the marriage can be laid tae rest and here's his proof."
The guard's eyes widened as he took the linen. "Aye, me laird. Right away."
"Good. Now go. Before I change me mind and tell the entire castle tae mind their own damn business instead."
The guard hurried away, clutching the sheet like it might explode. Tòrr watched him go, then leaned against the wall and let out a long breath.
One problem solved. Temporarily, at least.
But the letter from Munro still sat on his desk, the threat against Nessa still hung over them, and Liliane still looked at him like she was counting the days until she could escape.
But progress was progress. Even if that progress involved cutting himself to fake proof of something that should have happened days ago.
The things a man did for political necessity.
"Come on, Liliane! Ye're nae even tryin'!"
Catherine's voice echoed from somewhere in the courtyard, followed by Sofia's laughter and Alyson's shouted accusation that Catherine was cheating.
Liliane pressed her back against the cool stone of the outer wall, trying to catch her breath. Who knew that hide and seek could be this exhausting?
