"Ye absolutely did," Sofia said, though more gently. "And then ye touched her face like that." She gestured with her hands.
"Like a man touchin' his wife," Tòrr cut her off. "Which, last I checked, I'm allowed tae dae."
"Oh, aye, ye're allowed," Alyson agreed. "But maybe nae in front of an audience if ye dinnae want us teasin' ye about it."
"I was just removing a crumb." He stopped, realizing how defensive he sounded. "Christ. All of ye, listen well."
The sisters straightened, sensing his shift in tone.
"Liliane is adjustin' tae a marriage she didnae choose, in a home she daesnae ken, among people who are strangers tae her." His voice was firm. "The last thing she needs is ye lot makin' her feel more uncomfortable than she already is."
Alyson muttered, “Ye make it sound as if she’s fragile glass.”
"We were just teasin' her." Catherine defended.
"I ken. But she daesnae ken that yet. She daesnae ken if yer teasin' is friendly or mockery." He looked at each of them in turn. "I need her tae feel welcome here. Tae feel like this could be home. And that means ye help me, nae make things harder."
"We are helpin'," Sofia protested. "We included her in our games, shared berries, made her laugh."
"Aye, and that was good. Keep daein' that. But tone down the commentary about me and her." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "She's skittish enough as it is."
Sofia hid her smile behind her slice of cake. “Ye sound like an old nursemaid.”
His glare snapped to her. “And ye’re nae too old fer chores, Sofia.”
The garden erupted in stifled laughter. Even Tòrr’s mouth twitched, though he quickly masked it beneath the usual hard line of his jaw.
"Alright," Alyson said quietly. "We'll be more careful."
"Thank ye." He moved to leave, but Michael's voice stopped him.
"A word, braither?"
Tòrr turned back to find Michael on his feet, expression unreadable. "Make it quick. I need tae go on patrol and find me wife."
"Walk with me."
They moved away from the sisters, toward the edge of the garden where a low wall overlooked the training yard. For a moment, neither spoke.
"Ye care about her," Michael said finally. Not a question.
"She's me wife. Of course I care about her welfare."
"That's nae what I mean, and ye ken it." Michael leaned against the wall. "Fer a marriage of convenience ye only proceeded with for politics, ye seem remarkably... invested."
"I'm invested in makin' it work. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I stand, ye look at her the way Faither used tae look at Maither. Like she's the only thing in the room worth seein'."
Tòrr's jaw tightened. "Ye're readin' too much intae it."
"Am I? Ye wiped a crumb from her mouth with more tenderness than I've seen ye show anyone in years. Ye touched her like she was precious. Like she mattered beyond politics and alliances."
"She daes matter. Like I said, she's me wife and me responsibility."
"Responsibility." Michael's laugh was dry. "Ye keep usin' that word like it explains everythin'. But responsibility daesnae make a man's eyes go soft. Daesnae make him protective tae the point of warnin’ his own sisters fer teasin'. Daesnae make him sacrifice sleep tae avoid pushin' her intae somethin' she's nae ready fer."
"What's yer point?"
