"Me point is that ye're fallin' fer her. Maybe have already fallen." Michael's voice was quiet but certain. "And I'm wonderin' if ye've realized it yet."
"That's the falsest thing I’ve heard today." Tòrr stopped, the denial dying on his tongue.
Michael shrugged. “Well, I just never thought I’d see the day ye’d be worried about a woman’s feelings.”
Tòrr’s brow lifted. “Her feelings affect the peace in me castle.”
“Aye,” Michael drawled. “And the peace in yer head, I’d wager.”
“Careful,” Tòrr warned, his tone deceptively calm. But he stiffened and was lost in thoughts.
How much did Liliane occupy his thoughts? How often did he find himself considering her comfort before his own needs? How thoroughly had she worked her way past every defense he'd built since his father died?
"Christ," he muttered.
"Aye. That's what I thought." Michael clapped his shoulder. “Just an observation I made.”
“Make fewer of them from now on.” Tòrr said brushing him off. He turned and strode out before anyone could read the flicker of unease behind his eyes. Because Michael wasn’t wrong.
He’d told himself this marriage was a matter of necessity, a way to disrupt Munro’s alliances, to keep power from the Pact. A move on the chessboard, nothing more. But now…
Now, when he caught the sound of her laughter through the garden, when he saw her talking with the sisters, sunlight catching the gold in her hair, his chest tightened in ways that had nothing to do with strategy.
He scowled, shaking the thought away. “Christ’s bones,” he muttered. “She’s gettin’ into me head.”
Tòrr stood in his study, quill and paper in hand, staring at them like they might bite. The letter from Munro sat heavy in his pocket, a constant reminder of threats he couldn't fully counter.
But maybe he could give Liliane something. A gesture. A way to show her he heard what she'd said about Nessa, that he valued her trust. Patrols would leave within the hour, but a matter still lingered in his mind, one he meant to set right.
He found her outside the healer's croft, bent over a cluster of lavender, breathing in the scent with her eyes closed. Theafternoon sun caught in her hair, turning it gold, and for a moment he just watched her.
Peaceful. That's how she looked. Not the wary, defiant woman he'd bought at auction, but someone content.
Then he cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Liliane."
She straightened, turning toward him with that guarded expression sliding back into place. "Tòrr. I didnae hear ye approach."
"Ye were occupied." He moved closer, holding out the quill and paper. "I brought ye somethin'."
She eyed them suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Some parchment tae write tae yer sister. If ye want tae." He kept his voice neutral. "I ken ye've been worryin' about her. Thought maybe... if ye could send word that ye're well, it might ease yer mind."
Her eyes widened, shock replacing suspicion. "Ye'd let me write tae her?"
"Aye. It's nae much, but..." He shrugged, uncomfortable with the emotion in her gaze. "I ken how much she matters tae ye. Seemed the least I could dae."
"I—" Her voice cracked slightly. "Thank ye. That's... that's more than I expected."
"Aye, well. Dinnae get used tae it." But his gruff tone was undermined by the small smile tugging at his lips.
For a while she said nothing. Then her expression softened, and before he could prepare for it, she stepped forward and threw her arms around him.
He went still, more startled than anything, the embrace caught him so off guard he nearly dropped the paper. Her body pressed against his, warm and solid, her face buried against his chest. The scent of her hair filled his senses, wildflowers and something warm, familiar. Then his arms came up slowly, carefully, holding her like she might shatter if he squeezed too hard.
"Thank ye," she whispered against his shirt. "Truly. This means, ye dinnae ken what this means."
"I think I dae," he murmured, his chin resting lightly on top of her head. "Ye miss her. Ye worry. And I'm givin' ye a way tae ease that, even just a little."
