"I will."
"And Liliane?" His arms tightened briefly around her. "Dinnae dae anythin' rash. Promise me."
She couldn't promise that. Wouldn't lie to him that way. So she said nothing, and after a moment, he sighed and swung down, reaching up to help her dismount.
Their eyes met as her feet touched ground, and something passed between them—understanding, maybe, or shared frustration at circumstances neither fully controlled.
"I need tae finish patrols," he said. "Will ye be alright?"
"I'm always alright."
"That's nae what I asked."
She softened slightly. "I'll be fine. Go. Dae what ye need tae dae."
He hesitated, looking like he wanted to say more. Then he simply nodded and strode away, leaving her alone in the courtyard with more questions than answers.
Liliane watched him go, her heart and head at war. Stay or leave, trust or run. Risk everything on a man's promise or rely only on herself.
Whatever she decided, it had to be soon. Because time was running out, and Nessa's safety hung in the balance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The night after their argument passed in uneasy silence.
Tòrr hadn’t gone to their chamber. She’d half-expected him to say something sharp or distant, anything to break the heavy quiet between them, but the door had stayed closed, and the hearth had burned low without him.
By morning, she’d forced her thoughts into neat order again. Whatever fragile understanding had grown between them, it was better left alone. At least for now.
“Ye’re certain we’ll nae be late?”
Catherine asked for the third time as the wagon rattled down the dirt road, baskets of bread and ale clinking behind them.
Liliane watched the green hills roll by. The sun hung low, gilding the fields with soft gold. Ahead, faint music drifted from the village square, pipes and drums, lively and warm.
It had been a day since the quarrel, and though Tòrr hadn’t spoken to her since, she was determined not to let his absence cloud what was meant to be a simple village celebration.
Sofia leaned forward to peer around Tòrr, who rode at the front. “I can already smell the stew from here. God bless the women of Glenkerron.”
Michael laughed. “Aye, they ken how tae feed a man proper. Last year I near rolled home like a barrel.”
“Ye dae that every year, and it isnae because of the food,” Tòrr muttered without turning.
“Just let me enjoy meself in peace,” Michael replied.
Tòrr cast him a flat look over his shoulder. “Enjoyin’ yerself daesnae mean drinkin’ till ye forget yer own name.”
“Then I must’ve been enjoyin’ it right,” Michael said cheerfully.
Alyson snorted. “I’ll wager this year’s the same.”
The group’s laughter mingled with the music as they crossed the final bridge into the village.
By the time they arrived, the festival was already in full swing. Ribbons hung from poles, children ran barefoot through the grass, and the air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and honeyed ale.
“Laird MacDonald!” someone called. "Make way! The laird's arrived!"
The shout went up as their horses entered the village, and Liliane's stomach clenched. Everywhere she looked, people were gathering—men, women, children, all dressed in their finest, all turning to stare as Tòrr's party rode through.
