"Smile," Catherine whispered beside her. "They're excited tae meet ye."
"They're starin'."
"Because ye're new. And bonny. And their laird's lady." Catherine grinned. "Give them somethin' tae admire."
Easier said than done when Liliane felt like every eye in the village was measuring her, judging whether she was worthy of the man riding ahead of them.
Tòrr dismounted first, and immediately the crowd pressed closer, calling out greetings.
"Me laird! Welcome!"
"Fine day fer festivities, aye?"
"We've saved the best table fer ye!"
He handled the attention with practiced ease, clasping hands, nodding to familiar faces, accepting their enthusiasm without being overwhelmed by it. Then he turned and reached up to help Liliane down.
"Ready?" he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
"Nay."
"Good. Neither am I." But his hand was steady as she took it. "Just follow me lead."
The moment her feet touched ground, a woman with flour-dusted hands and a warm smile pushed through the crowd.
"Lady MacDonald! Welcome, welcome!" She grabbed Liliane's hands before she could react. "I'm Moira's sister, Agnes. We're so pleased tae have ye here!"
"Thank ye."
"Come, come! We've set up the finest table, right in the center where ye can see everythin'!" Agnes began tugging her forward. "And we've prepared such food—roasted lamb, fresh bread, berry tarts."
"Agnes, let the lass breathe," Tòrr said, amusement coloring his voice.
"Oh, hush ye. She needs welcomin' proper!" But Agnes released Liliane's hands. "Right this way, me lady."
They were led to a long table decorated with wildflowers and autumn leaves, positioned to overlook the entire village square. Musicians tuned their instruments nearby, children ran shrieking between dancers practicing their steps, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air.
"This is..." Liliane searched for words as she took in the scene. "This is incredible."
Tòrr took the seat at the head of the table, Michael beside him, and immediately people began approaching with offerings; cups of ale, plates of food, small gifts for their laird and his new bride.
"Fer ye, me lady," an elderly man said, pressing a carved wooden figure into her hands. "Made it meself. It's a… well, it's meant tae be a bird, though me grandson says it looks more like a turnip."
The lopsided carving did indeed look more vegetable than avian, but Liliane found herself smiling. "It's lovely. Thank ye."
His weathered face lit up. "Ye hear that? The lady says it's lovely! Take that, ye wee scamp!" He called this last bit to a boy hovering nearby, who stuck out his tongue.
More gifts followed; a jar of honey, a carefully folded blanket, a necklace of polished stones. Each came with a story, a connection, a piece of the clan offering itself to her.
"They're welcomin' ye," Catherine whispered. "Intae the family proper."
The weight of it pressed on Liliane's chest. These people, they'd accepted her without question, without knowing anything about her beyond Tòrr's claim that she was his wife.
"I dinnae deserve this," she murmured.
"Of course ye dae," Sofia replied. "Ye're one of us now."
But was she? Could she be, when half her heart was still planning escape?
