"And if it daes scar?"
"Then ye'll have a mark from the night I killed three men tae keep ye safe." His voice was rough. "I'm nae sure how I feel about that."
"I am." She caught his wrist. "I feel grateful. And safe. And like maybe, just maybe, I can trust ye tae keep yer promises."
He went very still, his eyes searching hers. "Liliane."
"Ye said ye'd protect me. That ye'd help me protect Nessa. And tonight ye proved ye meant it." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I believe ye now. Finally. I believe ye."
"Ye shouldnae have needed proof like this."
Tòrr wiped his blade clean, the motion brisk, controlled. Around them, his men were already moving — checking the fallen,dragging bodies away from the road, scanning the dark edges of the wood for any sign of movement.
Liliane still stood where he’d left her, pale beneath the torchlight, her hands trembling.
He sheathed his sword and crossed to her in three long strides. "Ye’re safe now, lass."
She shook her head, though her voice caught. "Aye. I ken. I’m just … just shaken."
He studied her for a long moment, his jaw tight, then exhaled slowly. "We’re done here. We ride fer the keep."
"What about the rest of the men at the festival?"
"They’ll be warned. Malcolm’ll sound the horn and get everyone inside the walls." He glanced toward the bodies again, fury flickering in his eyes.
Her stomach turned cold, and she gasped.
He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, his voice low but firm. "Ye’re safe with me, lass. I’ll see tae the rest."
And though she nodded, she couldn’t shake the feeling that safety was slipping further from reach, that this attack had only been the beginning.
Together, they turned toward the waiting horses, the fires of the village flickering behind them as Keppoch’s towers loomed dark against the night sky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
"Double the patrols on every approach. I want men stationed at the village boundaries and rotatin’ watches through the night."
Tòrr's voice cut through the great hall like a blade, sharp and absolute. The ride back from the festival had been tense, silent save for the thunder of hooves. Now, surrounded by his warriors and elders, he looked every inch the Highland laird—commanding, furious, and utterly in control.
"How many were there?" Elder Malcolm demanded, his weathered face grave.
"Three that we saw," Daemon answered, still dusty from the road. "All dead.”
"Munro's men," Tòrr continued. "They admitted tae followin' his orders. Planned tae use the festival chaos as cover tae abduct me wife."
A ripple of anger moved through the assembled men.
"Bold," Michael said quietly. "Attackin' durin’ a clan gatherin’. That's a declaration."
"Aye. Which is why we respond in kind." Tòrr's hands clenched at his sides. "I want search parties sent out at first light. Scour every inch of our lands fer any other men who might be lurkin'. If ye find anyone suspicious, bring them tae me alive. I'll question them meself."
"And if they resist?" Captain Fraser asked.
"Then ye have me permission tae dae what's necessary." Tòrr's voice was flat. "But I want at least one alive if possible. I need tae ken if this was an isolated attempt or part of somethin' larger."
"What about the borders?" Elder Gregor leaned forward. "Should we close them? Bar entry?"
"Nay. That would signal fear, and I'll nae give Munro that satisfaction." Tòrr's jaw tightened. "But increase scrutiny on anyone crossin'. Unknown faces get questioned. Unknown business gets investigated. Anyone who cannae provide a good reason fer bein' on MacDonald land gets turned away."
