CHAPTER ONE
“What on earth is that?”
The sound came first—a sharp crack of voices carried on the afternoon breeze, cutting through the peaceful hum of the gardens. Lydia stopped mid-step, the porcelain teapot trembling slightly in her hands.
Iris turned, brow furrowing as she rushed to look around the corner of the wall. “It sounds as if it came from the gates,” she observed.
The commotion grew louder—a carriage door slamming, boots crunching on gravel, the unmistakable tone of their steward arguing with someone who would not be refused. Lydia’s pulse spiked. A strange, cold dread seeped into her chest. “Stay here,” Iris said, her voice brisk, commanding, but Lydia shook her head.
“There’s nay chance.”
Together, they hurried down the path, the teapot forgotten on a stone bench. The afternoon wind tugged at Lydia’s pale hair as they rounded the hedge maze and came upon the castle’s gates, the bushes that lined the path brushing against her skirts as she ran.
A carriage stood there, black lacquer and silver trim, a crest Lydia knew too well—the family sigil, an axe surrounded by branches of laurel and cypress.
Lydia’s stomach dropped. Two figures stood by the gates, instantly recognizable—her parents.
Her mother, elegant as ever, stood with her hands folded neatly at her waist though her face was tight with impatience. Her father leaned on his cane, sharp eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction.
Lydia didn’t know how she had never seen it—the way they looked at Iris with such coldness. Now that this look was directed at her, as well, it chilled her to the bone.
It was Iris who spoke first, her voice shaking with fury. “What are ye doing here? Ye’re nae welcome in this castle.”
“Is that how ye greet yer parents?” their mother asked smoothly, as though nothing had happened between them. “Nay embrace? Nay kind word?”
Behind their parents, the guards were at a loss. Though they surely had explicit orders not to let the two of them inside, they could hardly remove them forcibly. After all, they were still the Laird and Lady McLean. No matter what Elijah, Iris’ husband, thought, no matter how much he tried to ban them from the castle, his guards had every reason to be reluctant to haul them right out of the gates.
“Ye lost the right to call yerselves our parents when ye tried to force Lydia to wed a man she was afraid of,” Iris said, sharp as a blade, and Lydia couldn’t help but wish she had her strength, her courage. She could never speak to them like this, not even now—not even after they had forced Iris to take her place when she fled, marrying her off to Elijah, not even after she had finally realized they were treating her sister with such cruelty. “Ye have nay place here. Laird McMurphy has forbidden yer presence.”
Despite Iris’ harsh command, only a flicker of annoyance crossed their mother’s face. “Och, Iris... must ye always be so dramatic? Ye married the man, and look at ye now. He turned out to be a great husband, despite it all.”
“Aye,” said Iris through gritted teeth. “Despite it all.”
“We ken yer darlin’ husband doesnae want us here, but we dinnae came for ye,” continued their mother, entirely dismissing her words. “We came for Lydia.”
Next to her, Iris was trembling with rage, her fists tight and her jaw locked, a muscle jumping there with every heartbeat. It was not the first time Lydia had seen her sister like this, but it wasthe first she had seen her like this since they both escaped their parents’ grip. Only they could unleash this side of her; only they could enrage her this much.
And when they revealed they had come for Lydia, a pit opened up in her stomach—one that quickly filled with cold dread.
With a shaky breath, she tried to imitate her sister, her voice just as sharp. “I have nothin’ to say to ye.”
She turned sharply, meaning to walk away, but her father’s voice snapped like a whip.
“Lydia. Stop.”
The command in his tone hit her like it always did, but this time, she didn’t freeze. She merely turned slowly, meeting his gaze head-on.
“I have nay interest in anythin’ ye might say,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Nae after what ye did to Iris.”
“We did what was necessary,” her father said. “And we’re here because necessity demands again.”
Her mother stepped forward, her expression softening into something almost pitying. Both Lydia and Iris had taken after her—her blonde hair, her delicate features—but their eyes were just like their father’s.
Only his were hard and cold, showing no sign of emotion.
“Lydia, darlin’,” her mother said with a sigh, her green skirts swishing as she walked, “ye mustnae take that tone with us. We’ve come to tell ye some wonderful news.”
Lydia’s gut tightened. The last time they had good news for her was when she was meant to marry Elijah—and while, in the end, everything turned out well when he married her sister instead, this time, she doubted it would end as pleasantly.
