Kieran moved to the fire, unbuckling his sword belt, setting the weapon aside with deliberate care. His every movement was calm, measured, with the kind of control born from habit and necessity. But across from him, Lydia stood frozen, her hands twisting the fabric of her gown.
This is what happens next. Ye are his wife now. It’s yer duty.
But her legs felt heavy, rooted to the intricately woven rug under her feet. Her breath came too shallow, too fast, uncontrolled like the panting of a prey animal running away from its predator.
Kieran glanced at her then, his gaze sweeping over her once, slow and assessing, and Lydia felt her face flush. She couldn’t tell if he approved or found her wanting. His eyes, dark and unreadable, lingered on her mouth for a heartbeat too long before flicking away.
He said nothing.
Lydia took that silence for disinterest. A strange ache bloomed in her chest—part relief, part humiliation.
He found her desirable enough to marry, perhaps, but not enough to want.
She hated herself for the sting that thought caused. She should be grateful. She didn’t want this, not truly, not tonight, not when fear still crawled down her spine. But a small, traitorous voice whispered that it would be easier if he looked at her the way mensometimes did—with warmth, with want, with something that didn’t feel so cold.
Kieran stripped down to his tunic, the firelight throwing golden edges on his frame. Lydia turned away quickly, pretending to adjust the edge of her sleeve, her face burning with embarrassment, her chest burning with anticipation.
He didn’t move toward her nor did he speak. Instead, he crossed the room and sat heavily in the armchair near the fire, one hand resting against his temple.
“Ye can have the bed,” he said finally. “I’ll take the chair.”
Lydia blinked. “But Me Laird?—”
Kieran lifted his gaze, meeting hers. His eyes softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. “Ye’ll rest easier without me beside ye. There’s been enough done to make ye uneasy.”
Lydia’s breath caught. She wanted to ask what he meant, to thank him, to do anything but stand there, silent and useless, but the words tangled in her throat. In the end, she only managed a faint nod.
When she slipped under the blankets, she felt the weight of the day collapse over her all at once. Still, sleep wouldn’t come. The sound of the fire crackling filled the silence, and every so often, she heard him shift in the chair—quiet, steady, a presence she couldn’t quite ignore.
Lydia turned slightly, watching him through the veil of her hair. His head rested against the back of the chair now, one arm draped over the side, the fire painting his features in soft orange light. He looked almost peaceful like that, but there was tension even in his rest, like he was a man who did not truly relax, even alone.
But he is nae alone.
Lydia swallowed hard. Kieran had told her someone was killing his wives, and now, here she was, the next in line.
She wondered if he feared for her or merely for what her death might do to his clan. She wondered if the guarded look in his eyes was protection or guilt. And through all this turmoil, she still didn’t know how to be his wife or what he wanted from her. No one had prepared her for her role as the new Lady of the Clan, and now, no one was left there to teach her.
Iris would ken what to tell me. Iris would ken what to do.
But without her there, Lydia could only guess her role—the things she was supposed to do, the things Kieran wanted from her—and this night, she had guessed wrong.
Foolish. He doesnae want me. I’m a duty, nothin’more. I was forced into this marriage only for him to have nay interest in me.
It stung more than she cared to admit, her pride wounded by his casual dismissal. But when she closed her eyes, she could still feel the warmth of his gaze—the weight of it, heavy and magnetic—as though, for one impossible moment, he had wanted her.
In the hearth, the fire burned low. The storm outside deepened, thunder filling the night and lightning flashing in the dark.
And somewhere between fear and longing, Lydia drifted into uneasy sleep, not knowing which frightened her more: the idea that Kieran might desire her or that he never would.
Lord… why do I feel like I’ve been hit by a mule?
Dawn broke slowly over Clan McDawson’s Castle, spilling a thin, pale light through the tall windows of his chamber. The fire had long burned down to embers, and the air held that quiet chill particular to highland mornings, the kind that crept into one’s bones, urging the body closer to warmth.
Kieran stirred in the armchair, every muscle stiff from sleep. His hand was still resting loosely on the hilt of the dagger he always kept nearby. Years of unease had made him a light sleeper, yet this time, what woke him was not danger but rather the soft sound of breathing, steady and calm.
He looked toward the bed.
Lydia lay curled under the heavy blankets, her hair a spill of pale gold over the pillow. The faint morning light caught strands of it, making them shimmer like sunlit wheat. Her face was turned slightly toward him, all delicate lines and quiet softness, her rosy lips parted just enough to draw a gentle breath.
