For a moment, Kieran simply watched her. He hadn’t allowed himself to look properly the night before; he hadn’t dared. He had seen the fear in her, the trembling she tried to hide so desperately. It had gutted something in him, so he had kept his distance and spent half the night staring at the ceiling, fighting the maddening urge to go to her, to promise her that she would be safe here, that he would sooner die than let any harm come to her.
But how could he promise such a thing? He had failed to save his last three wives; who was to say he could save her?
There’s nothin’ to do but wait.
Now, in the pale dawn, he let himself look.
Lydia was beautiful in a way that made it impossible for him to take his eyes off her, even when she slept. There was a kind of fragility about her that roused every protective instinct he owned. But underneath it, he had already seen the spark, the quick temper, the flash of fire in her eyes when she had stood her ground.
That, more than her beauty, was what tangled him in knots. The quiet defiance, the strength she didn’t even know she had.
Kieran exhaled slowly, dragging a hand across his jaw. He wanted her. God help him, he wanted her with a hunger that felt like sin—to touch that soft skin, to bury his face in her golden hair, to claim what was now, by law and name, his.
She’s nae ready. She’s nae ready for it.
Kieran had seen her shaking when he had entered the room last night. She had faced him like a woman marching toward the gallows.
No, he wouldn’t touch her, not yet. Not until she trusted him enough to want him in return.
He rose quietly, crossing the room to the window. The courtyard below was already stirring—guards changing posts, servants fetching water. Another day of duty waited, but for a few heartbeats, all he could think of was the fragile peace that hung in this room.
Behind him, Lydia shifted under the blankets, the motion small but enough to stir him from his thoughts.
He turned, voice low. “Lydia.”
Her lashes fluttered open. She blinked sleepily, confusion softening her features before awareness settled in. “Me Laird?”
Kieran felt a traitorous warmth rise in his chest at the sound of her voice, quiet and still touched by sleep. She had never oncecalled him by his name, even now that they were bound together by marriage, and he didn’t know what he preferred—hearing her address him like this, all prim and proper, or the thought of hearing his name from her lips.
“We should greet the council,” he said. “Well… ye should greet them. It is time for them to meet their new Lady of the Clan.”
Her brow furrowed as she sat up, pulling the blankets closer around her shoulders. “So soon?”
“Aye. They’re nae a patient lot.”
Lydia gave a small, resigned nod and began to rise from the bed. Kieran meant to turn away, to offer her privacy, but instead, he found himself rooted to the spot.
The morning light caught the thin fabric of her nightgown, turning it near translucent as she moved. Her hair, loose and wild, brushed over the curve of her shoulder as she reached for the gown laid over a chair. Every small movement was unguarded, graceful, unintentional; it stole the breath clean from his chest.
He shouldn’t be looking, he knew that much. And yet, not for the first time, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Desire, hot and dangerous, burned through him like wildfire as he took in the shape of her body—lithe, the swell of her breasts pressing against the thin fabric of her gown, the dusky pink of her nipples peeking through it. His gaze followed the curve of her waist, theline of her hips—then the golden thatch of curls between her legs that made his mouth run dry.
She is… exquisite.
“Ye can take yer time,” he said finally, voice rougher than he intended. “They’ll wait a few more minutes.”
Lydia glanced at him then, hesitating. Her eyes, soft brown, flecked with gold, met his, and he saw it then—the realization. She knew he was watching.
A flush rose on her cheeks, only serving to make her even more irresistible to him. “Would ye please turn yer back, Me Laird?”
For the briefest moment, Kieran couldn’t resist the urge to tease her, partly to lighten the tension clawing at him and partly to hear her voice tremble again like that. He let a faint smirk tug at his mouth, his gaze lingering on her face so as to not frighten her too much.
“Ye’re me wife, lass,” he said. “Sooner or later, I’ll see all of ye.”
The color in her cheeks deepened, turning a bright red, and Lydia turned sharply away, clutching the fabric of her gown. “Whether ye’re me husband or nae, I’m still a lady, and ye ought to show me the respect I deserve! Now turn away. Please.”
Kieran sighed and turned his back to her. If she insisted on this, then he had no choice but to do as she requested. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
Behind him came the soft rustle of fabric, the small sound of her moving, dressing in the quiet morning. Kieran let his eyes close for a moment, drawing a steadying breath, the scent of her hair lingering faintly in the air—lavender, rose, and something faintly sweet like wildflowers.
