When she finally spoke again, her voice was steadier. “Ye may turn around now, Me Laird.”
Kieran turned to see Lydia by the bed, fully dressed in a simple blue gown that made her skin glow in the dim light. Her hair was still unbound, tumbling down her back, and he found himself struck dumb by the sight.
Lydia Douglas—Lady McDawson now—looked like she belonged here, in his hall, in his life, though he knew she didn’t yet believe it.
Kieran stepped closer, his tone softer this time. “Ye’ve nothin’ to fear today. I’ll be at yer side through the council meetin’. Let them try their questions… they’ll find nay fault in ye.”
Lydia’s gaze lifted to his, uncertain but grateful. After a moment of hesitation, as if she didn’t quite know what to make of this, she said, “Thank ye.”
Kieran nodded stiffly, the honesty in her voice catching him by surprise. He didn’t know what to make of this marriage anymore. At first, he had been so against it, so reluctant to even have another woman in the castle. And now, despite all his fears,despite the knowledge that she, too, was at risk, he couldn’t help but selfishly want her there by his side.
And when Lydia walked past him, scenting the air with lavender and rose, he followed after her like a man hypnotized.
CHAPTER SIX
“Lady McDawson,” one of the elders greeted, rising slightly from his seat. His beard was white and his tone smooth, practiced. “We are honored to have ye join us. The clan is gladdened by yer arrival.”
Lydia smiled faintly, as polite as courtesy demanded. “That’s kind of ye to say.”
The great hall of McDawson Castle was colder than Lydia had expected—not in temperature, as the fire roared in the massive hearth, but in atmosphere. The stone walls seemed to hold whispers, a weight of expectation that pressed down on her shoulders the moment she entered.
Six men sat at the long oak table. Six men who made up the council, each in heavy wool and cotton, their expressions polite, measured. Behind her, Kieran’s presence filled the room like a shadow. Though they were not touching, she felt him like a physical presence on her back, like a warmth that followed herwherever she went. And yet, though everyone else bore the same mask of politeness on their faces, there was no doubt in her mind that their gazes were cold, chilling her to the bone.
Lydia straightened her back, every inch of her screaming that she didn’t belong here, and yet, she refused to let them see it.
One by one, they offered their greetings, each man echoing the same words of welcome, the same hollow smiles. To anyone else, it might have sounded sincere, but Lydia could feel the falseness under their voices like a cold draft creeping under a door.
They daenae mean it. They’re nae glad. They’re relieved it’s nae one of their daughters who has to wed to the cursed laird and that they’ve found a sacrificial lamb.
Because that’s what they all thought of her, wasn’t it? The fourth bride, the next name to be whispered over ale and pity.
Lydia kept her smile fixed though her hands tightened in her lap under the table where she had come to sit. They were waiting for her to die too; they were waiting to see what would happen.
“Ye’ll find we’re a loyal council, Me Lady,” another said, his small eyes darting briefly to Kieran before landing back on her. “Our hearts are with the both of ye. It’s a new beginnin’ for Clan McDawson.”
A new beginning. Lydia bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. They had already signed the papers before shehad even seen Kieran’s face. She hadn’t been asked. She had been traded, a pawn in her parents’ desperate attempt to cling to status.
If this was a new beginning, it was one she hadn’t chosen.
Kieran took his seat beside her, the chair creaking under his weight. When he spoke, the whispers were instantly silenced. His voice commanded the room, deep, steady, edged with the authority of a man who was used to being obeyed—but also challenged.
“Enough pleasantries,” he said. “We’ve matters to discuss. The western fields, for one… the soil’s nae yieldin’ what it used to.”
Lydia fell silent, listening as the men began to speak of crops, trade routes, and shipments. She tried not to be distracted by the way Kieran leaned forward when he listened, forearms bared and braced on the table, his dark gaze fixed on whoever was speaking. He didn’t raise his voice unless necessary, yet when he did, it cut through the chatter like steel through silk.
He was every inch the Laird they described him to be—commanding, intelligent, decisive. And while Lydia didn’t want to admit it, she was impressed with the way he commanded the entire room, even when his councilmen tried to oppose him. There was a calm strength about him, a quiet certainty that steadied the others. Even those who disagreed with him yielded eventually, whether by persuasion or sheer force of will.
He’s good at this. Too good.
And that, more than anything else about him, was irresistible.
It was maddening, really. She shouldn’t be drawn to him. He was her captor in all but name, the man she had been forced to marry. Yet watching him now, the low rumble of his voice rolling over the council, she couldn’t help but feel it—that subtle pull in her chest whenever he spoke. And when Kieran’s gaze flicked to her, just for a moment, it was enough to send her heart racing.
Lydia quickly turned her eyes down to the table. The meeting continued, but she found it hard to concentrate.
Toward the end, the eldest councilor cleared his throat. “There’s one more matter, Me Laird. The clansfolk are whisperin’. After… what’s happened before, they’ll need reassurance. We think it best to hold a celebration, a proper one, to show them that this marriage stands strong.”
Kieran’s expression darkened immediately. “A celebration?”
