“Aye,” the man said with a tentative smile. “Feastin’, dancin’, the usual. Let the people see ye together. It’ll mend spirits… remind them that the McDawson name still stands proud.”
Lydia’s first instinct was dread. A celebration would mean eyes, questions, judgment. But then, under the nervousness, something lighter flickered—hope, maybe, and a chance to prove herself.
Her gaze lifted instinctively to Kieran, but he was already shaking his head, irritation etched in every line of his face. “There’ll be nay celebration. I’ve nay wish to waste coin or time?—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
He looked at Lydia, and perhaps he had noticed her excitement which gave him pause. She felt her cheeks warm under his gaze, but she didn’t look away.
For one suspended heartbeat, they just stared at each other. Lydia didn’t speak, but he read her easily, it seemed, and he sighed, a quiet, resigned sound. Then he turned back to the table.
“Fine,” he said, voice low but final. “We’ll do it. But we’ll need time to plan.”
The council responded in satisfaction. Lydia blinked, caught between surprise and gratitude. He hadn’t wanted this, that much she could tell, but he had said yes anyway—for her.
The castle corridors were quieter after the council meeting, the echo of voices still faint in Lydia’s ears as she hurried after Kieran. The stone walls felt less cold than they had when she had first arrived—not warmer, exactly, but alive. Servants passed, bowing slightly as she went, and for the first time, she saw a few smiles directed at her.
But it was something fragile, something she didn’t dare trust. More people looked at her with pity rather than with those smiles, and the last thing she wanted was for people to pity her.
Kieran was several steps ahead, his long stride forcing her to half run to catch him. He looked imposing even in silence, his shoulders squared, his black hair brushing the collar of his tunic, and he didn’t glance back when she called him softly.
“Me Laird?”
He stopped though his back stayed to her. “Aye?”
“I wished to speak with ye… about the ceilidh.”
At that, he finally turned, one dark brow lifting. Still, his expression gave away nothing.
“The what?”
“The ceilidh,” Lydia said, trying to sound confident though her heart still hammered from chasing him. “The council mentioned it earlier. I thought we might start plannin’. I… well, I’ve been to many, but I’d like to make this one special.”
Kieran exhaled through his nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Aye. If ye must.”
Lydia blinked, surprised at his tone. “Ye daenae sound particularly eager.”
“I’m nae,” he said bluntly.
Lydia frowned but pushed on. “Surely ye’ve attended many before. Ye must remember at least one.”
He gave a small shrug, uninterested, turning slightly away from her already. “I’m nae sure.”
“Nay?” she pressed, unable to hide her disbelief. “How could ye nae remember a single one? There must’ve been dancin’, music?—”
“I said I daenae recall,” he interrupted, his voice cool, final.
Lydia’s patience thinned. She had been trying, truly trying to find something they could share, something that might bridge the wide, silent distance between them, but he gave her nothing to hold onto.
“Ye might nae care,” she said, “but the people will. This is their chance to see ye as more than just their laird, to celebrate with ye, nae under ye.”
Kieran’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists—something Lydia noticed, even though he was quick to pull them behind his back. “And that’s why I agreed to it.”
“Then we need to plan it together,” she insisted. “I cannae do it all alone. Should we serve oatmeal bannocks or flummery? The bannocks are traditional, but?—”
“Enough.”
The word cracked through the air like a whip. Lydia froze. His tone wasn’t angry exactly but sharp, firm enough to stop her mid-breath.
