Kieran’s eyes met hers, dark and unreadable. “I said I’m nae interested in things like this. Nae bannocks, nae flummery, nae what color ribbons ye want hangin’ from the rafters. Do what ye wish.”
For a moment, there was only silence. The tension between them thrummed like a live wire.
Lydia swallowed hard, forcing herself not to shrink from him. “So that’s it? Ye’ll simply leave it all to me?”
“Aye,” Kieran said, blunt and final. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away down the corridor.
The echo of his boots faded before she could find anything to say.
Lydia stood still for a long time, her throat tight with a pain she had not expected to feel—at least not so soon. She had wanted this to go differently. She had wanted something from him,anything: a conversation, a moment that wasn’t awkward silence and curt replies.
But she was a fool to hope.
Her gaze lingered in the direction he had gone, a set of heavy doors closing behind him, and a wave of frustration swept through her. Why had he agreed to marry her at all if he wanted nothing to do with her? He had looked at her this morning as though he wanted to devour her, but now, he couldn’t stand a conversation about dessert?
Her hands clenched around her skirts.
Elijah would never treat Iris this way.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and sour. Lydia bit the inside of her cheek, guilt flaring instantly in her stomach, making her nauseous. She had no right to envy her sister’s happiness, not after everything. Iris had suffered for years because of her blindness, her weakness, and Lydia had sworn she would never again begrudge her sister even a scrap of joy.
Still, the ache lingered.
Needing something to occupy her mind, anything to stop it from circling the same painful thoughts, Lydia turned down a side passage in search of someone who could help her begin the preparations. It was better to start early, she reasoned. It wasbetter to show everyone she was every bit as good as any other Lady of the Clan, if not even better.
If they want me to prove meself, I will give them what they want and more. They’ll have nay right to say anythin’ about me ever again.
In her search for help, she found Chloe near the kitchens, balancing a basket of linens against her hip. As always, she wore a kind smile, even as she busied herself with her chores.
“Chloe,” Lydia called softly.
The maid looked up, her expression brightening. “Me Lady! Ye startled me.”
“I’m sorry.” Lydia hesitated, then managed a small smile. “I was hopin’ to find ye. I… need help plannin’ the ceilidh. Me husband isnae interested in such things, it seems.”
Chloe’s lips twitched, just shy of a smile. “Aye, that sounds like the Laird right enough.”
The easy tone eased some of Lydia’s tension. Out of all the people in the castle, Chloe had been the one so far to offer her the kind of treatment she wanted—kind, but not out of pity. When Chloe looked at her, Lydia didn’t feel as though she felt sorry for her, for the fate that awaited her.
“Ye’ll help me then?”
“Of course, Me Lady,” Chloe said warmly. “It’ll be good for the people… and for ye. A bit of laughter will do this hall some good.”
Lydia felt her shoulders relax a fraction. Of course, Chloe was right; Lydia had considered her future and the past of the women who had served as Ladies of the Clan extensively, but she had not stopped to consider how their deaths could have impacted the clan’s people. They, too, had to be frightened by the deaths, suspicious of their laird and his motives.
“Thank ye,” Lydia told her.
As they began to walk toward the kitchens, Chloe talking animatedly about decorations and musicians, Lydia found herself breathing easier. If Kieran wanted to wall himself away in silence, so be it, she decided. She would make this celebration a success regardless, for the clan and perhaps, in some quiet way, for herself.
But still, as she passed the corridor leading toward his chambers, she couldn’t help glancing that way, wondering if, behind those cold eyes and curt words, Kieran ever thought of her at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kieran’s boots struck the flagstones hard as he strode through the corridor, the sound echoing in the quiet like the toll of a warning bell. The castle was alive with the low hum of servants and guards beginning their duties, but no one dared stop him. They could read the tension in his shoulders, the thunder written in the tight line of his jaw.
He was halfway to his chambers when a familiar, infuriatingly cheerful voice called out behind him.
“Laird McDawson, in such a rush? What, has married life made ye flee yer own hall already?”
