Still, Michael called after him, laughter in his voice. “If I were ye, I’d stop fightin’ it! Ye cannae glare yer way out of wantin’ her!”
The best thing, Kieran decided, was to give his friend nothing, and so he didn’t answer, but his hand lingered on the chamber door longer than necessary before pushing it open.
Inside, the fire still burned low from the night before. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air—her scent. His headache had nothing to do with noise or light. It was the ache behind his temples, the one that worsened every time she looked at him as though she wanted to understand him—and he had nothing to give her but walls.
He pressed his hands to the edge of the table, eyes closing briefly. Now all he could do was reinforce those walls—build them as high as he could manage.
Lydia stood in the middle of her chamber, holding a quill like a weapon, glaring at the door where Kieran leaned in the frame—massive, immovable, entirely too pleased with himself.
He had come in unannounced, as always, his dark hair a little tousled from the wind outside, his expression the picture of composure. She, on the other hand, was covered in ink blotches from her attempt to write a letter and already in a sour mood.
“Ye’ll come with me,” he said.
At first, Lydia thought she must have misheard him, but when he said nothing more, she realized she had, in fact, not.
The nerve of him!
Lydia didn’t even look up from the parchment. “Nay.”
“That wasnae a request, lass.”
“I gathered,” she muttered, dabbing at a stray blot of ink. “Still, the answer is nay.”
Kieran folded his arms, his shadow stretching across the rug toward her. “I said, ye’re comin’ with me.”
“And I said I’m nae.” She turned finally, crossing her own arms. “Ye can order yer guards, yer council, perhaps even the clouds to move if ye shout loud enough, but I am nae yer soldier, Me Laird.”
His lips twitched, almost into what could be called a smile—if one was generous. “Nay, ye’re me wife.”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed as she regarded him, trying to figure out what, precisely, it was that he wanted from her. “In name, perhaps.”
That did it. A dangerous gleam entered his dark eyes—one she was beginning to recognize as a warning.
“Come with me willingly,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “or I’ll carry ye there.”
Lydia blinked, the threat falling short. “Ye wouldnae dare.”
And yet, a heartbeat later, she found herself airborne.
“Stop!” she shrieked as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms, her skirts flying, one slipper tumbling to the floor. She thumped his shoulder with her hand, but it was like hitting stone. “Put me down this instant!”
But Kieran only chuckled, the sound deep and wicked. “Ye had yer chance to walk, lass. Now ye’ll fly.”
“This is… this is barbaric!” she sputtered, craning her neck as she tried to glare at him despite her cheeks burning red.
“Then call me a barbarian,” Kieran said easily, striding down the hall, his arms steady around her. “Ye wouldnae be the first.”
Lydia huffed, crossing her arms even as her heart thudded treacherously in her chest. She could feel the solid wall of his chest behind her shoulder, smell the faint scent of leather, pine, and something deeper, muskier—something that made her pulse quicken no matter how furiously she tried to scold herself.
They passed two maids in the corridor, who quickly curtsied and ducked their heads to hide their laughter, and Lydia had to cover her face with her hands. “Ye are humiliatin’ me!”
“Ye did that yerself when ye refused to listen,” Kieran said with a grin she could hear in his voice.
“Ye’ll regret this,” she warned though she hadn’t quite figured out the specifics oof his punishment yet.
Kieran laughed, a rich, rare sound that startled her. “Will I now?”
When they reached the study, he pushed the heavy door open with his boot and carried her straight to the rug before the hearth. Only then did he set her down, carefully, as though she were made of glass—which only infuriated her further.
