Immediately, Lydia whirled on him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “Ye cannae just… just haul me around like a sack of oats!”
Kieran leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. “Ye had a choice.”
“Och, aye,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping. “Be dragged like a bairn or carried like a trophy. Such freedom!”
Despite Lydia’s clear irritation, a smirk tugged at the corner of Kieran’s mouth. “Ye daenae seem to mind that much.”
Lydia’s mouth fell open in shock. “I… I absolutely minded!”
“Aye? Then why are ye still blushin’?”
Lydia made a strangled sound of outrage, throwing her hands up in the air in frustration. “Ye… ye are impossible!”
Kieran only shrugged, entirely too pleased with himself. “So I’ve been told.”
“Ye are the most arrogant, insufferable?—”
“Handsome,” he supplied.
“—obnoxious—”
“Strong.”
“—overbearin’ man I’ve ever met!”
That earned a low chuckle from him, the kind that rumbled from his chest and made the air between them feel warmer. “Ye forgot devastatingly charmin’.”
Lydia gave an indignant little huff, but her lips twitched despite herself. “Ye’re impossible.”
“Aye,” he said softly, his gaze catching hers. “But ye’re smilin’ all the same.”
Lydia’s heart skipped, and she cursed herself for it. She quickly turned away, pretending to inspect a shelf of books. “That’s only because I’m laughin’ at how ridiculous ye are.”
“Of course, it is,” he said dryly, the teasing lilt in his voice betraying his amusement.
The study fell into a quieter sort of tension then, the kind that hummed just under the surface. Lydia could feel him behind her—not close enough to touch but close enough to feel his presence, steady and unyielding.
It was strange, seeing Kieran like this. The man who had stood next to her at the altar had been so serious, cold and stone-faced, and now that he was laughing, even a little, it was as though he was an entirely different man.
A man who, despite herself, she couldn’t help but want to meet.
Still, it was easier to be mad at him than admit something like that, even to herself.
“Daenae ever do that again,” she warned him, her mouth a thin, tight line.
“I told ye,” said Kieran, “ye had a choice.”
“Och aye,” scoffed Lydia, taking a few steps towards Kieran as she pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I had a choice, aye? I had a choice when everyone signed off on this marriage without me knowledge. I had a choice when the papers were already signed before anyone even informed me of any of this!”
Kieran froze then. His entire body seemed to come to a sudden and complete halt, as though her words had hit him like a wall. For a moment, he frowned. Then, his expression morphed into one of barely contained rage, his cheeks flooding with color.
“I dinnae ken,” he said finally, voice low and rough.
Lydia blinked, startled by the shift in tone. “Dinnae ken what?”
“That ye hadnae been given a choice,” he said, the words drawn out slowly, deliberately. “I was told ye agreed to the marriage. That ye understood the arrangement.”
Lydia’s chest tightened, the truth like a blade to the gut. The honesty in his voice, that hint of something like regret pricked at her defenses. For a heartbeat, she saw the man under the title of the Laird; the one who had lost, who had suffered, who carried more weight than one man ever should.
