“I doubt that,” Lydia said through gritted teeth, but her mother’s smile only widened, showing teeth.
“Och, but we have,” she said. “We’ve arranged yer marriage.”
Next to her, Iris laughed—a harsh, barbed sound. But Lydia couldn’t make a single sound. She was frozen there, looking at her parents the way a fawn looks at the hunter’s arrow. She was caught in her mother’s gaze, stunned, pinned by it. Cold sweat dripped down her spine, that familiar rush of fear spearing through her.
But Iris would have none of it.
“Surely, ye jest,” she said with a scoff. “Ye come here, in me own home, to tell us this… this nonsense? Give me one good reason why I shouldnae have the guards toss ye out of this castle right the now.”
“Because this marriage will restore our name,” said their father, his boots thudding against the packed earth under his feet as he approached. As always, he loomed over them both—tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of man few could say no to. “Laird McDawson is a man of wealth, strength, and considerable patience, given yer… history.”
Now, it was Lydia’s turn to let out a humorless laugh, her father’s words breaking her out of her frozen spell. “Me history? Ye mean when I ran away because ye gave me nay other choice?”
“Yer sister had nay choice either,” said her father. “And yet she did the right thing.”
It was far from the first time that her parents compared the two of them, but Lydia wasn’t used to being seen as the less virtuous one. Now that she was in her parents’ sights, though, she couldn’t help but wonder how she had missed this for so many years—how she hadn’t noticed how they always compared Iris to her and found her lacking.
Her mother’s painted smile wavered, but she didn’t falter. “Ye should be grateful. Laird McDawson is powerful and well-connected. He can restore our family’s good name.”
“I daenae care about the family name,” Lydia snapped. “Ye were the ones who ruined it, nae me.”
“Daenae take that tone,” her father barked, his cane striking the gravel. “Ye owe us yer obedience… yer gratitude.”
For a moment, no one spoke. The tension was a wire pulled taut between them, ready to snap, and Lydia couldn’t find the words to say what she wanted to say. One look at her father like this—red-faced, his lips curled into a grimace of distaste—left her unable to speak, unable to move. She was still trapped under his stare, and she despised herself for it.
“She owes ye nothin’,” said Iris, taking a step forward as if to use her body as a shield.
Then their mother’s voice dropped, calm and cutting. “Be that as it may, she has nay choice. The papers have been signed. The marriage deed is done. The ceremony will merely be for appearances.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis, spinning around Lydia. It couldn’t be; none of this could be true.
How can they do this again? And to Laird McDawson! Everyone kens the man is a monster!
“Signed?” she asked, and something inside her broke.
Her father smiled, a cruel twist of satisfaction. “It’s bindin’. Ye are to be the Lady McDawson before the week’s end.”
It’s happenin’ again. And this time, there’s nay escape. There’s nothin’ I can do.
“I would never marry anyone ye chose,” she said, voice shaking with fury. “Especially nae a man whose wives end up dead.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed as she pointed an elegant yet accusatory finger at her. “Daenae spread gossip. Laird McDawson’s first wife died when she fell off her horse, and his second?—”
“Drowned when she fell in the lake,” Lydia finished bitterly. “And the third accidentally drank poison. Aye, I’ve heard the tale. Three of them dead, and all that connects them is the same man.”
“Shut yer mouth!” her father hissed, looking around them as if fearful of who could hear. “Ye are to show respect.”
But Lydia was done showing respect to those who didn’t deserve it. She could see her parents for what they truly were now, and while it was an almost impossible task to look at her father in the eye, she managed to meet his gaze as she spoke.
“I am done showin’ respect to monsters.”
The words tore from her before she could stop them. Iris reached for her arm, steadying her, but Lydia shook her head, trembling.
Her mother stepped closer, her perfume sweet and suffocating. “Ye can fight, me dear, but it changes nothin’. Ye’ll marry him, and ye’ll do so quietly. Consider it our final demand.”
There was nothing more she could say to this. There was nothing she could say that they would understand, and there was nothing she could do—not when she had no proof that this man, this monster to whom they had sold her, would harm her.
Lydia turned to leave, her skirts brushing the gravel, but her father’s voice followed, cold and heavy.
