Lydia toyed with the ribbon at her sleeve, her mind a swirl of confusion and something dangerously like hope. “Ye truly think so?”
“I ken so,” Chloe said then grinned again. “Besides, if ye’re that desperate to see him, ye could always accidentally wander near the trainin’ yard. The Laird spends half his day there. I can make sure Michael’s lookin’ the other way…”
“Chloe!” Lydia gasped, laughing despite herself.
“What? I’m only sayin’—”
“I am nae sneakin’ around to watch him train!”
“Who said anythin’ about sneakin’? Just a stroll. Purely accidental. Maybe trip a wee bit near his sword rack.”
“Chloe, you are incorrigible.”
“Aye, but me methods yield results.”
Lydia rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Perhaps I’ll just stay right here and read. That seems safer.”
Chloe snorted. “Safer, aye, but far less fun.”
And as the maid went back to her chores, humming cheerfully, Lydia turned once more toward the misty lake.
She told herself Chloe was wrong; that she wasn’t longing for the Laird’s company or his voice or the warmth of his mouth against hers. But when she caught herself glancing toward the door, half-expecting his tall, dark figure to appear, she knew she was lying, even to herself.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth as Lydia walked through the courtyard beside Chloe and Michael. The sky was bruised with early clouds though thin threads of sunlight managed to break through, touching the turrets of McDawson Castle with a faint golden glow. Lydia’s skirts whispered across the flagstones, and the hem of her cloak brushed the mud—a practical one Chloe had insisted she wear, saying that highland mornings don’t care for fine gowns.
Lydia had grown used to Chloe’s chatter over the past few days, the maid’s cheerful irreverence softening the edges of her new life. Together, they had gone over the supplies for the ceilidh—fabrics for the hall banners, barrels of ale, and a dozen other details Lydia insisted upon to make the celebration perfect. It was the first thing that had made her feel like a Lady of the Clan since arriving, and she refused to fail.
Michael walked a few paces ahead, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ever vigilant. His usual grin was replaced by a look of mild boredom though his eyes never stopped scanning their surroundings.
“I’m just sayin’, Me Lady,” Chloe was saying, tugging at the basket on her arm, “if ye let me handle the tarts, I’ll have every man in this castle eatin’ out of yer hand by the end of the night.”
Lydia laughed softly. “Includin’ the Laird?”
“Och, him most of all,” Chloe said with a wink. “Though I think he’s halfway there already.”
Lydia rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless, her heart giving a little flutter that she tried to ignore.
Before Chloe could respond, Michael raised a hand—a sharp, silent signal that made both women halt mid-step. The easy air of the morning shifted instantly, tension slicing through the air like a drawn blade.
“Stay behind me,” Michael said, his tone low but steady. His eyes darted toward the gate where a merchant’s wagon had just rolled in, creaking under its load. Two men walked beside it—one older, stout and balding, the other younger with a narrow face and shifty eyes.
Lydia frowned, clutching her cloak tighter around her. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Probably nothin’,” Michael said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Just… keep close.”
The merchant spotted them and gave a broad, seemingly friendly smile. “Me Lady! The Laird said ye’d be wantin’ to see the wares yerself.”
Lydia nodded, forcing calm into her voice. “Aye. I wanted to ensure everythin’ was as ordered. We’re plannin’ a?—”
Her words cut off with a scream as something dark and fast flashed in the air.
Michael shoved her to the ground an instant before a blade whistled past where her head had been, striking the stone wall behind her with a metallic clang.
“Ambush!” Michael shouted, drawing his sword.
The courtyard erupted in chaos within moments. A man who had crept into the courtyard while the merchant was rolling in with his wares lunged, yanking a dagger from under his cloak, while another man rushed forward, a second knife gleamingin his hand. Chloe shrieked and ducked behind the overturned basket, fruit scattering across the ground.
Lydia’s heart hammered so loudly she could barely hear anything else. Her palms stung from the fall, but her instincts, sharpened by years of watching people train, kicked in, even as her lungs burned as she tried to catch her breath and her ears buzzed with the rush of blood to her head. She scrambled toward the knife that had missed her, snatching it up with trembling hands.
