“Is she hurt?” Kieran barked.
“I… forgive me, Me Laird, I daenae ken,” said the man, looking around at the other soldiers in the courtyard as if searching for someone who knew the answer—or someone who could at least take over, so he didn’t have to face Kieran’s wrath.
Red-faced, rage thrumming through his veins, Kieran turned around, looking at each and every one of them. “Did nay one see what happened? Ye were all here, were ye nae? Can anyone tell me what they saw?”
An awkward silence spread through the courtyard until one of the older guards stepped forward. “There was a merchant… or… or rather a man disguised as a merchant. He attacked Lady McDawson, he and his aide. One of them escaped, Me Laird, but Mr. Andrews killed the other.”
Michael… I told him to keep an eye on her.
“Ye’re tellin’ me all of ye were out here on yer watch, and still, ye allowed yer lady to be hurt?” he asked, disbelief coloring his tone. “How? How could ye have allowed such a thing to happen?”
None of his guards seemed to have a response for him. Memory, sharp and chilling, even after all these years, resurfaced within him; the cold hand of dread wrapped its fingers around his chest in a relentless vice, a few beads of cold sweat forming on his brow.
It’s happenin’ again. Whoever killed me previous wives is now tryin’ to kill Lydia.
He had promised her he wouldn’t let anyone harm her, and yet he had already failed. He had promised his previous wives the same—empty words that in the end had done nothing to keep them alive—and now, the rage he felt was not directed at anyone else; it was directed towards himself.
He was to blame for their deaths. He was to blame for what had happened to Lydia now.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked off to the healer’s croft behind the keep, his pace quick, his eyes focused only on the squat building in the distance with its slanting roof and the herb garden that sprawled outside.
The image of Lydia, hurt and bleeding on the ground, would not leave his mind. It plagued him, forcing his steps to quicken even more until he was running towards the croft, ignoring the winding path that led to it in favor of a direct route through the dirt and the bushes that stood in his way. His trews brushed against the twigs and the thorns; the fabric tore around his ankles, but he paid it no mind. When he finally reached the small house, he didn’t bother knocking. He only pushed the door open and rushed inside, his gaze searching for any sign of Lydia.
He found her there, sitting on a narrow cot by the stone wall, surrounded by Chloe, Michael, and the healer, Fenella—an older woman with kind eyes and kinder hands, weathered and freckled by the sun. Immediately, he reached for her, only for Fenella to block his way before he could grab her.
“If ye’d be so kind as to wait a moment, Me Laird,” she said, and though it was phrased as a request, Kieran knew it was no such thing. Fenella didn’t ask; she demanded, and people listened to her out of respect.
And so, Kieran stepped back, but his gaze never left Lydia.
“Are ye all right?” he asked her, pushing past Chloe to sit next to Lydia on the cot. At her other side, Fenella was dressing a wound on her forearm—one that still bled sluggishly but which was no cause for alarm.
But before Lydia even had a chance to answer, he turned his gaze to Michael, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching Fenella work.
“What were ye doin’ when all this happened?” he asked, his voice a low hiss. “Did I nae tell ye to keep close to her? Was I nae clear? Did ye nae hear me?”
“Kieran…” Lydia said gently, but Kieran hardly heard her.
“I told ye to stay with her. I told ye she’s in danger. Ye of all people should ken how important this is! Ye ken what happens when?—”
“I was with her,” Michael said, interrupting him. “I was with her, Kieran, and I killed the bastard. All right? Ye’re nae the only one concerned about the lass.”
“And yet ye allowed this to happen,” Kieran said, pushing up to his feet once more to stand in front of Michael. “Ye ken what’s happenin’. Ye’ve seen this before. So, what in hell do ye think ye were doin’, lettin’ her get hurt like this?”
“Kieran!”
Lydia’s sharp tone forced him to look at her, and Kieran found her scowling at him, her brows knitted into a deep frown.
“Michael was there,” she said. “He hasnae left me side, and he’s the only reason why I’m still here. And I’m fine, truly. It’s only a scratch.”
It was much more than a scratch. It was a wound from a sharpened blade, one that was meant to harm her. But Kieran didn’t point that out. He only turned back to Michael, pointing a finger at him.
“Ye’ll find the man responsible for this,” he said. “None of ye will rest until we find him, do ye hear me? I want him found, and I want him hanged.”
For a moment, neither man spoke. They only stared at each other, the only sound in the room their combined breaths, before Michael gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel, leaving the healer’s cottage. After a moment of hesitation, Chloe gave him a bow and followed Michael, leaving Kieran there with Lydia and Fenella, her footsteps light behind Michael’s loud ones.
“From now on, ye’ll nae stray from my side,” Kieran told Lydia, turning a stern gaze on her.
It was a mistake, leavin’her in another’s hands. I must be the one to keep an eye on her, always. I cannae trust anyone else with this.
