“For what?” she whispered back.
“For the onslaught.” He nodded toward the cluster of council members approaching across the hall like a flock of dignified, gray-plumed birds. “Brace yerself, lass.”
Lydia nearly choked on her breath at the sight of them. She was not yet used to the men who made up Kieran’s council, as she had hardly spent any time with them—only in breakfasts and dinners, she at one end of the table and they on the other.
But what she did know about them was that they all saw her as a means to an end. She was not a person to them. She was only a way for their laird to secure a good alliance and to have an heir.
Lydia had no illusions about the reason behind their rushed wedding, and she was certain that behind her back, behind closed doors, they were all discussing the same thing.
When would the heir come?
Do they ken Kieran willnae touch me like that? Do they ken what he’s doin’?
She hoped that was not the case, but there would surely be gossip and plenty of it. If she wasn’t with child soon, then everyone would begin to wonder why—was she not good enoughfor Kieran? Was there something wrong with her? Did she turn him away every night?
It was a price she wasn’t prepared to pay, even when she agreed to this marriage for the sake of her sister. Things between her and Kieran were less tense now, the two of them finding a rhythm that worked for them, even as he refused to let her out of his sight, but to say she was unprepared to carry his child would be an understatement. There was much they had yet to discuss. There was much they had yet to solve, including, perhaps most importantly, the mystery of the man who wanted her dead.
She would not be with child, not until the killer was caught.
Soon, the council members drew up before them, each wearing the somber expressions of men who believed they were exceptionally important—and she supposed they were as far as the clan was concerned. But to her eyes, they were little more than a handful of men who clung to power, trying to govern other people’s lives.
“Me Laird,” one of them began, bowing slightly. He was one of the older ones, his hair graying at the temples, his eyes embellished with fine lines. “A fine celebration indeed. A job well done.”
“Aye, well,” Kieran said, straightening to his full height even as he sat on the chair, “most of it was Lydia’s doin’. I only stood about lookin’ like… a misshapen beet.”
The men of his council wore identical looks of confusion on their faces as Lydia tried to stifle her laugh. In the end, Kieran had opted for a cream color that made him look regal, his profile and silhouette patrician, especially now that he had trimmed his beard.
Lydia found that every time she looked at him, her heart skipped a beat.
And it didn’t hurt that they matched quite well—the simplicity of his color of choice complimented by the fine golden details woven in the fabric and complimenting Lydia’s forest green dress in return.
“Ye certainly daenae resemble a misshapen vegetable now,” she said before she could stop herself.
Kieran laughed, low and warm, as if only for her. “Glad to hear it.”
But before she could enjoy his smile or the fluttering warmth building steadily in her chest, another presence edged in at the council’s side.
Sebastian.
Kieran’s uncle moved with the same easy confidence he always carried, as though he owned every room he entered. His balding, dark hair framed a face carved by time and something colder,and his smile, as polished as it was sharp, held a gleam that made Lydia’s skin prickle.
“I agree,” Sebastian drawled, stepping closer, his eyes fixing on her with unnerving precision. “A fine celebration indeed. I’m glad to see the attacks the other day dinnae harm yer ability to plan things, Me Lady.”
The music seemed to dim behind him though surely, it had to be in Lydia’s mind. She forced her shoulders to stay relaxed, her chin level, but she could not help the shiver that passed through her when he pinned her with that gaze.
“I take my duties seriously,” she said, her voice still steady, if a shade tighter than she liked.
Sebastian’s smile grew, slow and deliberate. “So I see.”
Kieran shifted, almost imperceptibly, placing himself just a little closer to Lydia. She felt rather than saw the tension in him, like a bowstring pulled taut.
“Uncle,” Kieran said in a tone that was polite only in sound, “ye’ll nae be bringin’ up unpleasant matters at a feast.”
“Och, of course. Me apologies.” Sebastian tilted his head, still watching Lydia with that too-keen, too-knowing stare. “It was only meant as a compliment.”
“A misplaced one,” Kieran mumbled.
The council members, suddenly eager to avoid the simmering tension, bowed their way out of the conversation under various excuses of needing more ale or wanting to speak to the musicians.
