“Kieran—”
“I said stay back!” he roared, and the people closest to him flinched—including Lydia. He couldn’t bear to see her like this. He couldn’t bear to look at the flash of hurt and betrayal in her eyes, but he also couldn’t bear the thought of her perishing because of him.
He had failed to protect her from attacks time and time again. Yes, she was still alive, that much was true. She was alive because he fought tooth and nail to save her. But he had not protected her from the attacks. He had not protected her from the people who wanted to harm her, from the trauma that so many attempts at her life had surely caused her.
“Stay away from me,” he said and then turned around, stomping out of the great hall. Behind him, the crowd lingered, their voices rising as they all wondered what had happened and why and what to do now that their laird was gone. There would be no more celebration, that much was true, but they were all lost, turning to each other for direction as Kieran left them behind.
Never once did he look back as he stalked out of the room. If the guests wanted to talk, then they could talk all they wanted.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Kieran, wait!” Lydia called, but Kieran was already turning away from her, away from everyone.
The great hall emptied in a storm of confusion—chairs scraping, voices rising, boots thundering across the floor as the clan eventually stumbled over themselves to obey their laird’s command when the initial shock of his command and his departure faded. The music had long since faded. Torches flickered in the sudden draft as people pushed toward the doors. And soon, everyone was gone, filtering out of the room.
Lydia felt the echo of her heartbeat in her throat. The attack had been quick—so quick she barely understood how they had gotten out unscathed or how it had all even happened. One moment she was in Kieran’s arms, the next she was shoved behind him, his body blocking every blow, every strike. The man and woman who had lunged for them now lay dead or unconscious—she wasn’t even entirely sure which it was. All she had seen was Kieran move like a wildfire breaking loose.
And now, he walked away from her.
He strode across the hall, past the toppled benches and spilled wine, toward the corridor that led to the courtyard. His steps were rigid, his shoulders stiff as stone, and he didn’t look back.
Most people would have left him alone, but Lydia was not most people.
“Kieran!” she called, lifting her skirts and weaving past the stragglers.
He didn’t stop; he didn’t even slow. He only continued on his path, unstoppable, like a force of nature. He was such a stubborn man, so reluctant to listen to anyone other than himself. And now, after this last attack, Lydia was certain that he would never even touch her again, convinced that it was all his fault—that as long as she was by his side, she would be in danger.
She supposed it would be a fair assessment. The truth of the matter was that she had faced the danger of dying too many times to count ever since she had stepped foot in his castle. She had been attacked time and time again, and she had been left just as shocked, just as frightened and trembling as the first time. The attacks had truly begun to take a toll on her, and even now, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder every few minutes, paranoid that someone would jump out of the shadows and try to claim her life again. It had happened enough times to justify that fear, she thought. It had happened enough times to make it a miracle that she was still alive.
Still, she was not so easy to give up—and clearly, she was not so easy to kill, in no small part thanks to Kieran.
She hurried after him, breathless. “Kieran, wait, please!”
“Go to yer chambers, Lydia,” he said without turning. His voice was low, dangerously controlled. “This is nae the time.”
She reached him just as he pushed open the heavy oak door to the outer passage. The night wind poured in, cold, sharp, and carrying the scent of rain. Lydia followed him and slammed the door behind her, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to battle the cold.
“Kieran,” she said again, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Wait. We should talk.”
“There’s nothin’ to talk about.”
“Aye, there is.”
“I said there’s nothin’, Lydia!” he snapped—not violently but with a force that made her flinch. He froze, his shoulders rigid, but the look on his face didn’t soften at all. It was still just as harsh, just as stern, as if the mere sight of her was enough to set him off.
She took a breath then another. She refused to back away.
“Kieran,” she said softly, “ye can snap at the wind if ye like, but I’m still here. And I’ll nae leave until ye speak to me.”
He let out a raw sound, one of frustration, of pain, and dragged both hands through his black hair before turning away from her, staring into the dark courtyard as if it might swallow him.
“I never wanted this,” he said.
“Wanted… what? The dance? The ceilidh?”
“This marriage,” he ground out. “I never wanted another one. I was forced into this as much as ye were.”
Her breath stuttered. It was no secret that neither of them had wanted this marriage, but she had held onto the hope that things had changed between them after they had spent those moments together in the painting room. Something had certainly shifted for her, but now it seemed to her that the same wasn’t true for Kieran.
