Kieran’s gaze drifted toward the storm-dark windows. Somewhere beyond them, the McLean Clan castle waited, along with the woman they would chain to him—another lamb led to the slaughter.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm but cold enough to chill the room.
“Then hear me well,” he said. “This woman’s blood is on yer hands.”
Sebastian’s expression faltered. “Kieran?—”
“Ye’ve all drawn the blade,” he interrupted, stepping forward. “I only pray ye’re ready to live with where it falls.”
Turning away from them, Kieran left the solar, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the keep around him. Each step took him closer to his chambers, each moment closer to the day when he would have to marry this woman he didn’t even know—this woman who had done nothing to deserve the fate that awaited her and who was walking to the gallows blind.
CHAPTER THREE
“Smile when we arrive,” her mother said, her voice smooth and clipped. All day, she had been acting as though nothing had changed between them, as if what they had put Iris through never mattered. But it wasn’t so easy for Lydia; pretending left a bitter taste in the back of her mouth. “Ye are a bride, Lydia, nae a prisoner. For heaven’s sake, try to look content. It will reflect poorly on us if ye arrive lookin’ as though ye’re on yer way to the gallows.”
Lydia stared out the window, watching the fog shroud the moors. The road to Castle McDawson wound through the Highlands like a scar, narrow, uneven, and drenched in the kind of mist that clung to one’s bones long after one passed through it. Lydia sat stiff-backed in the carriage, her hands clasped in her lap to hide their trembling. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels over stones might as well have been a funeral march.
“Perhaps that’s what this is,” she said under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothin’, Maither.”
Nay matter what I say, she will never listen. Arguin’ is pointless.
And yet, as much as she knew it was pointless and it only served to harm her, it was difficult to resist the urge to fight back.
Across from them sat her father, arms crossed, his eyes sharp under the silver in his hair. “Ye will remember yer duty,” he said. “Ye will remember what yer sister cost us. Iris’ selfishness left our clan in ruin. Ye’ll mend what she broke.”
This was her breaking point. She had not argued so far in this journey, keeping herself in check, taking in every insult, every vile word in stride, just so she could be finished with all this. But she wouldn’t stand for this; she wouldn’t let her parents speak about her sister in this manner when they had done nothing but hurt her and belittle her with every opportunity.
“Ye’ll nae speak of Iris that way.” Her voice trembled with fury she barely kept in check. “Ye both broke the clan long before she ever married. Ye broke it when you chose pride over kindness, when ye treated her as less than me… as though she wasnae worth the breath she took. Daenae ye dare blame her for what ye did.”
Her mother gasped softly, her face blanching. “Lydia!”
Her father’s expression soured, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Watch yer tongue. Ye forget yourself.”
“I’ve remembered meself too late,” she said quietly.
Silence followed, thick and impenetrable. Outside, the sound of the wind rose to a low howl, and soon, the shape of the McDawson Clan castle loomed from the mist, its dark stone towers rising from the cliffside. To Lydia, it looked like a tomb.
Her chest tightened at the sight of the place, her heartbeat picking up into a frantic rhythm. She had heard the stories; everyone had. Laird McDawson, Kieran Gillies, the man whose wives had died one after another, leaving only questions and whispers in their wake. And yet, her parents didn’t seem to care that every woman who had stood by his side now lay dead in the earth.
But why would they care? They never did… all they care about is their reputation, and they’ll do anything to regain it.
Soon, the carriage came to a stop before the great gates. Guards stood lined along the walls, their armor dark, their eyes unreadable. A few villagers had gathered at a distance to see the new bride, mumbling among themselves, and Lydia could feel their stares like pricks of cold rain against her skin.
Her mother adjusted her shawl and smoothed the folds of her gown as though they were preparing for a social call. “Straighten yer back, Lydia. Ye represent us now. If ye must look frightened, at least make it appear delicate.”
Her only response was a roll of her eyes, but her father’s voice dropped to a low growl. “Ye willnae shame us again, lass. This marriage will go through whether ye smile or nae.”
The carriage door opened before she could answer, and the cold air struck her like a slap. A tall guard bowed stiffly. “Me Laird, Me Lady… Miss Douglas,” he said. “The Laird’s council awaits. His steward will receive ye shortly.”
Her father climbed down first then turned and offered her a hand—not out of tenderness but expectation. Lydia hesitated before taking it, her fingers icy in his. As soon as her slippers touched the cobblestones, she felt the weight of the castle pressing down on her.
Every arch, every shadowed window seemed to watch.
They were met by a thin woman in a simple wool dress and apron—a maid, her brown hair braided neatly back, her face set in a seemingly perpetual joy. “Me Lady,” she said softly, dipping into a curtsey. “Me name is Chloe. I’ll show ye to yer chambers.”
