CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The drawing room at Castle McMurphy was one of Lydia’s favorite places in the entire keep—usually a sanctuary of warmth and quiet conversation, a place where the fire cracked softly and sunlight spilled through mullioned windows, catching dust motes in gentle gold.
Today, however, the room felt suffocating.
A storm had rolled in from the northern hills, pressing low clouds against the sky and dimming the usual morning light. The heavy velvet drapes, deep blue embroidered with silver thistles, hung half-drawn, casting long shadows across the carved walnut furniture and the soft heather-colored carpet. A vase of late-autumn flowers sat on the table between the sofas, their petals drooping slightly, as if even they sensed the disturbance in the air.
Lydia sat curled at the edge of the settee, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea she had not yet tasted. Iris sat besideher, working half-heartedly at a bit of embroidery, her needle motion slow, distracted. Across from them, Elijah stood with a ledger in one hand, his quill poised, looking far too stern for so early an hour. Firelight licked at the edges of his hair, catching hints of gold that might have given him a charming air if not overshadowed by the tension in his jaw.
A knock shattered the quiet, sharp and urgent.
Elijah lifted his head, frowning, just as surprised at this early call as Lydia and Iris were.
“Enter,” he called, his baritone voice booming in the room.
A guard stepped inside—breathless enough that Lydia sat up in alarm. Frost clung to his beard and cloak, as though he had ridden fast and far. Mud streaked his boots. His eyes darted briefly to Lydia before locking on Elijah, and Lydia felt her stomach fill with dread.
“Me Laird,” the guard said, bowing swiftly, “ye need to hear this at once.”
Elijah set aside his ledger, taking a few steps closer to the man. Lydia could feel the concern radiating off him in waves, see the way he held himself stiff and straight-backed, as if already preparing to ride out into battle.
“Report.”
“It’s the borderlands, Me Laird… the northern pass near the Rowan Ridge.” The guard’s breath trembled with cold or unease—Lydia couldn’t tell which. “There are troops gatherin’ there, armed and bearin’ the crest of Clan McDawson.”
The room seemed to tilt. Lydia glanced first at Iris, who was pallid, the color draining from her face, then at Elijah, who stared at the window behind him over his shoulder, as if he could somehow see all the way to Rowan Ridge.
She straightened so abruptly the tea sloshed in her cup. “McDawson troops? Ye’re certain?”
The guard nodded quickly. “Aye, Me Lady.”
Her heart kicked hard against her ribs, a flutter of hope—fragile, foolish, and unstoppable. “Kieran,” she whispered, gripping the edge of the settee. “He must be here. Perhaps he’s come to?—”
“Lydia,” Elijah said gently but firmly, “why would Kieran bring troops if he wished only to speak with ye?”
The breath she’d drawn stuck painfully in her chest. In her relief, in her excitement, she hadn’t stopped to consider that. She hadn’t thought past the desperate, aching hope that he might have changed his mind, that the man who had turned away from her with steel in his voice and fear in his eyes had realized his mistake.
Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. She wanted to say something, anything that could counter Elijah’s logic, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized he had to be right.
Iris set down her embroidery, her expression sharp with confusion. “Troops at the borderlands? Why? There’s nay tension between our clans. Nae a hint of unrest.”
Elijah nodded. “Aye. And sendin’ men into another laird’s territory without warnin’…” His frown deepened. “It’s provocative at best. Hostile at worst.”
Lydia pressed her hand to her abdomen, a protective instinct she could no longer fight or hide. Her pulse throbbed under her palm. “But Kieran would never start a conflict. He’s nae rash like that. Besides, what reason does he have to attack ye?”
A cold dread passed through her, chilling her to the bone. She looked at her sister, her hand trembling as she reached for her.
“It’s nae him,” Lydia said, something that Kieran had said in passing rushing back to her now. “It’s Sebastian. Who else would order McDawson troops?”
Iris inhaled sharply, her hand tightening around Lydia’s like a vice. “His uncle?”
“Aye,” said Lydia. “Kieran has been suspectin’ him for a while now.”
Elijah’s gaze was sharp when it landed on Lydia. He took a slow, controlled breath, his hand instinctively reaching for the dirk strapped around his waist, his palm resting over the hilt.
“And ye lived in that castle with that man so close to ye?” Iris asked, the color returning to her cheeks. Instantly, her face was painted a deep red with fury, and she pushed herself to her feet, pacing back and forth in front of the couch.
It wasn’t often Lydia saw her sister so enraged—at least not anymore. She wanted nothing more than to reach for her, to comfort her, but Lydia was a force of nature now, uncontainable and relentless.
