Lydia nodded, grateful for the quiet greeting. “Thank ye.”
But before she could follow the girl, her mother stepped forward at once. “We’ll accompany her,” she said briskly. “It’s been a long journey, and I’d rather make sure she’s properly settled.”
“Ye are nae welcome here,” Lydia said as she turned on her heel to give her parents a scathing look. Her mouth curled into a thin,cruel line, her eyes narrowing as her parents gasped in horror, both of them glancing around to see if anyone had heard.
Lydia hoped they had. She hoped everyone in Castle McDawson knew just how unwelcome her parents were, just how much she wanted to escape their grasp. Under any other circumstances, she may have even considered this marriage a gift, a blessing, a way out. But knowing what awaited her only filled her with dread, and if she was to suffer, she would rather suffer alone without the added torture of her parents’ presence.
Her father’s footsteps were heavy, the gravel groaning under his soles as he approached her with a warning finger pointed at her face. “Ye’ll watch yer manners,” he hissed. “We’ve had enough embarrassment as it is.”
“And whose fault is that?” Lydia demanded. “Who is to blame? Ye are the ones who ruined this clan, this family… nae me.”
Her father raised his hand as if to strike her before he seemed to remember that they were in the middle of another clan’s keep. He glanced around himself once more, noticing the way people watched him, the way they spoke among themselves in hushed whispers while they stared. Eventually, his hand lowered, but his expression didn’t turn any kinder.
“We’ll stay,” her father said through gritted teeth. Lydia could feel his breath on her cheeks, hot and stale, a threat on its own. “We’re stayin’ to make sure ye daenae try to run.”
Lydia pursed her lips into a thin line, looking at the guards that surrounded the place. “Where would I go?” she said with a scoff. “Is there anywhere for me to go?”
“I’m sure ye’d work hard to find a way,” replied her father. “But just remember this if ye try to run… yer sister will be the one to bear the burden of it.”
It was a threat, thinly veiled, and one Lydia doubted her father could go through with. Elijah would protect Iris. He would do anything to keep her safe, and as long as she was in her home, they could not touch her.
But they ken that… and they will hurt her if they get the chance. He could trick her. He could do a hundred different things to get to her.
The threat rested heavily on her shoulders. The more Lydia thought about it, the more she feared her father would deliver on it, desperate as her parents were. And she would never do anything to put her sister in danger again.
And so, with one last look at her parents, she turned and followed Chloe up to the chambers prepared for her, the keep swallowing her like a shroud of stone.
CHAPTER FOUR
The kirk smelled faintly of damp stone and incense. Candles were lit along the walls, their light trembling against the cold afternoon air that pressed through the cracks between the stones. Lydia stood near the front, her palms slick with nervous sweat inside her gloves, her breath fogging faintly in the air.
She had imagined this day a thousand times as a child—a soft summer wedding in the McLean Castle chapel, music in the air, Iris laughing at her side. Yet here she was, wrapped in a plain gown of cream wool, a veil pinned hastily by the maid, the hem already heavy with moisture from the wet earth outside. There were no flowers, no guests whispering blessings, no family smiles—only the echo of her heartbeat and the hollow scrape of her father’s voice when he had said behave, or she suffers.
I wish Iris was here.
But Lydia had been the one to tell her to stay behind. No matter how much her sister had insisted she had to come, Lydia didn’twant to subject her to traveling with their parents and having to be around them for so many days.
Now, her parents sat near the back of the kirk, silent and watchful—the only people there from her clan, save for the guards with whom they had traveled. The sight of them made her chest tighten and her breath catch, nausea gripping her at the thought that they had won.
And there, at the other end of the chapel, stood the man she was to marry.
Kieran Gillies filled the altar like a shadow brought to life. He was broader than she had expected, tall, thick-shouldered under his dark wool coat, his hair black as coal and damp from the drizzle outside. The flicker of the candlelight caught in his eyes, making them gleam darker still, like obsidian, cold and sharp. A small beard framed his jaw, not untidy but worn like armor.
When he stepped forward, the old wooden floorboards seemed to bow under his weight.
He didn’t look at her right away. He inclined his head to the priest instead, exchanged a few low words with one of his men, and only then let his gaze settle on her.
Lydia’s heart stuttered.
She had expected indifference—or worse, contempt—but what she found in his eyes was neither. It was scrutiny, yes, buttempered by something guarded; a flicker of curiosity, maybe, or restraint, as if he were measuring how much distance to keep from her.
When she finally stood beside him, Lydia realized she had to tilt her chin upward to meet his gaze as he towered over her. He smelled faintly of salt and pine resin, like a man who spent more time outdoors than within stone walls. His gloved hand brushed hers by accident as they turned toward the altar, and while the touch lasted only an instant, it sent a shiver through her, startling in its warmth.
The priest’s voice echoed softly through the small kirk. “Do ye, Kieran Gillies, Laird McDawson, take this woman?—”
Kieran’s voice cut through the silence, low and steady. “Aye.”
It was a single syllable, rough-edged and final. Lydia swallowed hard.
