“And do ye, Lydia Douglas, take this man?—”
Her throat was tight. She could hear her father’s warning echoing still, could almost see Iris’ smile in her mind, gentle and forgiving. Lydia drew a slow breath and damned herself to the fate that had awaited her for so long.
“Aye,” she whispered.
There was no music, no cheer, only the murmured blessing of the priest and the steady patter of rain against the roof.
This isnae what I wanted.
Except she had no choice, not with her father’s threats echoing in her skull, his fingers digging into her arm hard enough to leave marks as he had shoved her toward the carriage that morning—certainly not when she imagined Iris’s happiness being shattered because of her.
Finally, the priest cleared his throat loudly. “Right then. Since the papers ’ve been drawn and both parties are present”—he shot them a frazzled look, as if half-expecting one of them to bolt—“We’ll finish with the handfastin’ ceremony.”
The murmuring behind them quieted. Lydia exhaled shakily, and her fingers trembled in anticipation of what was to come.
“Join hands,” the priest instructed.
Kieran extended his hand first—big, steady, calloused at the pads, rough in a way that spoke of work, of fighting. She hesitated only a second before placing her trembling hand into his.
His warmth startled her.
He did not squeeze her hand gently, but he held it firmly enough to anchor her.
“By tradition,” the priest said, retrieving a length of tartan cloth from the table beside him, “we bind the hands to symbolize union. That two lives will walk as one, nay matter the hardship.”
A cruel irony, considerin’ the circumstances.
The priest wrapped the fabric around their joined hands—once, twice, a third time—each pass sending a subtle jolt of awareness through her arm. Kieran’s grip tightened slightly, not unkindly, just steadying, as if he sensed she might fall.
“Speak yer vows,” the priest prompted.
Kieran inhaled first. “I vow to protect ye,” he said, voice low, gravel-edged. “To stand by yer side, though we hardly ken one another.” His jaw flexed ever so slightly. “And to honor this union… as best I can.”
It was not romantic, not even warm.
But it was honest, and the honesty struck her deeper than sweetness ever would have.
Her throat felt tight, too tight when it was her turn to speak. The words she had practiced all morning dissolved into a fog.
“I vow to stand with ye,” she whispered. Her voice shook, and she could only pray no one heard it. “And I vow to do my duty, to the clan and… to this marriage.”
The priest nodded approvingly then placed his hands over theirs. “These vows are witnessed. This handfastin’ is sealed. Let nay one break what has now been bound.”
He pulled the tartan cloth tight in one final knot, and that was that. Kieran released her hand first but did not step back. He couldn’t go too far anyway, not with their hands bound like this. He held her gaze, his dark eyes unreadable, unreadably deep. There was no joy in his expression, no triumph, but neither was there disdain, just resignation.
And something weary. Perhaps wounded.
When the priest pronounced them husband and wife, Kieran turned toward her. He did not reach for her hand again immediately, and when he did, it was deliberate, careful, as though he feared breaking something fragile. His palm was large and calloused, the kind of hand that had known sword hilts and hard work. Her smaller one felt like a bird trapped in its cage.
Their eyes met again. Lydia had expected to see triumph or cold indifference. Instead, there was only an unreadable depth—the look of a man carrying too many ghosts. For a fleeting moment, she wondered whether he hated this as much as she did.
The thought made her chest ache unexpectedly, the kind of ache that was sudden and sharp but subsided just as quickly.
As they turned to face the small gathering—no more than a dozen people, most of them guards or councilmen—she realized how strange it was. No musicians, no laughter, not even thefaint hum of a happy crowd. The quiet pressed heavy on her shoulders, caging her in from every direction.
Her voice was barely above a whisper when she leaned toward him. “Why are there so few here, Me Laird?”
Kieran didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, his jaw tightening. “The clan has had enough of celebratin’ new Ladies.”
