The words were soft, but they landed like a stone in her stomach.
New ladies. Plural.
Lydia’s heart tripped over itself. She had heard the rumors, of course, the whispered tales of dead wives, of accidents and disappearances. But hearing him say it so plainly, so without disguise, made the truth of it feel real in a way that books or gossip never could.
She dared a glance at him and found him stone-faced, unreadable. For a fleeting moment, he glanced back at her and their eyes met, and Lydia felt her stomach drop.
She looked away quickly, but the damage was already done.
The priest’s final blessing faded into silence. Someone coughed near the back. Lydia became painfully aware of how close Kieran was standing—his arm beside hers, his presence so large it seemed to fill the air around her. When he spoke again, it was low enough that only she could hear.
“This is done now,” he said, not unkindly but with a finality that made her throat dry. “I’ll make sure ye are safe within McDawson walls.”
Safe. The word should have soothed her, but the chill in his tone, the weight behind the promise, made it sound less like comfort and more like warning.
She nodded faintly. “Aye, Me Laird.”
He looked down at her then, and for a brief heartbeat, the world seemed to still. Foolishly, for just a moment, she wondered what it would be like if he smiled.
The thought startled her so much she nearly flinched. Lydia dropped her gaze at once, ashamed of the warmth that had crept into her cheeks, and she scolded herself silently. He was the man she feared marrying, the man the world called cursed.
Yet even as they walked out of the kirk side by side—husband and wife, strangers bound by duty—her pulse refused to slow. Every time his arm brushed hers, every time his deep voice rumbled near her ear as he gave a quiet order to a servant, something in her twisted with confusion.
Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist. The castle waited in the distance, dark against the hills. Lydia drew her cloak tighter around herself as they mounted the waiting carriage, and when Kieran offered his hand to help her in, she hesitated a heartbeat too long. Then, tentatively, she placed her fingers in his. His hand closed around hers, not quite gentle but certain, and oncethe door closed behind them, they were both plunged into a deep, uncomfortable silence.
Is this how me life will be now? Will I spend it in silence?
Will it be a brief one?
CHAPTER FIVE
Kieran had never liked weddings—not his own and certainly not this one.
He stood outside the kirk’s narrow doors, the wind biting through his cloak as he watched Lydia climb into the carriage ahead of him—small, pale, and stubbornly composed. Her face was turned away, the veil clinging to her hair in the mist, and for a heartbeat, he found himself simply staring.
She looked fragile enough to break under a highland gale, yet that quick, defiant flash when she had met his gaze at the altar told him otherwise. There was fire in her, the kind that unsettled him, the kind that could very well prove to be dangerous in a place like this where enemies seemed to lurk everywhere around Kieran.
Though before—only a day prior—he had rejected everything about this marriage, now something pulled at him, crawling under his skin, tugging at something dark and primal insidehim. Possessiveness, perhaps—an emotion he thought long buried—but he clenched his jaw, forcing the thought down. He couldn’t afford distraction, not now, not when his clan’s future still hung by a thread and his council’s patience had worn thin.
Lydia Douglas was a beautiful woman, petite and lithe, with big, brown eyes from which Kieran seemed unable to look away. Under her veil, her hair fell in golden threads around her face like a saint’s halo. But it was more than her physical beauty that drew him towards her like a moth to the flame. Though they had exchanged no words, he couldn’t help but marvel at the way she carried herself through this wedding ceremony—with as much grace as contained fury, as though the mere thought of being there, in that kirk, was enough to be her undoing.
Kieran promptly stepped into the carriage beside her. The air inside was thick with silence and the faint scent of lavender from her hair. Lydia kept her hands clasped in her lap, her knuckles white, sitting as though she might flee at any moment—her body stiff, her chin tilted in quiet challenge.
“When ye’re nae with me,” he said, breaking the silence between them, “ye’ll be guarded by Michael, me man-at-arms.”
Lydia’s head turned sharply, brown eyes locking on his. “Guarded?”
“Aye,” he said and met her stare evenly. “At all times.”
Her lips parted, incredulous. “I daenae need a guard, Me Laird. I’m nae a bairn.”
Kieran felt something twist deep in his gut—irritation, yes, but laced with something dangerously like admiration. He hadn’t expected her to push back so quickly, so much without restraint. “Ye’ll have one regardless,” he said. His voice came out quieter, colder. “This is me keep, and me word goes.”
Lydia drew in a slow breath, color rising to her cheeks, and Kieran couldn’t help but think it suited her, bringing life to a face that was pallid before. “It may be yer keep,” she said tightly, “but I’m nae somethin’ for ye to order about.”
Her defiance struck him. He turned to face her fully, the carriage bench creaking under his weight. For a moment, the space between them felt thick not only with tension but with heat.
“Ye’re free to wander,” he said finally, crossing his arms over his chest, “if ye want to end up dead.”
