CHAPTER ONE
“Hold still, ye daft girl, or I’ll stick ye with this pin!”
Iris winced as their mother jabbed another pearl pin into Lydia’s wedding veil. Summer light streamed through the chamber windows, making the white silk shimmer, but nothing could mask the tension crackling through the room.
Lydia stood frozen on the platform before her looking glass. Except for how pale her face was, she looked exactly like Iris. Same blonde hair, same brown eyes, but where Iris carried herself with defiant pride, Lydia seemed to shrink smaller with each passing moment. Her delicate frame trembled beneath the weight of tomorrow’s expectations.
“Remember what I’ve told ye,” Catherine continued, her voice sharp as a blade. “Ye’ll smile when he speaks to ye, ye’ll keep yer eyes down unless he asks ye to look at him, and for the love of all that’s holy, ye’ll nae give him any reason to think ye’re anythin’ but a proper, obedient wife.”
Iris bit her tongue, fighting the urge to tell her mother exactly what she thought of her advice, but five years of being the family disgrace had taught her to pick her battles. Today was about Lydia, not her own rebellion.
“The MacLeod women have always kent how to manage difficult men,” Catherine went on, stepping back to examine her handiwork. “Yer grandmaither tamed yer grandfaither, God rest their souls, and I’ve kept yer faither content these twenty-three years. It’s all about kennin’ when to bend and when to stand firm.”
When to lie and never say how ye truly feel, ye mean.
“Aye, Maither,” Lydia whispered, her voice barely audible.
Catherine studied her younger daughter critically then sighed. “Well, ye look the part, at least. Laird McMurphy will have nay complaints about yer appearance.” She gathered up her sewing basket. “I’ll leave ye to rest before tonight’s feast. Remember, dear, smile and agree with everythin’ he says. And for heaven’s sake, daenae mention anythin’ about books or politics. Men daenae want wives who think they’re clever.”
The door closed behind her with a sharp click, leaving Iris, Lydia, and Moira, Lydia’s maid, in heavy silence. Moira immediately busied herself with unnecessary adjustments to the gown, but Iris could see her hands trembling. Finally, the maid cleared her throat.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Lydia, but... have ye heard the stories about yer intended?”
“What stories?” Lydia froze and gasped, her voice barely a whisper.
Moira glanced toward the door nervously, “They say Laird McMurphy’s first wife... well, she dinnae die of childbirth fever like most folk think.”
Iris felt her stomach drop. “Moira.”
“I want Miss Lydia to ken what she is gettin’ into,” Moira rushed on. “They say she threw herself from the tower window because she couldnae bear bein’ married to him anymore.”
She began to wring her two hands. “And there’s talk about his temper, that he’s cruel and cold.”
“Enough!” Iris snapped, seeing how Lydia had gone even paler. “That’s quite enough gossip for one day.”
Moira’s mouth snapped shut, but the damage was done. Lydia swayed on the platform, one hand pressed to her throat.
“Out,” Iris commanded, her voice brooking no argument. “Leave us.”
“But the dress, Miss.”
“Out. Now.”
Moira gathered her sewing supplies and scurried from the room, casting one last worried glance over her shoulder. The moment the door closed, Lydia crumpled, sinking onto the platform with her silk skirts pooling around her like spilled cream.
“Oh God, Iris,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “What if it’s true? What if he really is as terrible as they say?”
Iris was across the room in one moment, kneeling beside her sister and taking her cold hands in her own. “Listen to me, Lydia, half the stories people tell about Highland Lairds are nonsense meant to frighten children and impress fools at the market.”
“But what if this time they’re nae?” Lydia’s eyes filled with tears. “What if I’m walkin’ into a nightmare tomorrow?”
The fear in her sister’s voice made Iris’ chest tight with protective fury. Lydia had always been the gentle one, the sweet one, the one their parents praised and coddled. She didn’t have the armor of defiance and hurt that Iris had built around herself over the years.
“Then ye willnae face it alone,” Iris said firmly, squeezing her sister’s hands. “I’ll be right there with ye at the weddin’, and if anythin’ seems wrong, ye give me a sign, and I’ll get ye out of there.”
“How? Faither’s already signed the contracts. The dowry’s been paid; I cannae just leave.”
“I daenae care about contracts or dowries,” Iris interrupted fiercely. “Ye’re me sister, me twin. If that man so much as looks at ye wrong, I’ll find a way to spirit ye away from there. I swear it.”
