Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
She knocked softly on Lydia’s chamber door. “Lydia? It’s time to get ready, love.”
The morning of Lydia’s wedding had dawned bright and clear, summer sunshine streaming through the castle windows like a blessing. Iris had barely slept, her mind churning with worry over her sister’s desperate words from the night before.
Their father’s urgent summons had turned out to be nothing more than last-minute details about the feast, but something in Lydia’s eyes had haunted Iris through the dark hours.
Iris knocked a second time. Silence.
“Lydia?” Iris pressed her ear to the wood. No sound of movement, no rustling of bedsheets or the expected flurry of a nervous bride. Her stomach began to clench with dread.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The chamber was empty, the bed unslept in, wedding gown still hanging pristine and untouched on its wooden frame. But it was what lay on the writing desk that made Iris’ blood turn to ice.
A single piece of parchment, sealed with Lydia’s ring, bore her name in her sister’s careful script.
With trembling fingers, Iris broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
My dearest Iris,
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I can’t do it, me loving sister. I can’t marry him knowing what he might be. The stories Moira told us... they felt like prophecies, not rumors. I’m not brave like you, Iris. I’m not strong enough to face a monster and pretend to be a dutiful wife.
I know this will bring shame on our family, and I know they’ll blame you for not stoppin’ me. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for being such a coward when you’ve always been so brave.
I’ll go somewhere. Anywhere, as long as they’ll take me in. Even if it’s a convent. I’ll write to you when I’m safe, but please, please don’t tell anyone about me letter. Let them think I’ve vanished into the mist like some fairy tale princess. It’s better that way.
I love you, sister. Forgive me.
Lydia
The letter slipped from Iris’ numb fingers, fluttering to the floor like a dying bird. Her gentle, sweet twin was gone. Had fled in the night rather than face marriage to Laird McMurphy.
The practical part of her mind immediately began calculating the disaster this would bring down on their family.
A broken betrothal was one thing, but a bride who disappeared on her wedding day?
The shame would destroy them. Her father’s political alliances, her mother’s social standing, everything would crumble.
And Lydia was right.
Everyone will blame me. They always do.
She snatched the letter from the floor and moved to the fireplace. The overnight fire was already burning low, but there was enough heat left. Without hesitation, she fed the parchment to the flames, watching her sister’s confession curl and blacken into ash.
“I’ll keep yer secret,” she whispered to the empty room. “Whatever comes next, I’ll keep ye safe.”
The walk to the great hall felt like marching to her execution. She could hear voices before she even reached the doors. Her father’s booming tones, her mother’s higher pitch. They were discussing something about the seating arrangements for the wedding feast.
She pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped inside. Her parents stood near the long tables, already dressed in their finest clothes, her mother directing servants who were laying out silver platters while her father squinted at some parchment he held.
“Ah, Iris!” Edward looked up, and for the first time in years, he gave Iris a hint of a smile. “Perfect timin’. We were just reviewin’ the final details for today’s celebration. Have ye been to wake Lydia? She should be gettin’ ready by now.”
“The bride shouldnae keep her groom waitin’,” Catherine added, adjusting a flower arrangement with nervous energy. “Though I suppose she’s allowed a few extra moments on her weddin’ day. If ye and her have trouble arrangin’ her hair, Moira can—”
“She’s gone,” Iris interrupted quietly.
Her parents froze. A silver goblet slipped from a servant’s hands, clattering to the stone floor.
“Gone?” Catherine’s voice came out as barely a whisper. “What do ye mean, gone?”
“I mean she’s nae in her chamber. Her bed hasnae been slept in. She left sometime durin’ the night.”
Edward’s face slowly drained of color then flushed dark red. “Gone where?”
“I daenae ken.” The words slipped out easier than she expected. “She left nay word, nay explanation.”
Her father’s hand cracked across her cheek before she saw it coming. The sharp sting brought tears to her eyes, but she held her ground.
“This is yer fault!” he roared. “Ye poisoned her mind against the match! Ye and yer books and yer wild ideas about women choosin’ their own paths!”
“Edward,” Catherine warned, but her voice lacked conviction.
“Nay, Catherine. This is what comes of indulgin’ her rebellious nature. She’s corrupted Lydia with her nonsense.” He grabbed Iris by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Where has she gone? Ye ken. I can see it in yer eyes.”
“I daenae ken,” Iris repeated, meeting his furious gaze steadily. “And even if I did, I wouldnae tell ye.”
He raised his hand again, but a voice from the shadows stopped him cold.
“It doesnae matter. I can just marry yer other daughter.”
Iris whirled around, her heart slamming against her ribs. A man stepped out of the shadows near the entrance, and the breath left her lungs in a rush.
He was the most attractive man she had ever seen.
Tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair that caught the morning light and eyes the color of storm clouds.
His face was all sharp angles and harsh beauty.
The kind that belonged in ancient legends about warrior kings.
But it was the way he moved that made her pulse quicken, like a predator who knew exactly how dangerous he was.
This had to be Laird Elijah McMurphy. The monster from Moira’s stories.
He looked nothing like a monster. He looked like sin wrapped in Highland wool and leather.
“Laird McMurphy,” her father stammered, his face cycling through embarrassment and terror. “I... we dinnae expect ye so early. The weddin’ isnae until later today.”
“Aye, well, I wanted to meet me bride before the ceremony.” His voice was deep, cultured, with just a hint of Highland burr that made something low in Iris’ belly flutter traitorously.
“Imagine me surprise when I arrived to find ye all in confusion because said bride has apparently fled into the night.”
Catherine looked ready to faint. “Me laird, we can explain. It’s nae as ye imagine.”
“Nay need.” Those gray eyes fixed on Iris, and she felt pinned like a butterfly on a collector’s board. “As I said, it doesnae matter. One daughter is much the same as another when it comes to marriage contracts.”
The casual dismissal hit her like a slap. Her spine snapped straight, hands clenching into fists at her sides.
“I am nae me sister. And yer agreement is with her, nae me.” she said, her voice low and dangerous.
Something like amusement flickered in his eyes. “Nay, I can see that. The question is whether yer parents are willin’ to honor their agreement with a... substitution.”
Edward stepped forward, his politician’s smile sliding into place despite the sweat beading on his forehead. “Of course, of course. That is somethin’ to be considered. We thank ye for yer offer, and nay doubt, Iris would be... honored to fulfill the contract in her sister’s place.”
“Would she now?” Elijah’s attention returned to her, studying her like she was a puzzle to be solved. “And what does the lass herself have to say about it?”
Iris lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly. Most people couldn’t look him in the eye without flinching, and she could see it in his slight surprise, but she’d been staring down disapproval her entire life.
“I have plenty to say,” she replied, proud that her voice stayed steady despite the tremor of fear underneath. “But I doubt anyone in this room particularly cares to hear it.”
“Try me.”
The simple challenge hung in the air between them. She could see him calculating, weighing, measuring her like an opponent across a battlefield. Behind her, her parents looked ready to throttle her if she said the wrong thing.
“Iris,” her mother hissed in warning.
But Iris ignored her, taking a step closer to the Laird. Close enough to catch a whiff of his scent—leather and something wild like Highland wind.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that any man who would accept a substitution so easily couldnae have cared much for his intended bride in the first place.”
Her father made a strangled sound of horror. “Iris!”
But Elijah McMurphy threw back his head and laughed. A rich, dark sound that sent heat spiraling through her veins even as it terrified her.
“Ye’re absolutely right, lass,” he said, his eyes glittering with something that might have been amusement. “I dinnae care for her at all.”