Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Rain battered against the grand windows of McDawson Keep, streaking the glass with silvery rivulets.
The storm had rolled in from the northern cliffs at dawn, draping the land in a thick grey shroud.
Kieran Gillies stood before the great hearth, one hand braced on the stone mantel, the other gripping a half-empty glass of watered wine.
The fire cast his shadow high across the wall—tall, broad, a silhouette of barely contained rage. Outside, thunder rumbled low, like a warning.
He had been summoned to the council chamber minutes ago, told that “urgent matters” required his attention. He knew better than to trust the word urgent when spoken by old men with shaking hands and political ambitions. Now, as he waited for them to assemble, his patience was stretched to breaking.
But soon, the doors opened with a heavy groan, and six men filed in. The council of Clan McDawson—his advisors, his blood kin, and on the worst of days, his enemies—spearheaded by his uncle Sebastian. Balding and sharp-eyed, Sebastian carried himself like a wolf that had survived too many winters.
“Kieran,” he said, nodding once, “how are ye this morn?”
“I’d do away with the pleasantries, Uncle,” Kieran said, not moving from his post by the hearth as the councilmen took their seats around the long, mahogany table that dominated the middle of the cavernous room. “Shall we get on with the meetin’? What is it that is so urgent?”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the solar, the men of his council, glancing back and forth between themselves as they were confronted by Kieran’s sour mood. Sebastian was the only one who stepped forward, as he had remained standing, though he did not get too close to Kieran.
“Very well,” he said. “Then let us speak of the matter at hand. Ye are to wed Lydia Douglas, Laird McLean’s daughter. The ceremony shall take place in a few weeks’ time.”
Kieran’s first instinct was to laugh, the sound sudden and cold like a blade drawn from its sheath. No one else in the room laughed, though. No one else seemed to find it as he did—a jest, nothing more.
When he turned to face his uncle, Kieran found the man stone-faced and serious.
“This is nae a jest,” said one of the elders, Ewan, his voice thin and wheezing. “Ye’ll wed the Douglas lass.”
The words struck like the crack of a whip. Kieran turned slowly to the man, his eyes narrowing. “Ye think ye can arrange somethin’ like this behind me back and force me to wed? Are ye all mad? Have ye forgotten why I refuse to take a wife?”
“Laird McDawson,” another councilman said, “with all due respect, it is necessary that ye find a suitable wife, and the council has found one for ye. We’d like ye to wed her within the month.”
Kieran’s cup hit the mantel with a sharp clink as he let out a scoff, shaking his head to himself.
This was not the first time he had been presented with a wife—far from it in fact.
And that was precisely why he knew he couldn’t marry anyone else ever again.
He turned fully now, his presence filling the room.
He was not a man easily defied—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair falling loosely around a face too severe to be called traditionally handsome, the effect only exaggerated by his short beard.
And he would not be defied now.
Perhaps they have forgotten their places. It’s time I remind them who is the Laird of this clan.
“Ye forget who commands this clan,” he said, voice low and edged with the threat of danger. “Ye forget yerselves.”
Another silence fell in the room, but this time, it didn’t take long for the councilmen to begin mumbling amongst themselves. Kieran caught only words as they spoke, but it was enough for him to get an idea of who was on his side, who was on the fence, and who was against him.
“—I told ye so—”
“—too soon—”
“—must happen—”
When Sebastian cleared his throat, the comments around the long table ceased.
His uncle had the benefit of not constantly going against the council’s wishes like he did, and they listened to him simply because they could use him.
If anything, the council was rather fond of him for his obedience, and so he was the one connecting link between Kieran and the others.
If there was one person on whom he could rely on to change the minds of those men, it was his uncle. But from the sound of it, his uncle didn’t seem to share the opinion that getting a new wife was a foolish, dangerous idea.
“Ye command it, aye,” Sebastian said. “But the clan commands ye in return. Our people are watchin’, Kieran. Whispers travel faster than wind in these hills. Three wives gone, and still nay heir. The people grow restless.”
Kieran’s gaze flicked to him, something between grief and fury crossing his features. “Do ye think I daenae ken what they say?”
Of course he did; he had heard it all. He had heard the pity, the accusations, the suspicion among his people. Even those closest to him were not all certain regarding his innocence, and Kieran didn’t know how to prove it.
Even he had to admit that losing three wives was suspicious. But precisely because he didn’t know who was at fault, he could not condemn another woman to marry him.
It willnae be a weddin’. It will be her funeral.
Sebastian’s voice softened along with his features, but his words were no less jarring because of it. “They say what they fear… that the laird’s bloodline falters. That the McDawsons grow weak.”
“Then they are fools.”
“Perhaps,” Sebastian said evenly, “but they are our fools, and we must keep them believin’. This alliance gives leverage, trade, reputation. A chance to mend what’s been broken.”
Kieran gave a short, humorless laugh. “Broken? Ye mean cursed.”
The word hung heavily in the air. No one spoke—no one dared. What was there to say, after all? They had to know he was right, even if they wouldn’t admit it.
Thunder rolled again, closer this time, rattling the windowpanes.
Kieran began to pace, each step echoing through the chamber. “Ye would have me take another wife… another woman to bury before the year is done. Tell me, uncle, how many graves must we dig before ye all understand I am dangerous?”
Sebastian shook his head with a sigh, sympathy crossing his features. “Ye’re nae the one killin’ them, Kieran.”
“Nay,” Kieran said, quietly. “But someone is.”
At first, a heavy, unsettling silence fell over the room. Then, a murmur rippled through the council, the older men exchanging uneasy glances, their suspicion stoked once more as it was every time the subject was mentioned.
Sebastian exhaled harshly through his nose. “And yet, until we ken who is responsible, we must move forward. Ye’re still the Laird, and a laird must protect his clan.”
“By weddin’ a stranger?”
“By ensurin’ the line doesnae die with ye.”
Kieran’s hands clenched into fists as he stared into the flames, their reflection burning in his eyes. “Ye force me hand in this, and I’ll nae forget it.”
The eldest councilman cleared his throat. “There are rules in place, Me Laird… rules that are far older than ye and far older than us all. If ye refuse, ye forfeit yer title. The council will name another to lead. The people need stability, nae superstition.”
Kieran turned his head slowly, his stare like a drawn blade. “Ye’d strip me of me birthright for refusin’ a marriage?”
“For refusin’ duty,” the man said though his voice quivered.
Kieran’s lips curved, not in a smile but in something that more closely resembled a snarl.
“Ye’re tryin’ somethin’ dangerous,” he said.
“I’d be careful if I were ye. I am still the Laird of this clan, and I willnae stand for such treatment.
Ye think yerselves clever? Ye think yerselves clever when ye’re about to condemn an innocent woman to her death? ”
No one answered. Around the table, the men of his council mumbled among themselves once more, their voices quiet, muffled; they didn’t want Kieran to hear anything they had to say, and this secrecy was what bothered him the most.
They treat me like I’m a bairn… This was always their biggest mistake.
Sebastian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Kieran… enough. This isnae about pride. It’s survival. The clan cannae afford another scandal, another death without an heir. Ye must wed this lass.”
Kieran’s gaze drifted toward the storm-dark windows. Somewhere beyond them, the McLean Clan castle waited, along with the woman they would chain to him—another lamb led to the slaughter.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm but cold enough to chill the room.
“Then hear me well,” he said. “This woman’s blood is on yer hands.”
Sebastian’s expression faltered. “Kieran—”
“Ye’ve all drawn the blade,” he interrupted, stepping forward. “I only pray ye’re ready to live with where it falls.”
Turning away from them, Kieran left the solar, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the keep around him.
Each step took him closer to his chambers, each moment closer to the day when he would have to marry this woman he didn’t even know—this woman who had done nothing to deserve the fate that awaited her and who was walking to the gallows blind.