Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The kirk smelled faintly of damp stone and incense.
Candles were lit along the walls, their light trembling against the cold afternoon air that pressed through the cracks between the stones.
Lydia stood near the front, her palms slick with nervous sweat inside her gloves, her breath fogging faintly in the air.
She had imagined this day a thousand times as a child—a soft summer wedding in the McLean Castle chapel, music in the air, Iris laughing at her side.
Yet here she was, wrapped in a plain gown of cream wool, a veil pinned hastily by the maid, the hem already heavy with moisture from the wet earth outside.
There were no flowers, no guests whispering blessings, no family smiles—only the echo of her heartbeat and the hollow scrape of her father’s voice when he had said behave, or she suffers.
I wish Iris was here.
But Lydia had been the one to tell her to stay behind. No matter how much her sister had insisted she had to come, Lydia didn’t want to subject her to traveling with their parents and having to be around them for so many days.
Now, her parents sat near the back of the kirk, silent and watchful—the only people there from her clan, save for the guards with whom they had traveled. The sight of them made her chest tighten and her breath catch, nausea gripping her at the thought that they had won.
And there, at the other end of the chapel, stood the man she was to marry.
Kieran Gillies filled the altar like a shadow brought to life.
He was broader than she had expected, tall, thick-shouldered under his dark wool coat, his hair black as coal and damp from the drizzle outside.
The flicker of the candlelight caught in his eyes, making them gleam darker still, like obsidian, cold and sharp.
A small beard framed his jaw, not untidy but worn like armor.
When he stepped forward, the old wooden floorboards seemed to bow under his weight.
He didn’t look at her right away. He inclined his head to the priest instead, exchanged a few low words with one of his men, and only then let his gaze settle on her.
Lydia’s heart stuttered.
She had expected indifference—or worse, contempt—but what she found in his eyes was neither. It was scrutiny, yes, but tempered by something guarded; a flicker of curiosity, maybe, or restraint, as if he were measuring how much distance to keep from her.
When she finally stood beside him, Lydia realized she had to tilt her chin upward to meet his gaze as he towered over her.
He smelled faintly of salt and pine resin, like a man who spent more time outdoors than within stone walls.
His gloved hand brushed hers by accident as they turned toward the altar, and while the touch lasted only an instant, it sent a shiver through her, startling in its warmth.
The priest’s voice echoed softly through the small kirk. “Do ye, Kieran Gillies, Laird McDawson, take this woman—”
Kieran’s voice cut through the silence, low and steady. “Aye.”
It was a single syllable, rough-edged and final. Lydia swallowed hard.
“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 the faint 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.”
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 once the 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?