Chapter 5
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 inside him.
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.”
That stopped her. Her expression faltered, confusion flashing through her eyes. “What do ye mean?” she asked though Kieran had the sense she already knew what he was trying to tell her.
He exhaled through his nose, looking past her to the rain-slick road. There was no easy way to say it, and he could hardly meet her eyes when he spoke about it. Every time he thought about his wives, he couldn’t help but think of the way he had failed them all.
“Someone’s targetin’ me wives,” he said at last, his tone flat with the weight of the truth. “That’s how the past three have died.”
Silence fell between them—the kind that was thick enough to carve with a blade. The color drained from Lydia’s face, but she didn’t seem surprised to hear it—only unsettled to have her suspicions confirmed.
“Ye’re sayin’—”
“I’m sayin’ there’s a killer near us,” Kieran cut in quietly. “An enemy who wants the McDawson line to end with me, and if ye wish to live long enough to curse me for marryin’ ye, ye’ll keep to me side or Michael’s. Always.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the horses and the wind rattling the carriage windows. Lydia’s eyes were wide, searching his face—for mockery, for cruelty, perhaps for reassurance.
He let her see none of it. By binding himself to her, he had already condemned her to a life of fear and risk. Unless he found out who had been targeting his wives all this time, Lydia would always have to look over her shoulder, searching for a danger that may or may not be there.
Then, slowly, she nodded. “I understand.” Her voice trembled, but she forced it steady again. “I daenae need yer protection, Me Laird, but I… I’ll do as ye say. For now.”
Kieran felt a reluctant tug at his mouth, the faintest, most unwilling hint of a smile. She was a stubborn girl, but he could be stubborn too, more so than most people. The only way he had kept his councilmen in check for so long was because he was willing to fight to the last breath.
Yet despite her brave words, fear still lingered behind her eyes.
Kieran leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Daenae worry, lass. Ye’re safe as long as ye’re by me side.”
Something in his tone made her eyes snap to his. Her throat moved as she swallowed with an audible click, her breath hitching. She turned her face away but not before he caught the faint blush beneath her skin.
And damn if he didn’t like the look of it.
She was supposed to be a duty, nothing more, a necessary sacrifice to silence his council’s whispers. Yet already, sitting beside her in the dim carriage light, her defiance and strength stirred things in him he had thought long buried under grief.
He looked away from her, reluctant to give in to this sudden beating of his heart. He couldn’t afford this: the distraction, the pull, the thoughts that followed when he averted his gaze. His clan depended on his focus, and so did the life of this woman.
And she, his last bride, could not end up in the ground.
The night air was heavy with rain and smoke.
The torches in the corridors hissed as Lydia followed the maid through the winding stone halls, her slippers silent against the floor.
The castle felt alive, not with warmth but with whispers.
Every flicker of firelight seemed to hide movement, and every draft carried the scent of sea and peat, sharp and cold.
When the maid left her at the door of the Laird’s chambers, Lydia’s stomach twisted into knots.
“Goodnight, Me Lady,” Chloe said softly, a smile always dancing at her lips.
Lydia tried to smile back. “Goodnight.”
When the door closed behind her, the silence deepened.
The room was vast, larger than any she had ever seen.
At the far end, a roaring hearth painted the walls in gold and shadow.
A fur rug sprawled before it, and a wide bed sat in the corner under a carved lintel, heavy with dark blankets.
She caught her reflection in the window glass—a pale, nervous ghost in a cream nightgown, her hair loose over her shoulders.
Ye are a wife now. A Lady. Ye cannae be afraid.
And yet, she was. Kieran wasn’t there, but the anticipation of his arrival was more than enough to twist her stomach into knots, to make her tremble where she stood in the middle of the chambers.
Moving near the fire, Lydia wrung her hands until the skin under her rings ached. The more she waited there, alone, the more her thoughts drifted to Kieran’s late wives. What had happened to them? Were they standing just where she stood now, trembling, waiting for the same thing?
Suddenly, the door opened behind her, and Lydia turned sharply, her pulse leaping.
Kieran stepped in, tall and broad-shouldered, his coat removed, his dark hair still damp from the rain.
The firelight caught the hard lines of his jaw, the shadow of his beard, the faint scar near his temple.
He looked every bit the dangerous man she had been warned about, and yet he didn’t seem cruel or indifferent to her, like she had feared—just weary, as though the weight of the whole world rested upon his shoulders.
“Ye should rest,” he said after a moment, his deep voice rough in the quiet.
Lydia nodded though her heart pounded so violently she thought he must hear it. “Aye, Me Laird.”
The words felt strange on her tongue, like her mouth was filled with cotton. Her throat was dry, her eyes hot. A strange emptiness grew in her stomach, as if a pit was opening up there, and she could do nothing to stop it.
Kieran moved to the fire, unbuckling his sword belt, setting the weapon aside with deliberate care. His every movement was calm, measured, with the kind of control born from habit and necessity. But across from him, Lydia stood frozen, her hands twisting the fabric of her gown.
This is what happens next. Ye are his wife now. It’s yer duty.
But her legs felt heavy, rooted to the intricately woven rug under her feet. Her breath came too shallow, too fast, uncontrolled like the panting of a prey animal running away from its predator.
Kieran glanced at her then, his gaze sweeping over her once, slow and assessing, and Lydia felt her face flush. She couldn’t tell if he approved or found her wanting. His eyes, dark and unreadable, lingered on her mouth for a heartbeat too long before flicking away.
He said nothing.
Lydia took that silence for disinterest. A strange ache bloomed in her chest—part relief, part humiliation.
He found her desirable enough to marry, perhaps, but not enough to want.