Chapter 5 #2
She hated herself for the sting that thought caused.
She should be grateful. She didn’t want this, not truly, not tonight, not when fear still crawled down her spine.
But a small, traitorous voice whispered that it would be easier if he looked at her the way men sometimes did—with warmth, with want, with something that didn’t feel so cold.
Kieran stripped down to his tunic, the firelight throwing golden edges on his frame. Lydia turned away quickly, pretending to adjust the edge of her sleeve, her face burning with embarrassment, her chest burning with anticipation.
He didn’t move toward her nor did he speak. Instead, he crossed the room and sat heavily in the armchair near the fire, one hand resting against his temple.
“Ye can have the bed,” he said finally. “I’ll take the chair.”
Lydia blinked. “But Me Laird—”
Kieran lifted his gaze, meeting hers. His eyes softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. “Ye’ll rest easier without me beside ye. There’s been enough done to make ye uneasy.”
Lydia’s breath caught. She wanted to ask what he meant, to thank him, to do anything but stand there, silent and useless, but the words tangled in her throat. In the end, she only managed a faint nod.
When she slipped under the blankets, she felt the weight of the day collapse over her all at once. Still, sleep wouldn’t come. The sound of the fire crackling filled the silence, and every so often, she heard him shift in the chair—quiet, steady, a presence she couldn’t quite ignore.
Lydia turned slightly, watching him through the veil of her hair.
His head rested against the back of the chair now, one arm draped over the side, the fire painting his features in soft orange light.
He looked almost peaceful like that, but there was tension even in his rest, like he was a man who did not truly relax, even alone.
But he is nae alone.
Lydia swallowed hard. Kieran had told her someone was killing his wives, and now, here she was, the next in line.
She wondered if he feared for her or merely for what her death might do to his clan.
She wondered if the guarded look in his eyes was protection or guilt.
And through all this turmoil, she still didn’t know how to be his wife or what he wanted from her.
No one had prepared her for her role as the new Lady of the Clan, and now, no one was left there to teach her.
Iris would ken what to tell me. Iris would ken what to do.
But without her there, Lydia could only guess her role—the things she was supposed to do, the things Kieran wanted from her—and this night, she had guessed wrong.
Foolish. He doesnae want me. I’m a duty, nothin’ more. I was forced into this marriage only for him to have nay interest in me.
It stung more than she cared to admit, her pride wounded by his casual dismissal. But when she closed her eyes, she could still feel the warmth of his gaze—the weight of it, heavy and magnetic—as though, for one impossible moment, he had wanted her.
In the hearth, the fire burned low. The storm outside deepened, thunder filling the night and lightning flashing in the dark.
And somewhere between fear and longing, Lydia drifted into uneasy sleep, not knowing which frightened her more: the idea that Kieran might desire her or that he never would.
Lord… why do I feel like I’ve been hit by a mule?
Dawn broke slowly over Clan McDawson’s Castle, spilling a thin, pale light through the tall windows of his chamber. The fire had long burned down to embers, and the air held that quiet chill particular to highland mornings, the kind that crept into one’s bones, urging the body closer to warmth.
Kieran stirred in the armchair, every muscle stiff from sleep. His hand was still resting loosely on the hilt of the dagger he always kept nearby. Years of unease had made him a light sleeper, yet this time, what woke him was not danger but rather the soft sound of breathing, steady and calm.
He looked toward the bed.
Lydia lay curled under the heavy blankets, her hair a spill of pale gold over the pillow.
The faint morning light caught strands of it, making them shimmer like sunlit wheat.
Her face was turned slightly toward him, all delicate lines and quiet softness, her rosy lips parted just enough to draw a gentle breath.
For a moment, Kieran simply watched her.
He hadn’t allowed himself to look properly the night before; he hadn’t dared.
He had seen the fear in her, the trembling she tried to hide so desperately.
It had gutted something in him, so he had kept his distance and spent half the night staring at the ceiling, fighting the maddening urge to go to her, to promise her that she would be safe here, that he would sooner die than let any harm come to her.
But how could he promise such a thing? He had failed to save his last three wives; who was to say he could save her?
There’s nothin’ to do but wait.
Now, in the pale dawn, he let himself look.
Lydia was beautiful in a way that made it impossible for him to take his eyes off her, even when she slept.
There was a kind of fragility about her that roused every protective instinct he owned.
But underneath it, he had already seen the spark, the quick temper, the flash of fire in her eyes when she had stood her ground.
That, more than her beauty, was what tangled him in knots. The quiet defiance, the strength she didn’t even know she had.
Kieran exhaled slowly, dragging a hand across his jaw. He wanted her. God help him, he wanted her with a hunger that felt like sin—to touch that soft skin, to bury his face in her golden hair, to claim what was now, by law and name, his.
She’s nae ready. She’s nae ready for it.
Kieran had seen her shaking when he had entered the room last night. She had faced him like a woman marching toward the gallows.
No, he wouldn’t touch her, not yet. Not until she trusted him enough to want him in return.
He rose quietly, crossing the room to the window. The courtyard below was already stirring—guards changing posts, servants fetching water. Another day of duty waited, but for a few heartbeats, all he could think of was the fragile peace that hung in this room.
Behind him, Lydia shifted under the blankets, the motion small but enough to stir him from his thoughts.
He turned, voice low. “Lydia.”
Her lashes fluttered open. She blinked sleepily, confusion softening her features before awareness settled in. “Me Laird?”
Kieran felt a traitorous warmth rise in his chest at the sound of her voice, quiet and still touched by sleep.
She had never once called him by his name, even now that they were bound together by marriage, and he didn’t know what he preferred—hearing her address him like this, all prim and proper, or the thought of hearing his name from her lips.
“We should greet the council,” he said. “Well… ye should greet them. It is time for them to meet their new Lady of the Clan.”
Her brow furrowed as she sat up, pulling the blankets closer around her shoulders. “So soon?”
“Aye. They’re nae a patient lot.”
Lydia gave a small, resigned nod and began to rise from the bed. Kieran meant to turn away, to offer her privacy, but instead, he found himself rooted to the spot.
The morning light caught the thin fabric of her nightgown, turning it near translucent as she moved.
Her hair, loose and wild, brushed over the curve of her shoulder as she reached for the gown laid over a chair.
Every small movement was unguarded, graceful, unintentional; it stole the breath clean from his chest.
He shouldn’t be looking, he knew that much.
And yet, not for the first time, he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Desire, hot and dangerous, burned through him like wildfire as he took in the shape of her body—lithe, the swell of her breasts pressing against the thin fabric of her gown, the dusky pink of her nipples peeking through it.
His gaze followed the curve of her waist, the line of her hips—then the golden thatch of curls between her legs that made his mouth run dry.
She is… exquisite.
“Ye can take yer time,” he said finally, voice rougher than he intended. “They’ll wait a few more minutes.”
Lydia glanced at him then, hesitating. Her eyes, soft brown, flecked with gold, met his, and he saw it then—the realization. She knew he was watching.
A flush rose on her cheeks, only serving to make her even more irresistible to him. “Would ye please turn yer back, Me Laird?”
For the briefest moment, Kieran couldn’t resist the urge to tease her, partly to lighten the tension clawing at him and partly to hear her voice tremble again like that. He let a faint smirk tug at his mouth, his gaze lingering on her face so as to not frighten her too much.
“Ye’re me wife, lass,” he said. “Sooner or later, I’ll see all of ye.”
The color in her cheeks deepened, turning a bright red, and Lydia turned sharply away, clutching the fabric of her gown. “Whether ye’re me husband or nae, I’m still a lady, and ye ought to show me the respect I deserve! Now turn away. Please.”
Kieran sighed and turned his back to her. If she insisted on this, then he had no choice but to do as she requested. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
Behind him came the soft rustle of fabric, the small sound of her moving, dressing in the quiet morning. Kieran let his eyes close for a moment, drawing a steadying breath, the scent of her hair lingering faintly in the air—lavender, rose, and something faintly sweet like wildflowers.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was steadier. “Ye may turn around now, Me Laird.”
Kieran turned to see Lydia by the bed, fully dressed in a simple blue gown that made her skin glow in the dim light. Her hair was still unbound, tumbling down her back, and he found himself struck dumb by the sight.
Lydia Douglas—Lady McDawson now—looked like she belonged here, in his hall, in his life, though he knew she didn’t yet believe it.
Kieran stepped closer, his tone softer this time. “Ye’ve nothin’ to fear today. I’ll be at yer side through the council meetin’. Let them try their questions… they’ll find nay fault in ye.”
Lydia’s gaze lifted to his, uncertain but grateful. After a moment of hesitation, as if she didn’t quite know what to make of this, she said, “Thank ye.”
Kieran nodded stiffly, the honesty in her voice catching him by surprise.
He didn’t know what to make of this marriage anymore.
At first, he had been so against it, so reluctant to even have another woman in the castle.
And now, despite all his fears, despite the knowledge that she, too, was at risk, he couldn’t help but selfishly want her there by his side.
And when Lydia walked past him, scenting the air with lavender and rose, he followed after her like a man hypnotized.