Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
“Lady McDawson,” one of the elders greeted, rising slightly from his seat. His beard was white and his tone smooth, practiced. “We are honored to have ye join us. The clan is gladdened by yer arrival.”
Lydia smiled faintly, as polite as courtesy demanded. “That’s kind of ye to say.”
The great hall of McDawson Castle was colder than Lydia had expected—not in temperature, as the fire roared in the massive hearth, but in atmosphere. The stone walls seemed to hold whispers, a weight of expectation that pressed down on her shoulders the moment she entered.
Six men sat at the long oak table. Six men who made up the council, each in heavy wool and cotton, their expressions polite, measured.
Behind her, Kieran’s presence filled the room like a shadow.
Though they were not touching, she felt him like a physical presence on her back, like a warmth that followed her wherever she went.
And yet, though everyone else bore the same mask of politeness on their faces, there was no doubt in her mind that their gazes were cold, chilling her to the bone.
Lydia straightened her back, every inch of her screaming that she didn’t belong here, and yet, she refused to let them see it.
One by one, they offered their greetings, each man echoing the same words of welcome, the same hollow smiles. To anyone else, it might have sounded sincere, but Lydia could feel the falseness under their voices like a cold draft creeping under a door.
They daenae mean it. They’re nae glad. They’re relieved it’s nae one of their daughters who has to wed to the cursed laird and that they’ve found a sacrificial lamb.
Because that’s what they all thought of her, wasn’t it? The fourth bride, the next name to be whispered over ale and pity.
Lydia kept her smile fixed though her hands tightened in her lap under the table where she had come to sit. They were waiting for her to die too; they were waiting to see what would happen.
“Ye’ll find we’re a loyal council, Me Lady,” another said, his small eyes darting briefly to Kieran before landing back on her. “Our hearts are with the both of ye. It’s a new beginnin’ for Clan McDawson.”
A new beginning. Lydia bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. They had already signed the papers before she had even seen Kieran’s face. She hadn’t been asked. She had been traded, a pawn in her parents’ desperate attempt to cling to status.
If this was a new beginning, it was one she hadn’t chosen.
Kieran took his seat beside her, the chair creaking under his weight. When he spoke, the whispers were instantly silenced. His voice commanded the room, deep, steady, edged with the authority of a man who was used to being obeyed—but also challenged.
“Enough pleasantries,” he said. “We’ve matters to discuss. The western fields, for one… the soil’s nae yieldin’ what it used to.”
Lydia fell silent, listening as the men began to speak of crops, trade routes, and shipments.
She tried not to be distracted by the way Kieran leaned forward when he listened, forearms bared and braced on the table, his dark gaze fixed on whoever was speaking.
He didn’t raise his voice unless necessary, yet when he did, it cut through the chatter like steel through silk.
He was every inch the Laird they described him to be—commanding, intelligent, decisive.
And while Lydia didn’t want to admit it, she was impressed with the way he commanded the entire room, even when his councilmen tried to oppose him.
There was a calm strength about him, a quiet certainty that steadied the others.
Even those who disagreed with him yielded eventually, whether by persuasion or sheer force of will.
He’s good at this. Too good.
And that, more than anything else about him, was irresistible.
It was maddening, really. She shouldn’t be drawn to him.
He was her captor in all but name, the man she had been forced to marry.
Yet watching him now, the low rumble of his voice rolling over the council, she couldn’t help but feel it—that subtle pull in her chest whenever he spoke.
And when Kieran’s gaze flicked to her, just for a moment, it was enough to send her heart racing.
Lydia quickly turned her eyes down to the table. The meeting continued, but she found it hard to concentrate.
Toward the end, the eldest councilor cleared his throat. “There’s one more matter, Me Laird. The clansfolk are whisperin’. After… what’s happened before, they’ll need reassurance. We think it best to hold a celebration, a proper one, to show them that this marriage stands strong.”
Kieran’s expression darkened immediately. “A celebration?”
“Aye,” the man said with a tentative smile. “Feastin’, dancin’, the usual. Let the people see ye together. It’ll mend spirits… remind them that the McDawson name still stands proud.”
Lydia’s first instinct was dread. A celebration would mean eyes, questions, judgment. But then, under the nervousness, something lighter flickered—hope, maybe, and a chance to prove herself.
Her gaze lifted instinctively to Kieran, but he was already shaking his head, irritation etched in every line of his face. “There’ll be nay celebration. I’ve nay wish to waste coin or time—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
He looked at Lydia, and perhaps he had noticed her excitement which gave him pause. She felt her cheeks warm under his gaze, but she didn’t look away.
For one suspended heartbeat, they just stared at each other. Lydia didn’t speak, but he read her easily, it seemed, and he sighed, a quiet, resigned sound. Then he turned back to the table.
“Fine,” he said, voice low but final. “We’ll do it. But we’ll need time to plan.”
The council responded in satisfaction. Lydia blinked, caught between surprise and gratitude. He hadn’t wanted this, that much she could tell, but he had said yes anyway—for her.
The castle corridors were quieter after the council meeting, the echo of voices still faint in Lydia’s ears as she hurried after Kieran.
The stone walls felt less cold than they had when she had first arrived—not warmer, exactly, but alive.
Servants passed, bowing slightly as she went, and for the first time, she saw a few smiles directed at her.
But it was something fragile, something she didn’t dare trust. More people looked at her with pity rather than with those smiles, and the last thing she wanted was for people to pity her.
Kieran was several steps ahead, his long stride forcing her to half run to catch him. He looked imposing even in silence, his shoulders squared, his black hair brushing the collar of his tunic, and he didn’t glance back when she called him softly.
“Me Laird?”
He stopped though his back stayed to her. “Aye?”
“I wished to speak with ye… about the ceilidh.”
At that, he finally turned, one dark brow lifting. Still, his expression gave away nothing.
“The what?”
“The ceilidh,” Lydia said, trying to sound confident though her heart still hammered from chasing him. “The council mentioned it earlier. I thought we might start plannin’. I… well, I’ve been to many, but I’d like to make this one special.”
Kieran exhaled through his nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Aye. If ye must.”
Lydia blinked, surprised at his tone. “Ye daenae sound particularly eager.”
“I’m nae,” he said bluntly.
Lydia frowned but pushed on. “Surely ye’ve attended many before. Ye must remember at least one.”
He gave a small shrug, uninterested, turning slightly away from her already. “I’m nae sure.”
“Nay?” she pressed, unable to hide her disbelief. “How could ye nae remember a single one? There must’ve been dancin’, music—”
“I said I daenae recall,” he interrupted, his voice cool, final.
Lydia’s patience thinned. She had been trying, truly trying to find something they could share, something that might bridge the wide, silent distance between them, but he gave her nothing to hold onto.
“Ye might nae care,” she said, “but the people will. This is their chance to see ye as more than just their laird, to celebrate with ye, nae under ye.”
Kieran’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists—something Lydia noticed, even though he was quick to pull them behind his back. “And that’s why I agreed to it.”
“Then we need to plan it together,” she insisted. “I cannae do it all alone. Should we serve oatmeal bannocks or flummery? The bannocks are traditional, but—”
“Enough.”
The word cracked through the air like a whip. Lydia froze. His tone wasn’t angry exactly but sharp, firm enough to stop her mid-breath.
Kieran’s eyes met hers, dark and unreadable. “I said I’m nae interested in things like this. Nae bannocks, nae flummery, nae what color ribbons ye want hangin’ from the rafters. Do what ye wish.”
For a moment, there was only silence. The tension between them thrummed like a live wire.
Lydia swallowed hard, forcing herself not to shrink from him. “So that’s it? Ye’ll simply leave it all to me?”
“Aye,” Kieran said, blunt and final. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away down the corridor.
The echo of his boots faded before she could find anything to say.
Lydia stood still for a long time, her throat tight with a pain she had not expected to feel—at least not so soon. She had wanted this to go differently. She had wanted something from him, anything: a conversation, a moment that wasn’t awkward silence and curt replies.
But she was a fool to hope.
Her gaze lingered in the direction he had gone, a set of heavy doors closing behind him, and a wave of frustration swept through her.
Why had he agreed to marry her at all if he wanted nothing to do with her?
He had looked at her this morning as though he wanted to devour her, but now, he couldn’t stand a conversation about dessert?
Her hands clenched around her skirts.
Elijah would never treat Iris this way.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and sour.
Lydia bit the inside of her cheek, guilt flaring instantly in her stomach, making her nauseous.
She had no right to envy her sister’s happiness, not after everything.
Iris had suffered for years because of her blindness, her weakness, and Lydia had sworn she would never again begrudge her sister even a scrap of joy.
Still, the ache lingered.
Needing something to occupy her mind, anything to stop it from circling the same painful thoughts, Lydia turned down a side passage in search of someone who could help her begin the preparations.
It was better to start early, she reasoned.
It was better to show everyone she was every bit as good as any other Lady of the Clan, if not even better.
If they want me to prove meself, I will give them what they want and more. They’ll have nay right to say anythin’ about me ever again.
In her search for help, she found Chloe near the kitchens, balancing a basket of linens against her hip. As always, she wore a kind smile, even as she busied herself with her chores.
“Chloe,” Lydia called softly.
The maid looked up, her expression brightening. “Me Lady! Ye startled me.”
“I’m sorry.” Lydia hesitated, then managed a small smile. “I was hopin’ to find ye. I… need help plannin’ the ceilidh. Me husband isnae interested in such things, it seems.”
Chloe’s lips twitched, just shy of a smile. “Aye, that sounds like the Laird right enough.”
The easy tone eased some of Lydia’s tension. Out of all the people in the castle, Chloe had been the one so far to offer her the kind of treatment she wanted—kind, but not out of pity. When Chloe looked at her, Lydia didn’t feel as though she felt sorry for her, for the fate that awaited her.
“Ye’ll help me then?”
“Of course, Me Lady,” Chloe said warmly. “It’ll be good for the people… and for ye. A bit of laughter will do this hall some good.”
Lydia felt her shoulders relax a fraction.
Of course, Chloe was right; Lydia had considered her future and the past of the women who had served as Ladies of the Clan extensively, but she had not stopped to consider how their deaths could have impacted the clan’s people.
They, too, had to be frightened by the deaths, suspicious of their laird and his motives.
“Thank ye,” Lydia told her.
As they began to walk toward the kitchens, Chloe talking animatedly about decorations and musicians, Lydia found herself breathing easier.
If Kieran wanted to wall himself away in silence, so be it, she decided.
She would make this celebration a success regardless, for the clan and perhaps, in some quiet way, for herself.
But still, as she passed the corridor leading toward his chambers, she couldn’t help glancing that way, wondering if, behind those cold eyes and curt words, Kieran ever thought of her at all.