Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kieran’s boots struck the flagstones hard as he strode through the corridor, the sound echoing in the quiet like the toll of a warning bell.
The castle was alive with the low hum of servants and guards beginning their duties, but no one dared stop him.
They could read the tension in his shoulders, the thunder written in the tight line of his jaw.
He was halfway to his chambers when a familiar, infuriatingly cheerful voice called out behind him.
“Laird McDawson, in such a rush? What, has married life made ye flee yer own hall already?”
Kieran didn’t slow.
Michael Andrews—his second-in-command, his right hand, and the only man in the Highlands brazen enough to tease him this early in the day—fell into step beside him, his grin already wide.
He was everything Kieran was not: light where Kieran was shadow, laughter where Kieran was silence.
The women of the clan adored him for it though Kieran often wondered if that silver tongue of his would be the death of him.
“I hear,” Michael drawled, brushing a bit of dust off his shoulder, “that the council has planned ye a grand celebration. A ceilidh, was it? Och, ye must be thrilled! Music, drink, women—”
He caught the look on Kieran’s face then and stopped short. His grin faltered.
“Good Lord, Kieran,” he muttered, stepping back a pace. “What’s got ye in a foul temper? I’ve seen ye come out of battle lookin’ sunnier than this.”
Kieran ground out, “It’s nothin’. Just a headache.”
Michael arched a brow. “Aye? The kind that walks on two legs and answers to Me Lady, perhaps?”
Kieran shot him a look that could have felled a stag.
Michael raised his hands in surrender, but amusement flickered again in his eyes. “Och, so I was right.”
“Drop it,” Kieran said, his voice low. He turned down another corridor, hoping his friend would take the hint, but of course, Michael followed. He always did.
“Ye ken I can tell when ye’re lyin’, aye?” Michael said, tone lighter now, but his eyes sharper now, as if he was trying to look right through him. “What happened? Ye finally told the lass that ye plan to lock her up till we find the bastard killin’ yer wives? Or did she throw a book at ye first?”
“Neither.”
“Then what?”
Kieran exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. He hated talking about it, but the image of Lydia’s face, flushed with frustration, her eyes flashing as she argued with him over bannocks, refused to leave his mind.
“She wanted to talk about the ceilidh,” he muttered finally. “Asked questions. About food. Decorations.”
Michael blinked then laughed. “That’s what’s got ye scowlin’ like ye swallowed a blade? The lass wants a bit of cheer. Let her have it.”
“She will have it,” Kieran snapped. “I told her to do what she wished.”
Michael gave him a long look. “And ye think that’s the same thing as carin’, do ye?”
Kieran stopped walking, and his friend nearly walked into him. “Nay. But I daenae care.”
Michael’s tone softened a fraction though he seemed terribly displeased. “She’s nae the enemy, Kieran. She’s yer wife, and she’s likely scared out of her wits, tryin’ to find her place here while ye brood about like a storm cloud.”
Kieran turned his head, meeting his gaze. “Ye think I daenae ken that?”
“Then why treat her as if she’s a burden?”
Kieran let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “Because she is, Michael. Every woman who’s stood where she stands has ended up buried under that hill. If she stays near me, she’s in danger. If she gets close—”
“—ye’re in danger,” Michael finished quietly.
The words hit too close to the truth. Kieran’s hand flexed at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking.
“She’s nae ready,” he said, almost to himself. “Nae for what I am, nae for this life, and I’ll nae have her fearin’ me on top of everythin’ else.”
“If ye keep glowerin’ at the lass every time she tries to speak to ye, she’ll think ye hate her,” Micheal said, and his words were not unreasonable, even to Kieran’s ears. “Is that what ye want?”
Kieran didn’t respond, but naturally, that was not what he wanted.
Michael tilted his head, smirk widening. “Or maybe ye’d rather keep her angry. Makes it easier nae to notice how lovely she is, eh?”
Kieran shot him one last, withering look and turned toward his chambers.
Still, Michael called after him, laughter in his voice. “If I were ye, I’d stop fightin’ it! Ye cannae glare yer way out of wantin’ her!”
The best thing, Kieran decided, was to give his friend nothing, and so he didn’t answer, but his hand lingered on the chamber door longer than necessary before pushing it open.
Inside, the fire still burned low from the night before.
The faint scent of lavender hung in the air—her scent.
His headache had nothing to do with noise or light.
It was the ache behind his temples, the one that worsened every time she looked at him as though she wanted to understand him—and he had nothing to give her but walls.
He pressed his hands to the edge of the table, eyes closing briefly. Now all he could do was reinforce those walls—build them as high as he could manage.
Lydia stood in the middle of her chamber, holding a quill like a weapon, glaring at the door where Kieran leaned in the frame—massive, immovable, entirely too pleased with himself.
He had come in unannounced, as always, his dark hair a little tousled from the wind outside, his expression the picture of composure. She, on the other hand, was covered in ink blotches from her attempt to write a letter and already in a sour mood.
“Ye’ll come with me,” he said.
At first, Lydia thought she must have misheard him, but when he said nothing more, she realized she had, in fact, not.
The nerve of him!
Lydia didn’t even look up from the parchment. “Nay.”
“That wasnae a request, lass.”
“I gathered,” she muttered, dabbing at a stray blot of ink. “Still, the answer is nay.”
Kieran folded his arms, his shadow stretching across the rug toward her. “I said, ye’re comin’ with me.”
“And I said I’m nae.” She turned finally, crossing her own arms. “Ye can order yer guards, yer council, perhaps even the clouds to move if ye shout loud enough, but I am nae yer soldier, Me Laird.”
His lips twitched, almost into what could be called a smile—if one was generous. “Nay, ye’re me wife.”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed as she regarded him, trying to figure out what, precisely, it was that he wanted from her. “In name, perhaps.”
That did it. A dangerous gleam entered his dark eyes—one she was beginning to recognize as a warning.
“Come with me willingly,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “or I’ll carry ye there.”
Lydia blinked, the threat falling short. “Ye wouldnae dare.”
And yet, a heartbeat later, she found herself airborne.
“Stop!” she shrieked as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms, her skirts flying, one slipper tumbling to the floor. She thumped his shoulder with her hand, but it was like hitting stone. “Put me down this instant!”
But Kieran only chuckled, the sound deep and wicked. “Ye had yer chance to walk, lass. Now ye’ll fly.”
“This is… this is barbaric!” she sputtered, craning her neck as she tried to glare at him despite her cheeks burning red.
“Then call me a barbarian,” Kieran said easily, striding down the hall, his arms steady around her. “Ye wouldnae be the first.”
Lydia huffed, crossing her arms even as her heart thudded treacherously in her chest. She could feel the solid wall of his chest behind her shoulder, smell the faint scent of leather, pine, and something deeper, muskier—something that made her pulse quicken no matter how furiously she tried to scold herself.
They passed two maids in the corridor, who quickly curtsied and ducked their heads to hide their laughter, and Lydia had to cover her face with her hands. “Ye are humiliatin’ me!”
“Ye did that yerself when ye refused to listen,” Kieran said with a grin she could hear in his voice.
“Ye’ll regret this,” she warned though she hadn’t quite figured out the specifics oof his punishment yet.
Kieran laughed, a rich, rare sound that startled her. “Will I now?”
When they reached the study, he pushed the heavy door open with his boot and carried her straight to the rug before the hearth. Only then did he set her down, carefully, as though she were made of glass—which only infuriated her further.
Immediately, Lydia whirled on him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “Ye cannae just… just haul me around like a sack of oats!”
Kieran leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. “Ye had a choice.”
“Och, aye,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping. “Be dragged like a bairn or carried like a trophy. Such freedom!”
Despite Lydia’s clear irritation, a smirk tugged at the corner of Kieran’s mouth. “Ye daenae seem to mind that much.”
Lydia’s mouth fell open in shock. “I… I absolutely minded!”
“Aye? Then why are ye still blushin’?”
Lydia made a strangled sound of outrage, throwing her hands up in the air in frustration. “Ye… ye are impossible!”
Kieran only shrugged, entirely too pleased with himself. “So I’ve been told.”
“Ye are the most arrogant, insufferable—”
“Handsome,” he supplied.
“—obnoxious—”
“Strong.”
“—overbearin’ man I’ve ever met!”
That earned a low chuckle from him, the kind that rumbled from his chest and made the air between them feel warmer. “Ye forgot devastatingly charmin’.”
Lydia gave an indignant little huff, but her lips twitched despite herself. “Ye’re impossible.”
“Aye,” he said softly, his gaze catching hers. “But ye’re smilin’ all the same.”
Lydia’s heart skipped, and she cursed herself for it. She quickly turned away, pretending to inspect a shelf of books. “That’s only because I’m laughin’ at how ridiculous ye are.”
“Of course, it is,” he said dryly, the teasing lilt in his voice betraying his amusement.