Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lydia sat at the window seat of her chambers, the misty highland morning spreading across the lake like spilled cream in the distance. Three days had passed since that kiss—three long, maddening, confusing days—and her thoughts had become a tangle she couldn’t quite escape.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching the drizzle slide down the panes in slow, uneven streaks.
Below, she could just make out the courtyard where a few stable boys scurried about, shouting to one another through the fog.
And there, as always, stood Michael—her ever-present shadow.
She sighed heavily, the air escaping her in a rush.
“Ye keep sighin’ like that, Me Lady,” came Chloe’s teasing voice from behind her, “and the glass will shatter itself in sympathy.”
Lydia turned just in time to see the maid grinning at her from beside the hearth where she was polishing a copper pitcher. Chloe’s dark curls were escaping her braid again, and her eyes were too bright for such a dreary morning.
“I’m nae sighin’,” Lydia mumbled, turning back to the window.
“Ye are,” Chloe said cheerfully. “Ye’ve been doin’ it all morn. I counted seven before breakfast.”
Lydia couldn’t help a faint smile. “Ye count me sighs now?”
“Aye. Gives me somethin’ to do, seein’ as our laird’s too busy avoidin’ his wife to cause any real excitement.”
Lydia whipped around, scandalized. “Chloe!”
The maid only shrugged innocently. “I’m nae blind, Me Lady. Half the castle’s talkin’. Ye two have been circlin’ each other like a pair of wolves, and now, he’s keepin’ his distance as if ye bit him.”
Lydia’s cheeks warmed. “I most certainly did nae bite him.”
“Shame,” Chloe said with mock regret. “Would’ve served him right, makin’ a lady’s heart all fluttery then disappearin’ for three days like a coward.”
Lydia crossed her arms and tried not to smile though it was getting increasingly harder. She knew what Chloe was doing—she was only making these comments to make her smile—but it was working. “Ye have a dangerous tongue.”
“Comes in handy,” Chloe said with a wink.
Lydia gave a soft, reluctant laugh. “Och, Chloe… what am I to do with him?”
“Depends what ye want to do with him,” the maid replied slyly.
Lydia turned a shade of pink that could’ve rivaled the dawn. “That’s nae what I meant!”
“Aye, but it’s what ye thought.”
“Chloe!”
“All right, all right,” the girl said, trying to suppress her grin. “Ye want advice, then? About the Laird who’s too broody for his own good?”
Lydia hesitated. “I… daenae ken. I daenae even ken what to think anymore.” She rose from the window seat and began pacing, her skirts whispering across the floorboards.
“One moment, he’s kind… almost tender. The next, he’s distant, cold.
He orders me about as though I were one of his soldiers then vanishes for days as if he regrets I exist at all. ”
Chloe’s expression softened. “He’s protectin’ ye, Me Lady. Ye ken that, aye?”
“I ken that’s what he tells himself,” Lydia said, frustrated. “But there’s a difference between protection and control. I cannae so much as step into the courtyard without Michael trailin’ behind me. I cannae speak to the council without Kieran glowerin’ at every man who looks in me direction.”
Chloe smirked. “Sounds like jealousy to me.”
“Daenae be ridiculous,” Lydia said though her stomach gave a treacherous flutter.
“Och, come now. If he werenae jealous, he’d nae be avoidin’ ye like the plague. Men like him, they only run when they’re afraid they want somethin’ they cannae have.”
Lydia sank into a chair, pressing her palms to her face. “I shouldnae want him, Chloe. I shouldnae even think of him that way.”
“Why? Ye’re his wife.”
Lydia peeked between her fingers, scowling. She supposed Chloe had a good point, but she didn’t want to consider it like that at all. “Ye’re impossible.”
“Aye, that’s what the cook says,” Chloe said brightly. “Usually right before I steal her tarts.”
That earned another laugh from Lydia, one that broke through her heavy mood. She leaned back in the chair and gave Chloe a weary smile. “If I dinnae have ye to talk to, I think I’d go mad.”
“Och, I’ll remind ye of that when ye start throwin’ things at me,” the maid said with a wink. Then, more gently, “Listen, Me Lady, the Laird’s a hard man to read, but I’ve seen how he looks at ye. Aye, he’s stayin’ away now, but that’s nae because he doesnae care. It’s because he does.”
Lydia toyed with the ribbon at her sleeve, her mind a swirl of confusion and something dangerously like hope. “Ye truly think so?”
“I ken so,” Chloe said then grinned again. “Besides, if ye’re that desperate to see him, ye could always accidentally wander near the trainin’ yard. The Laird spends half his day there. I can make sure Michael’s lookin’ the other way…”
“Chloe!” Lydia gasped, laughing despite herself.
“What? I’m only sayin’—”
“I am nae sneakin’ around to watch him train!”
“Who said anythin’ about sneakin’? Just a stroll. Purely accidental. Maybe trip a wee bit near his sword rack.”
“Chloe, you are incorrigible.”
“Aye, but me methods yield results.”
Lydia rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Perhaps I’ll just stay right here and read. That seems safer.”
Chloe snorted. “Safer, aye, but far less fun.”
And as the maid went back to her chores, humming cheerfully, Lydia turned once more toward the misty lake.
She told herself Chloe was wrong; that she wasn’t longing for the Laird’s company or his voice or the warmth of his mouth against hers. But when she caught herself glancing toward the door, half-expecting his tall, dark figure to appear, she knew she was lying, even to herself.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth as Lydia walked through the courtyard beside Chloe and Michael.
The sky was bruised with early clouds though thin threads of sunlight managed to break through, touching the turrets of McDawson Castle with a faint golden glow.
Lydia’s skirts whispered across the flagstones, and the hem of her cloak brushed the mud—a practical one Chloe had insisted she wear, saying that highland mornings don’t care for fine gowns.
Lydia had grown used to Chloe’s chatter over the past few days, the maid’s cheerful irreverence softening the edges of her new life.
Together, they had gone over the supplies for the ceilidh—fabrics for the hall banners, barrels of ale, and a dozen other details Lydia insisted upon to make the celebration perfect.
It was the first thing that had made her feel like a Lady of the Clan since arriving, and she refused to fail.
Michael walked a few paces ahead, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ever vigilant. His usual grin was replaced by a look of mild boredom though his eyes never stopped scanning their surroundings.
“I’m just sayin’, Me Lady,” Chloe was saying, tugging at the basket on her arm, “if ye let me handle the tarts, I’ll have every man in this castle eatin’ out of yer hand by the end of the night.”
Lydia laughed softly. “Includin’ the Laird?”
“Och, him most of all,” Chloe said with a wink. “Though I think he’s halfway there already.”
Lydia rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless, her heart giving a little flutter that she tried to ignore.
Before Chloe could respond, Michael raised a hand—a sharp, silent signal that made both women halt mid-step. The easy air of the morning shifted instantly, tension slicing through the air like a drawn blade.
“Stay behind me,” Michael said, his tone low but steady. His eyes darted toward the gate where a merchant’s wagon had just rolled in, creaking under its load. Two men walked beside it—one older, stout and balding, the other younger with a narrow face and shifty eyes.
Lydia frowned, clutching her cloak tighter around her. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Probably nothin’,” Michael said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Just… keep close.”
The merchant spotted them and gave a broad, seemingly friendly smile. “Me Lady! The Laird said ye’d be wantin’ to see the wares yerself.”
Lydia nodded, forcing calm into her voice. “Aye. I wanted to ensure everythin’ was as ordered. We’re plannin’ a—”
Her words cut off with a scream as something dark and fast flashed in the air.
Michael shoved her to the ground an instant before a blade whistled past where her head had been, striking the stone wall behind her with a metallic clang.
“Ambush!” Michael shouted, drawing his sword.
The courtyard erupted in chaos within moments.
A man who had crept into the courtyard while the merchant was rolling in with his wares lunged, yanking a dagger from under his cloak, while another man rushed forward, a second knife gleaming in his hand.
Chloe shrieked and ducked behind the overturned basket, fruit scattering across the ground.
Lydia’s heart hammered so loudly she could barely hear anything else.
Her palms stung from the fall, but her instincts, sharpened by years of watching people train, kicked in, even as her lungs burned as she tried to catch her breath and her ears buzzed with the rush of blood to her head.
She scrambled toward the knife that had missed her, snatching it up with trembling hands.
“Stay back!” she cried, her voice shaking but loud.
The older man sneered, advancing. “Ye’ll fetch a fine ransom, lass—”
Before he could finish, Michael met him head-on, steel clashing against steel.
The courtyard rang with the sound of battle—grunts, boots scraping on stone, the hiss of metal sliding against metal.
Michael engaged the man in a fight, stepping to the side as the other man’s blade came down to cut him.
He parried the blow, pushing the man back, but there was nothing easy about this.
Lydia could see it in the man’s movements; he was not a mere brigand.
He was moving like a trained soldier, and Lydia knew immediately it wasn’t a random attack.
But she didn’t have much time to ponder who it could be who wanted her dead now that she was married to Kieran.
The younger attacker darted past, heading straight for Lydia, and she swung the knife wildly, grazing his arm.
The man snarled and grabbed her wrist, twisting until she gasped in pain, the knife dropping from her hand.
She tried to fight him; she truly did. She lashed out at him, trying to push him off, but the man was strong, and she was caught in his vice-like grip.
“Ye’ll regret that, Me Lady,” he spat.
As she struggled, thrashing to throw him off her, the man tried to stop her, his armed hand trying to grab her other wrist—only to slash across her forearm, blood blooming instantly under her sleeve.
Before she could even cry out, Chloe—brave, reckless Chloe—hurled the copper pitcher she had been carrying straight at his head.
It struck the man with a dull thunk, and he staggered, giving Lydia the chance to kick him hard in the shin.
Howling, the man stumbled back, just as Michael’s sword found its mark in the older man’s chest.
The younger one saw his chance and bolted, vanishing toward the gate before Michael could catch him.
Silence fell—a thick, suffocating silence broken only by Lydia’s ragged breathing.
All around her, the servants and noblemen and women who had been in the courtyard at the time of the attack were slowly, hesitantly coming out of their hiding places, their eyes wide and fearful, even though none of them had been the target of the attack.
She had been the only target. She had been the one they wanted.
When she reached Lydia, Chloe was shaking, her face pale. “Are ye… are ye all right, Me Lady?”
Lydia nodded though her hands still trembled so violently that she couldn’t push herself up to her feet. “I… I think so.”
Michael cursed under his breath and wiped his blade clean as he barked orders at his men to run after the attacker who had managed to escape. “Damn it all. That wasnae just a common thief.”
Lydia’s eyes darted to the dead man at their feet.
Blood pooled under his body, drenching the earth in crimson.
As everyone around her rushed to find the man and alert Kieran of the attack, Lydia could hardly register any of it.
Her world had narrowed down to one, singular point—that wound on the man’s chest which was still fountaining blood.
Chloe reached for her hand, squeezing it tight. “Ye’re safe now,” she said, and though her voice trembled, it was still comforting to hear it.
But Lydia wasn’t sure she believed her. Because somewhere out there, someone wanted her dead, and as Michael’s expression hardened, Lydia saw in his eyes what he didn’t say aloud—just as she expected, this attack wasn’t random. It was the same darkness that had taken Kieran’s previous wives.
And now, it had come for her.