Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“Stay back!”
That familiar voice, now shrill and terrified, caught Kieran by surprise. In his study, there had been nothing but silence and the distant hum of the courtyard below, but now, that silence was pierced by an all too familiar scream that had his heart racing.
He was on his feet in seconds, rushing to the far window that overlooked the courtyard, just as the door to his study flew open without so much as a knock.
Whipping his head around, his hand reaching for his dirk by instinct, he saw a guard standing there, red-cheeked and panting as if he had run up the two flights of stairs, all the way to the study.
“Me Laird!” the young man bellowed, just as the door slammed against the wall with a deafening crack. “Come quickly! There’s been an attack!”
From his vantage point, Kieran could hardly see what was happening in the courtyard, but at the guard’s words, bile rose to the back of his throat. He knew that voice; he knew it belonged to Lydia, and he knew something terrible must have happened to her.
With two large steps, he reached the young man, grabbing him by the shoulder. “What is it? What happened?”
“I… I’m nae so certain,” the man stammered. “I was sent to alert ye, but I wasnae there to see it.”
From the courtyard, shouts still reached him but not the sounds of battle. Kieran pushed his way past the guard, who then swiftly followed him down the stairs to the ground floor, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls around them, mimicking the frantic rhythm of his heart.
When he spilled out into the courtyard, the sight that greeted him was not one he expected. There was no carnage, no sea of blood. There was only one body and the concerned, pallid faces of the guards around him.
“Where is she?” Kieran shouted. “Where’s Lydia?”
“She was taken to the healer’s croft, Me Laird,” another solider said, rushing to meet him by the entrance steps with a hurried bow. “Chloe and Mr. Andrews took her there.”
“Is she hurt?” Kieran barked.
“I… forgive me, Me Laird, I daenae ken,” said the man, looking around at the other soldiers in the courtyard as if searching for someone who knew the answer—or someone who could at least take over, so he didn’t have to face Kieran’s wrath.
Red-faced, rage thrumming through his veins, Kieran turned around, looking at each and every one of them. “Did nay one see what happened? Ye were all here, were ye nae? Can anyone tell me what they saw?”
An awkward silence spread through the courtyard until one of the older guards stepped forward. “There was a merchant… or… or rather a man disguised as a merchant. He attacked Lady McDawson, he and his aide. One of them escaped, Me Laird, but Mr. Andrews killed the other.”
Michael… I told him to keep an eye on her.
“Ye’re tellin’ me all of ye were out here on yer watch, and still, ye allowed yer lady to be hurt?” he asked, disbelief coloring his tone. “How? How could ye have allowed such a thing to happen?”
None of his guards seemed to have a response for him. Memory, sharp and chilling, even after all these years, resurfaced within him; the cold hand of dread wrapped its fingers around his chest in a relentless vice, a few beads of cold sweat forming on his brow.
It’s happenin’ again. Whoever killed me previous wives is now tryin’ to kill Lydia.
He had promised her he wouldn’t let anyone harm her, and yet he had already failed. He had promised his previous wives the same—empty words that in the end had done nothing to keep them alive—and now, the rage he felt was not directed at anyone else; it was directed towards himself.
He was to blame for their deaths. He was to blame for what had happened to Lydia now.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked off to the healer’s croft behind the keep, his pace quick, his eyes focused only on the squat building in the distance with its slanting roof and the herb garden that sprawled outside.
The image of Lydia, hurt and bleeding on the ground, would not leave his mind.
It plagued him, forcing his steps to quicken even more until he was running towards the croft, ignoring the winding path that led to it in favor of a direct route through the dirt and the bushes that stood in his way.
His trews brushed against the twigs and the thorns; the fabric tore around his ankles, but he paid it no mind.
When he finally reached the small house, he didn’t bother knocking.
He only pushed the door open and rushed inside, his gaze searching for any sign of Lydia.
He found her there, sitting on a narrow cot by the stone wall, surrounded by Chloe, Michael, and the healer, Fenella—an older woman with kind eyes and kinder hands, weathered and freckled by the sun. Immediately, he reached for her, only for Fenella to block his way before he could grab her.
“If ye’d be so kind as to wait a moment, Me Laird,” she said, and though it was phrased as a request, Kieran knew it was no such thing. Fenella didn’t ask; she demanded, and people listened to her out of respect.
And so, Kieran stepped back, but his gaze never left Lydia.
“Are ye all right?” he asked her, pushing past Chloe to sit next to Lydia on the cot. At her other side, Fenella was dressing a wound on her forearm—one that still bled sluggishly but which was no cause for alarm.
But before Lydia even had a chance to answer, he turned his gaze to Michael, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching Fenella work.
“What were ye doin’ when all this happened?” he asked, his voice a low hiss. “Did I nae tell ye to keep close to her? Was I nae clear? Did ye nae hear me?”
“Kieran…” Lydia said gently, but Kieran hardly heard her.
“I told ye to stay with her. I told ye she’s in danger. Ye of all people should ken how important this is! Ye ken what happens when—”
“I was with her,” Michael said, interrupting him. “I was with her, Kieran, and I killed the bastard. All right? Ye’re nae the only one concerned about the lass.”
“And yet ye allowed this to happen,” Kieran said, pushing up to his feet once more to stand in front of Michael. “Ye ken what’s happenin’. Ye’ve seen this before. So, what in hell do ye think ye were doin’, lettin’ her get hurt like this?”
“Kieran!”
Lydia’s sharp tone forced him to look at her, and Kieran found her scowling at him, her brows knitted into a deep frown.
“Michael was there,” she said. “He hasnae left me side, and he’s the only reason why I’m still here. And I’m fine, truly. It’s only a scratch.”
It was much more than a scratch. It was a wound from a sharpened blade, one that was meant to harm her. But Kieran didn’t point that out. He only turned back to Michael, pointing a finger at him.
“Ye’ll find the man responsible for this,” he said. “None of ye will rest until we find him, do ye hear me? I want him found, and I want him hanged.”
For a moment, neither man spoke. They only stared at each other, the only sound in the room their combined breaths, before Michael gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel, leaving the healer’s cottage.
After a moment of hesitation, Chloe gave him a bow and followed Michael, leaving Kieran there with Lydia and Fenella, her footsteps light behind Michael’s loud ones.
“From now on, ye’ll nae stray from my side,” Kieran told Lydia, turning a stern gaze on her.
It was a mistake, leavin’ her in another’s hands. I must be the one to keep an eye on her, always. I cannae trust anyone else with this.
Lydia laughed, as if she thought Kieran was making a joke. But the truth of the matter was that he was entirely serious, and she seemed to realize that when he pinned her with a strict gaze that told her he was not joking at all.
“Surely, ye jest,” she said flatly, only for Kieran to scoff.
“It’s nae a jest,” he assured her. “I told ye, if I’m nae near, then Michael is responsible for ye, but now that Michael allowed this to happen, I’m nae lettin’ ye out of me sight. I cannae trust anyone else to protect ye.”
Lydia let out a long, deep sigh, just as Fenella finished dressing her arm. Kieran’s gaze was drawn to that dressing, watching as a few drops of blood crimsoned its surface.
“I shall… bring a calmin’ brew, Me Laird,” Fenella said and quickly disappeared into the back room, leaving the two of them alone.
For a few moments, there was nothing between them but silence, the only sound in the room that of the wind as it ruffled the bundles of herbs that hung from the ceiling rafters to dry.
The air in the cottage was crisp and dry, filled with the scent of lavender and thyme and under it, another, more pungent smell—that of the tinctures and brews that Fenella prepared for the sick and the injured.
“Kieran, I am perfectly fine,” Lydia said in a gentle tone, trying to reason with him. “Daenae fash. Michael did his job, and he did it well. He’s the reason why I’m sittin’ here now. Well… he and Chloe.”
“How can ye say ye’re fine?” Kieran asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation before gesturing to her forearm. “Do ye nae see that? Do ye nae see that ye’re injured?”
“Aye, so I am,” she said. “But Michael isnae to blame for this. I was attacked, Kieran. It’s a miracle I came out of it with nary a serious injury. It’s only a small wound, and it shall heal. And all of this because of Michael because he was there to stop them.”
A whole castle full of guards and she was still injured. I should have been with her. Why should I trust anyone else with this? They’ve shown me they’re all useless.
“Ye’ll nae leave me side,” Kieran insisted, his tone making his decision sound final. “Have I made meself understood? Where I go, ye go.”
Lydia shook her head with a humorless laugh as she pushed herself off the bed and dusted her skirts, her good hand coming up to smooth her hair back off her face, quickly fixing the strands that must have fallen out of her braid in the struggle.
“Ye’re delusional if ye think I will follow ye everywhere.”
Rage coursed like fire in Kieran’s veins.
He took a few steps towards her, blocking her way as she tried to leave the cottage, only for Lydia to sidestep him—or at least try before he blocked her way once more.
She stopped and stared at him, half indignant and half in disbelief, but Kieran wasn’t going to let her go that easily.
“Ye speak as if ye have a choice,” he said, and it was only moments later that he realized he said the entirely wrong thing.
“Excuse me” Lydia scoffed, straightening her spine. “Do ye hear how ridiculous ye sound? I have nay choice? Will ye simply… will ye simply suffocate me until I give ye nay resistance? Is that yer grand plan?”
Kieran frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “If ye think I’m suffocatin’ ye because I’m tryin’ to save yer life, then I daenae ken what to tell ye.”
“Daenae tell me anythin’,” said Lydia. “But daenae try to keep me imprisoned in the keep either.”
“I’m tryin’ to save yer life!” Kieran roared.
His anger had gotten the better of him, and even he flinched at the volume of his voice when it echoed off the walls.
For a moment, Lydia froze, swallowing audibly as she stared at him with wide eyes, and Kieran sighed, deflating as the air left his lungs. “I’m tryin’ to save yer life.”
The second time was gentler, quiet, barely more than a breath. Lydia softened, too, her expression sweetening her delicate features.
Under the golden light of mid-morning, she seemed to glow—her hair a halo around her face, her pale skin like porcelain, untouched by sun and salt. The sunbeams streaming in through the windows seemed to have reached the cottage just to shine on her, just to brush over her skin.
She’ looks carved from light.
Never before had Kieran found a woman as enchanting as he found her.
Never before had his pulse quickened like this, his stomach tying itself in knots at the mere sight of someone.
And yet now, he was completely under her spell, eager to please her, to own her, to protect her from any harm that could befall her.
And she wouldn’t let him.
It unsettled him, how quickly he had abandoned his duties for her and how shaken he was by this attack.
A part of him, a small, traitorous part of his mind, whispered to him that he had failed again and again and that he should have already found the man who killed his wives and was now trying to harm her.
He hadn’t done a single thing; he had allowed the killer to walk away free, and now, he was once again paying the price for it.
But this time, he wouldn’t fail; this time, he would find him.
“May I go now?” Lydia asked, breaking him out of his thoughts. “I wish to rest.”
Kieran gave a small nod, stepping aside for her to pass, but then he followed her closely, reluctant to leave her out of his sight, and Lydia allowed it with nothing but a sigh.
She’ll be used to it soon. And it’s only until I find the killer.