Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pacing listlessly around the castle didn’t seem to help Lydia one bit, and yet there she was, going from the courtyard to the kitchens and from the kitchens to the library and from the library to the great hall, trying to distract herself with tasks that didn’t seem to be needing any doing.
Ever since she finished up in the gardens with Chloe, she had been avoiding the painting room—a place she hadn’t even known existed until this day as someone had clearly neglected to mention it.
Or perhaps it had been intentional. Perhaps Kieran hadn’t told her about it because that’s where he seemed to spend a lot of his free time, and he didn’t want her to disturb him.
The thought stirred something hot and ugly inside her. Did Elijah ever treat Iris like this? Did he ever withdraw from her, hiding himself in rooms where she couldn’t find him?
She had lived long enough with the two of them to know that the answer to that question was a resounding no. Never had she seen Elijah shut Iris out of his life, out of his mind like this.
Whether we like it or nae, we are husband and wife. He cannae keep ignorin’ me like this!
Determined to at least get an answer, Lydia made her way to the painting room, a hall over from the library in the eastern wing. She had seen the room from the outside, she realized—it was a corner room with a row of windows surrounding two of its sides, lending itself perfectly to painting.
When she knocked on the door—quietly, tentatively—Kieran’s unmistakable voice called from the other side.
“Come in.”
Lydia opened the door to find him behind an easel, a large canvas resting on top of it.
He stood behind it with his back to the windows so that the golden morning light would illuminate his work, seemingly uninterested in the view behind him—a rare bright day, the valley below the keep stretching green and verdant into the nearby lake.
The sight gave her pause; the last thing she had expected was for him to have an affinity for painting.
But then again, why would he be in here if he dinnae?
“Lydia,” Kieran said, taken aback to see her there.
Standing behind his easel, he was outlined by the sun, a figure sculpted to perfection.
He had gotten rid of his doublet and had drawn up his sleeves to the elbows, exposing his forearms, the material tight around his biceps as he moved, and Lydia found herself unable to look away from him once again, as if mesmerized by the sight of him.
Her mouth went dry instantly, her heartbeat quickening until she could hardly draw a breath. A hand went instinctively to her chest, clutching the small pendant that hung around her neck as if it was an anchor and she was at sea, completely unmoored.
“What are ye doin’ here?” Kieran asked when she didn’t respond.
The question caught her by surprise, —not so much because she didn’t have an answer for it but rather because she wasn’t expecting it. It seemed rather rude to her, the way he seemed so offended by her presence in the room, and she couldn’t help but feel unwelcome.
“I was… lookin’ for ye,” she said, rather unhelpfully, as she closed the door behind her and walked further into the room.
For lack of anything better to say, she decided to walk over to the easel and look at the painting Kieran was drawing—maybe give a compliment, a comment, even a suggestion—but when her gaze fell on it, she paused.
It was a landscape, rough and raw—the sea, its waves dark and wild, tossing an impressive ship to its side, golden light spilling through the steel clouds in beams. Nobody seemed to be on that ship though she didn’t know whether that was out of choice or whether Kieran simply had not finished it yet.
“Kieran… I dinnae ken ye could paint like this,” she said, a little breathless. “This is… this is marvelous, truly.”
She had the urge to touch the painting, to trace her fingers over that raging sea, over the curves of those wild waves. Still, she refrained from doing so; the last thing she wanted was to ruin it by touching it, and so she took a few steps back, admiring it from afar.
Kieran didn’t respond to her; he only stared at her with a frown, as though he was trying to peer right into her mind.
“What are ye doin’ here, lass?” he asked as he placed down his brush and came to stand before her. Though his gaze was more curious than unkind, Lydia found herself shrinking under it, fearing the reaction her response would receive.
But she had come here for answers, and she was not leaving without them.
“I wish to ken why ye’re avoidin’ me,” she said flatly, giving her words no emotion, as though it was mere curiosity that had driven her there and not desperation. “Ye’ve spent the better part of the last two days away from me as if I have the consumption. Will ye nae tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothin’ is wrong,” Kieran said, too swiftly, too abruptly. Lydia, naturally, did not believe that for a second, but Kieran was not the kind of man who readily gave out information. “What I do or nay do isnae yer concern.”
Lydia couldn’t help but scoff at that, irritation coursing through her like a zap of lightning. “It isnae me concern? I’m yer wife! It should be me business!”
“Please… neither of us wished for this marriage to happen,” Kiern said, and though that was, indeed, the truth, something broke inside Lydia’s chest. Never had she considered the possibility that the man she would marry would be so cruel to her, so uncaring.
Kieran seemed to think that keeping her alive was his only mission, his only duty; he didn’t seem to care about anything else—not love, not romance, not even the care that two people should show each other, despite a lack of feelings. “To come here and demand things of me—”
“Ye demand things of me all the time!” Lydia said, her rage getting the better of her. How was this fair? How could he demand that she do anything he told her, but she couldn’t even demand a simple explanation from him? “I can demand things of ye, just like ye do.”
Kieran took a step closer until they were almost touching.
Lydia was terribly aware of his presence, terribly aware of how close they were and how his body seemed to heat the air around him.
As she looked up at him, she could feel his breath on her skin, warm and sweet, smelling faintly of whisky; she could see the hues in his eyes—the golden flecks in the dark brown, the way the light played off them and they seemed to shine under it.
“Is that what ye think?”
“Och aye,” said Lydia, craning her neck and straightening her spine. She would not back down from this; she wanted an answer. “That is what I ken. It’s nae fair for ye to treat me like this. I came to this place because I was… I was forced! And now, ye’re punishin’ me for things I daenae ken.”
“I’m nae punishin’ ye,” Kieran said. “Ye would ken it if I were.”
Her breath caught in her throat. There was something about the way Kieran spoke those words that had a flush creeping up her chest to her cheeks, heating her face.
But she could not let him get away with this; she could not let him change the subject and fluster her until she gave up, because Ethen she would never get the answer she needed.
And besides, it frustrated her to no end how her body reacted to him. She was supposed to hate him for this, not fall deeper into his trap.
“Whatever it is ye are doin’, I daenae like it,” Lydia insisted. “Ye are shuttin’ me out. Ye tell me nothin’. All ye do is tell me what to do and where to be, and ye give me nay freedom. It’s like I’m yer prisoner. I cannae do anythin’; I cannae go anywhere without havin’ eyes on me at all times.”
“It’s for yer own safety,” Kieran said, stone-faced and cold. “I’ve told ye this. I’ve explained it more times than I can count, and ye still daenae listen.”
“Neither do ye,” said Lydia, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Why should I be the only one listenin’? Why should I be the only one doin’ what ye want? Why do ye never do what I want?”
Silently, Kieran leaned even closer—so close that their noses were almost touching, and Lydia suddenly had the urge to recoil.
But she didn’t; she stood her ground, looking up at him with all the indignation she could muster.
“Ye daenae want to make demands of me,” he warned. “Makin’ demands of me is dangerous.”
“Och aye?” Lydia asked, her hands on her hips. “And what, precisely, will ye do to me? Harm me? We both ken ye wouldnae do that. So, what is it that I should fear from ye, hmm?”
As she spoke, Kieran’s eyes took on a dark expression that almost made her fear what was to come—though it wasn’t a fear of him hurting her.
He was not angry, she realized, at least not exactly.
Irritated by her stubborn behavior, sure, but there was something else in his gaze—something that she didn’t dare name.
“Nay,” he said. “Ye shouldnae fear that I’ll hurt ye. But ye should fear I’ll have me way with ye.”
Lydia froze like a deer under a hunter’s gaze. She swallowed in a dry throat and took a deep breath, but the act gave her no relief. She had no doubt that Kieran would make good on his threat—or promise—but the worst of it all was that she wanted it desperately.
She wanted to provoke him. She wanted to see how far she could push before he finally gave in and claimed her, but at the same time, she feared the consequences of it.
And so, she was torn between desire and terror, between need and the knowledge that giving in to it would only make things more complicated between them.
Before she could say another thing, though, or even so much as try to pull back and put some space between them, his hands were on her—one on her waist and the other around the back of her neck—pulling her into a heated kiss.
And Lydia was too far gone to protest.