Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lydia had never seen the great hall so alive.
The flickering torches cast warm, restless gold across the stone walls, and the scent of smoke, roasted venison, honeyed oatcakes, and ale wove together into the heady perfume of celebration.
Fiddles trilled above the crowd, and the rhythmic drumming of boots against the floorboards set the hall thrumming like a great, beating heart.
Tonight, Lydia felt the weight of eyes on her, some curious, others assessing, a few even approving, but far more than she ever had on her before. Tonight, she was the Lady of the Clan and the woman who had organized the entire celebration.
Kieran’s hand brushed hers as he reached for another goblet of ale, the accidental touch sending a shiver up her arm—or perhaps it wasn’t accidental at all.
He had been doing that all evening—finding her hand, brushing her back, glancing at her as though the room wasn’t full of people seeking his attention.
“Ready?” he asked, leaning in so only she could hear.
“For what?” she whispered back.
“For the onslaught.” He nodded toward the cluster of council members approaching across the hall like a flock of dignified, gray-plumed birds. “Brace yerself, lass.”
Lydia nearly choked on her breath at the sight of them. She was not yet used to the men who made up Kieran’s council, as she had hardly spent any time with them—only in breakfasts and dinners, she at one end of the table and they on the other.
But what she did know about them was that they all saw her as a means to an end. She was not a person to them. She was only a way for their laird to secure a good alliance and to have an heir.
Lydia had no illusions about the reason behind their rushed wedding, and she was certain that behind her back, behind closed doors, they were all discussing the same thing.
When would the heir come?
Do they ken Kieran willnae touch me like that? Do they ken what he’s doin’?
She hoped that was not the case, but there would surely be gossip and plenty of it. If she wasn’t with child soon, then everyone would begin to wonder why—was she not good enough for Kieran? Was there something wrong with her? Did she turn him away every night?
It was a price she wasn’t prepared to pay, even when she agreed to this marriage for the sake of her sister.
Things between her and Kieran were less tense now, the two of them finding a rhythm that worked for them, even as he refused to let her out of his sight, but to say she was unprepared to carry his child would be an understatement.
There was much they had yet to discuss. There was much they had yet to solve, including, perhaps most importantly, the mystery of the man who wanted her dead.
She would not be with child, not until the killer was caught.
Soon, the council members drew up before them, each wearing the somber expressions of men who believed they were exceptionally important—and she supposed they were as far as the clan was concerned.
But to her eyes, they were little more than a handful of men who clung to power, trying to govern other people’s lives.
“Me Laird,” one of them began, bowing slightly. He was one of the older ones, his hair graying at the temples, his eyes embellished with fine lines. “A fine celebration indeed. A job well done.”
“Aye, well,” Kieran said, straightening to his full height even as he sat on the chair, “most of it was Lydia’s doin’. I only stood about lookin’ like… a misshapen beet.”
The men of his council wore identical looks of confusion on their faces as Lydia tried to stifle her laugh. In the end, Kieran had opted for a cream color that made him look regal, his profile and silhouette patrician, especially now that he had trimmed his beard.
Lydia found that every time she looked at him, her heart skipped a beat.
And it didn’t hurt that they matched quite well—the simplicity of his color of choice complimented by the fine golden details woven in the fabric and complimenting Lydia’s forest green dress in return.
“Ye certainly daenae resemble a misshapen vegetable now,” she said before she could stop herself.
Kieran laughed, low and warm, as if only for her. “Glad to hear it.”
But before she could enjoy his smile or the fluttering warmth building steadily in her chest, another presence edged in at the council’s side.
Sebastian.
Kieran’s uncle moved with the same easy confidence he always carried, as though he owned every room he entered. His balding, dark hair framed a face carved by time and something colder, and his smile, as polished as it was sharp, held a gleam that made Lydia’s skin prickle.
“I agree,” Sebastian drawled, stepping closer, his eyes fixing on her with unnerving precision. “A fine celebration indeed. I’m glad to see the attacks the other day dinnae harm yer ability to plan things, Me Lady.”
The music seemed to dim behind him though surely, it had to be in Lydia’s mind. She forced her shoulders to stay relaxed, her chin level, but she could not help the shiver that passed through her when he pinned her with that gaze.
“I take my duties seriously,” she said, her voice still steady, if a shade tighter than she liked.
Sebastian’s smile grew, slow and deliberate. “So I see.”
Kieran shifted, almost imperceptibly, placing himself just a little closer to Lydia. She felt rather than saw the tension in him, like a bowstring pulled taut.
“Uncle,” Kieran said in a tone that was polite only in sound, “ye’ll nae be bringin’ up unpleasant matters at a feast.”
“Och, of course. Me apologies.” Sebastian tilted his head, still watching Lydia with that too-keen, too-knowing stare. “It was only meant as a compliment.”
“A misplaced one,” Kieran mumbled.
The council members, suddenly eager to avoid the simmering tension, bowed their way out of the conversation under various excuses of needing more ale or wanting to speak to the musicians.
But Sebastian lingered.
Lydia swallowed in a dry throat. “Is there anythin’ else ye wished to say?” she asked, polite but in a chilly tone that showed just how much she would have preferred it if he followed his fellow council members.
Sebastian’s eyes softened in a way that made her stomach twist, like a predator pretending to be harmless. “Only that the clan is fortunate to have a lady so… dedicated. A woman who endures danger yet still fulfils her responsibilities is a rare treasure indeed.”
When she glanced at Kieran from the corner of her eye, she found him strangely tense, his shoulders drawn up to his ears, and she couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong.
Did he, too, realize there was something strange about Sebastian? She had never heard him speak about his uncle, not directly at least, and so she had no idea what his opinion of the man could be. All she knew was that now, it seemed to her that Kieran had a bone to pick with him, to say the least.
“Enjoy the feast,” Kieran said roughly, making it abundantly clear the conversation was over.
Sebastian inclined his head, stepping back. “Of course. Do savor the night while ye can.”
He vanished into the crowd, and Lydia didn’t see where he went. Lydia was only glad she didn’t have that suffocating presence over her anymore—a weight lifted, something in the air shifting.
She exhaled shakily.
Kieran turned to her at once. “Are ye all right?”
“Aye,” she said, though the icy trace Sebastian’s stare had left on her spine was slow to fade.
Kieran watched his uncle disappear into the throng, the torchlight catching on the few silver strands in Sebastian’s hair as he slipped between guests with the effortless ease of a man welcome in every corner.
People greeted him warmly, clapping him on the shoulder, unaware of the frost he brought in his wake.
Kieran’s jaw tightened.
How did he ken about the attack?
He was certain he had kept the matter quiet.
He had given his men clear orders, and they were not the kind who disobeyed him.
No one had seen anything, no one had spoken—according to them all, nothing had happened at all, and he and Lydia had agreed to keep the incident silent until he could make sense of it.
So how had his uncle leaned in with that casual smile and mentioned attacks, plural, as though it were news sung by the minstrels?
Kieran’s pulse thudded, slow and heavy, suspicion coiling in his gut.
He didn’t want to suspect Sebastian. The man had helped raise him, teaching him sword-work, advising him at council, laughing loudly and drinking harder and telling the clan proudly that Kieran would be twice the laird his father had ever been.
But his uncle also had a way of looking at things—possessions, titles, people—that made Kieran’s skin chill as if hit by frost.
And tonight, it was Lydia he had looked at that way.
Beside him, Lydia exhaled, small and shaken. Kieran angled himself subtly closer, shielding her from the crowd with his body without making it obvious. Her fingers brushed her skirts, smoothing fabric that did not need smoothing.
“He unsettles ye,” he said.
“Sometimes,” Lydia admitted with a small nod. “But… surely, it is all in good jest.”
Even as she spoke the words, she did not seem to believe them.
He leaned down, saying, “Perhaps ye can call me a misshapen lump of cream tonight.”
For a moment, Lydia didn’t react, and Kieran cursed himself for the forced attempt at lifting her spirits. But when she smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing, it soothed him more than he cared to admit.
But he couldn’t ignore this. Whatever it was he had sensed from his uncle, he doubted it was all in his head—or all in good jest as Lydia claimed.
Perhaps someone spoke… and why wouldnae they tell him? He’s a trusted member of the council.
I’m makin’ this seem worse than it is.
But still, he would not let this get out of hand. Either he would put his suspicions to rest or—
He didn’t want to consider the alternative.
“Kieran!”
Michael’s voice cut through the noise of the hall. His friend approached swiftly but without urgency, as though he had simply been making a casual circuit around the celebration. A few women waved at him; one even winked. Michael flashed a grin at them but didn’t slow his pace.
Good.
Kieran needed him sharp.
When Michael reached them, he bowed slightly to Lydia before turning to Kieran. “A fine evenin’. Ye look like a man who’s about to send me on some fool’s errand.”
“Aye,” Kieran said quietly. “And ye’ll enjoy this one even less than usual.”
Michael’s smile faded.
“What’s wrong?”
Kieran cast a quick glance at Lydia—her eyes still on Sebastian’s departing form—then to the musicians beginning a faster tune. The hall was loud enough, raucous enough, that their conversation would drown in the din.
Still, he lowered his voice. “Go find out what me uncle’s been doin’ these past weeks. Where he’s been. Who he’s spoken to. Anythin’ that seems odd.”
Michael blinked in confusion. “Sebastian?”
“Aye.”
“Ye think—”
“I think he shouldnae ken about the second attack,” Kieran said, his voice harsh in his throat. “There were only two people aware of it—me and Lydia. And, well… the guards and ye.”
Michael’s expression hardened instantly, his gaze sweeping around the room as if trying to find those to blame. “Then someone told him.”
“Aye. And if it wasnae Lydia, and it sure as hell wasnae me or ye… then either he has a spy, or he’s the one who made certain there was somethin’ to ken.”
Michael swore under his breath. Lydia glanced over at the sound, but Kieran gave her a small shake of the head, and she looked away though concern darkened her eyes.
Michael adjusted the dirk at his belt. “I’ll start askin’ questions. Quiet ones. Do ye want me to check his chambers? His papers?”
“If ye can do it without bein’ seen.”
Michael nodded once. The weight of his seriousness settled over them like a cloak.
“And Michael,” Kieran added, dropping his voice even lower, “if anyone sees ye pokin’ around, make sure they know ye’re doin’ it at me order. I’ll nae have ye wind up next on someone’s list.”
Michael snorted. “Please, Kieran. If someone wants me dead, they’ll need to try harder than leavin’ suspicious papers lyin’ about.”
But the humor in his voice didn’t reach his eyes.
He bowed again to Lydia. “Me Lady.”
“Is somethin’ wrong?” she asked softly.
Kieran answered before Michael could. “Nothin’ that will trouble ye tonight.”
Lydia’s gaze flickered to his, uncertain. She didn’t trust that answer, and she was right not to, but she let it go—at least or now.
Michael slipped into the shadows along the hall’s edge, vanishing behind a cluster of visiting clan members. Kieran knew he had already begun the task. Even now, he would not rest until the killer was found.
Under the table, Kieran’s hand found Lydia’s without thinking.
Hers was cool—no doubt she was still rattled by Sebastian’s insinuating presence—and so he curled his fingers around hers gently, grounding them both.
The ceilidh roared on around them, the music, swelling, the ale flowing, the celebration continuing undisturbed.
But under it all, Kieran felt the unmistakable thrum of danger.