Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Kieran, wait!” Lydia called, but Kieran was already turning away from her, away from everyone.
The great hall emptied in a storm of confusion—chairs scraping, voices rising, boots thundering across the floor as the clan eventually stumbled over themselves to obey their laird’s command when the initial shock of his command and his departure faded.
The music had long since faded. Torches flickered in the sudden draft as people pushed toward the doors.
And soon, everyone was gone, filtering out of the room.
Lydia felt the echo of her heartbeat in her throat.
The attack had been quick—so quick she barely understood how they had gotten out unscathed or how it had all even happened.
One moment she was in Kieran’s arms, the next she was shoved behind him, his body blocking every blow, every strike.
The man and woman who had lunged for them now lay dead or unconscious—she wasn’t even entirely sure which it was.
All she had seen was Kieran move like a wildfire breaking loose.
And now, he walked away from her.
He strode across the hall, past the toppled benches and spilled wine, toward the corridor that led to the courtyard. His steps were rigid, his shoulders stiff as stone, and he didn’t look back.
Most people would have left him alone, but Lydia was not most people.
“Kieran!” she called, lifting her skirts and weaving past the stragglers.
He didn’t stop; he didn’t even slow. He only continued on his path, unstoppable, like a force of nature.
He was such a stubborn man, so reluctant to listen to anyone other than himself.
And now, after this last attack, Lydia was certain that he would never even touch her again, convinced that it was all his fault—that as long as she was by his side, she would be in danger.
She supposed it would be a fair assessment.
The truth of the matter was that she had faced the danger of dying too many times to count ever since she had stepped foot in his castle.
She had been attacked time and time again, and she had been left just as shocked, just as frightened and trembling as the first time.
The attacks had truly begun to take a toll on her, and even now, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder every few minutes, paranoid that someone would jump out of the shadows and try to claim her life again.
It had happened enough times to justify that fear, she thought.
It had happened enough times to make it a miracle that she was still alive.
Still, she was not so easy to give up—and clearly, she was not so easy to kill, in no small part thanks to Kieran.
She hurried after him, breathless. “Kieran, wait, please!”
“Go to yer chambers, Lydia,” he said without turning. His voice was low, dangerously controlled. “This is nae the time.”
She reached him just as he pushed open the heavy oak door to the outer passage. The night wind poured in, cold, sharp, and carrying the scent of rain. Lydia followed him and slammed the door behind her, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to battle the cold.
“Kieran,” she said again, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Wait. We should talk.”
“There’s nothin’ to talk about.”
“Aye, there is.”
“I said there’s nothin’, Lydia!” he snapped—not violently but with a force that made her flinch. He froze, his shoulders rigid, but the look on his face didn’t soften at all. It was still just as harsh, just as stern, as if the mere sight of her was enough to set him off.
She took a breath then another. She refused to back away.
“Kieran,” she said softly, “ye can snap at the wind if ye like, but I’m still here. And I’ll nae leave until ye speak to me.”
He let out a raw sound, one of frustration, of pain, and dragged both hands through his black hair before turning away from her, staring into the dark courtyard as if it might swallow him.
“I never wanted this,” he said.
“Wanted… what? The dance? The ceilidh?”
“This marriage,” he ground out. “I never wanted another one. I was forced into this as much as ye were.”
Her breath stuttered. It was no secret that neither of them had wanted this marriage, but she had held onto the hope that things had changed between them after they had spent those moments together in the painting room.
Something had certainly shifted for her, but now it seemed to her that the same wasn’t true for Kieran.
Did he still feel nothing for her? Had everything that had happened between them only been for pleasure and fun?
Before she could speak, he continued, his voice cracking around the edges. “I cannae keep a wife alive, Lydia. I cannae. Every time I try, she dies, and it’s me fault.”
His words struck her silent. What was there for her to say to that. How could she possibly make him believe that he was not the one to blame when he so clearly believed it, when it was a belief that was deeply rooted inside him?
All she could manage was a weak, “Nay.”
“Aye,” he said fiercely. “I brought ye here. I stood beside ye. I gave ye me name, and now, look what’s happenin’. They’re comin’ for ye. They’re nae even hidin’ it anymore.” His voice dropped to a rasp. “I cannae lose another. I daenae want the same thing to happen to ye.”
The night wind tore at her hair, but she barely felt it. All she felt were his words like a knife to the heart, sharp and brittle, cutting right through her.
“Kieran,” she said, “did ye hold up the sword that killed them?”
“Nay!” His answer was immediate, instinctive “Of course nae, Lydia.”
“Did ye tell someone to harm them?” she pressed gently.
“Nay.”
“Did ye wish it?”
“Never.”
“Then how,” she asked, her voice trembling but steadying with every word, “is any of it yer fault?”
He stared at her like she’d struck him. She stepped closer, then closer still, until her hands rested against his chest, and she felt him trembling—not visibly, but deep beneath the muscle, like the earth before a quake.
“Kieran… ye saved me tonight. And nae only tonight. Ye’ve saved me many times. Daenae blame yerself. This isnae yer fault.”
“If I’d been a heartbeat slower—”
“But ye werenae.”
Her words seemed to bring him little comfort, but that little comfort would have to be enough for now. There wasn’t much else she could do; the wounds were still fresh, the panic even more so. She could hardly blame him for fearing; she could hardly claim she didn’t fear for herself too.
When he said nothing more on the matter, Lydia spoke once more, admitting to him the truth.
“Even after the papers were signed, I tried to get out of marryin’ ye.”
His eyes widened briefly, his startled expression quickly replaced by a flicker of hurt he tried to hide behind a stony look.
His shoulders stiffened under her hands.
She had worded it wrong perhaps; she had been too honest, too direct, doing nothing to cushion the blow.
But it was the truth, and it had been when she had first come to the castle.
“I see,” he said quietly. “Ye tried to run from me. Well… I daenae blame ye. I would have one the same.”
“Nay… well, aye, but nay.” She winced at her lack of eloquence, drawing in a dee breath. “I only did it because I was frightened, Kieran. Frightened of marriage, frightened of losin’ me freedom again. Frightened of… everythin’. They dinnae leave me a choice. Me family forced me hand.”
At that, his gaze snapped back to her, suddenly dark and alert.
“Yer family,” he repeated, his voice hardening. “Or yer sister?”
Lydia tilted her head to the side, confusion gripping her. “What? Iris? Nay—”
“Aye, Iris. From what ye’ve said, it sounds like she pressured ye… controlled ye. She took yer place last time, blamed ye, and now, she forced ye again. That’s abuse, Lydia. She’s abusive, and I’ll nae—”
“What?” Lydia jerked back as though struck. “Abusive? Iris?”
Had it not been so insulting, it would have been hilarious. To think that anyone could consider Iris was abusive was beyond madness, and though Kieran had come to this conclusion simply because he didn’t know her, it didn’t mean that she would let him get away with something like this.
“I’ll nae allow her to treat ye that way,” Kieran said. “If she laid guilt on ye or hurt ye, she’ll answer for it. I’ll deal with her—”
“Deal with… Kieran, ye cannae punish me sister!” Lydia snapped, her voice cracking with outrage.
He froze, and now, it was his turn to be confused. The wind gusted between them, filling in the silence that had settled over them—one that Lydia didn’t know how to fill herself, at least not if she was to remain calm.
No matter who it was, she would never allow anyone to speak ill of her sister.
She stepped forward, furious, her hands fisting at her sides. “Iris did nothin’ to me. Nothin’. She saved me. She took me place because she wanted me safe… because she loves me.”
Kieran’s eyes narrowed. “Then why did ye say ye’re a burden to her?”
Lydia’s heart thudded painfully at the memory of everything she had done to her sister.
“Because I hurt her, ye great stubborn man! I caused her pain. I caused her life to change, nae the other way around! The very idea of Iris bein’ a bully is insultin’,” she said, her voice low but fierce.
“And ye’ll never, never, threaten me sister again. ”
“Lydia—”
“Nay,” she cut in, lifting a hand to stop him. “I mean it.”
For a long moment, they simply stared at one another in the moonlit courtyard, the tension between them taut as wire. The torches had burned low behind them, leaving most of the stone walls in shadow. The night felt colder now, sharper, like the air itself knew they stood on a knife’s edge.
Her voice softened, but the tremble in it betrayed how raw she felt. “Iris is… she’s the best person I ken. Kinder than I deserve, braver, too. I was the problematic one.”