Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It had been two weeks—two weeks since the celebration, since Lydia had nearly been killed again. Two weeks since he had pulled her, shivering and breathless, from the dark lake.
And in those two weeks, Kieran had barely slept. He had torn apart every ledger, examined every trail, questioned every guard, tracked rumors across the glen—but still found no proof.
All clues pointed to one man. His intuition pointed to one man, and yet there nothing. Not a scrap of evidence he could hold.
No one would believe him if he claimed his uncle was the one behind all this.
And why should they? He could hardly believe it himself.
Sebastian had been there, right next to him, through it all.
He had been there when his father ruined the clan; he had been there when Kieran strove to rebuild it.
The entire time, his careful advice had been of great help to Kieran, and he had never once thought it could have been malicious; none of them had.
So why would Sebastian attack his wives? Why would he try to harm him and the clan like this if all he wanted was for them to be prosperous?
“Kieran.”
The familiar, deep voice that came from the door startled him, making him turn on his heel. Michael entered quietly, as if even his footsteps feared disturbing the tension hanging in the air.
Kieran didn’t turn. “Tell me ye’ve found somethin’.”
In these two weeks, and even before that, Kieran had sent all his men on a wild goose hunt.
There had been nothing—no clues, no news, nothing that could incriminate anyone, and he couldn’t help but wonder how that could be.
His men were capable, now more than ever.
He had trained them himself. He knew they were excellent trackers, even better scouts and spies.
So how could it be that they had found nothing?
Michael hesitated, and that silence, heavy and reluctant, told Kieran everything.
“Nothin’,” Michael finally said. “Nae a bloody whisper.”
Kieran’s jaw clenched. The rain began to patter against the window, tapping like urgent fingers. He listened to its steady rhythm, to the hammering of it on the windowpane, his mind drifting out there where danger still lurked.
For days, he had followed the trail of threats, deaths, disappearances—seeing the pattern clearly. He had lost three wives, three women who had stood at his side for far too short a time.
Three graves he still visited though most whispered he should let the past rest.
He never could.
And now, Lydia was in danger because of him. Because of a secret he could not yet prove and a man who should have protected family, not hunted it.
He finally turned to Michael. “It’s him. It has to be him.”
Michael crossed his arms. His gaze was steady, but troubled.
“I ken what ye think, Kieran. Ye’ve said it plenty of times already, and I’ve listened.
If that’s what ye believe, then I believe it too.
But the council willnae listen to suspicion and guesses.
They’ll want proof.” Then he leaned closer, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to show up behind him.
“We’re talkin’ about one of them. Imagine what will happen if we go to the council without any proof. There will be a riot.”
“Suspicion is enough when it’s Lydia’s life on the line,” Kieran insisted though he knew Michael was right. If he started accusing Sebastian without any concrete proof, then the elders would fear being targeted next.
It was far from a wise move, but he couldn’t think of anything else. Sebastian had left him no proof, no evidence—no choice.
“But why would he do somethin’ like this?” Michael asked. “If he wanted the clan, he would simply target ye, daenae ye think? Why kill yer wives?”
“I daenae ken,” said Kieran with a shake of his head. “I daenae ken what he thinks. I only ken he’s the one behind this, and if we cannae prove it, then we should at least inform the council.”
Michael sighed. “Aye. But that alone willnae let us hang a man. And it willnae convince anyone.”
Kieran paced, his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor.
His chest felt tight, as though every breath scraped like sand against his ribs.
He could see Lydia in his mind—her hair catching the firelight in the little cottage, her eyes soft with concern when she thought he wasn’t looking, her fingers brushing his hand as though testing whether he would pull away.
How could he ever pull away from someone like her? How could he ever let her be harmed?
“I cannae lose her,” he said quietly, staring at the floor.
Michael’s brow furrowed. He took a couple of steps forward but then faltered as if he wasn’t sure whether he should approach or not.
“Kieran…”
“Do ye ken what it’s been like?” Kieran’s voice cracked, just a little. “Every night, I wake fearin’ she’s gone. Every morn, I expect a message sayin’ another attempt has been made. I am relivin’ the same nightmare, over and over. And she… Lord help me, she trusts me.”
This time, Michael closed the distance between them with a few decisive steps and placed his hand on his shoulder, lowering his voice. “And that’s exactly why ye must keep a clear head.”
Kieran gave a humorless laugh. “A clear head? Tell me how, when every corner could hide the blade meant for her throat.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the steady rhythm of rain on the roof. Michael’s hand was heavy on his shoulder, comforting; but the more they stood there, side by side, the more Kieran realized Michael would not support him in his decision to tell the council, even if he believed him.
And perhaps he was right; perhaps Kieran had no right to throw such accusations around without real proof.
Michael finally said, “It’s yer uncle for certain in yer mind. But tell me this… what makes ye so certain besides the patterns?”
Kieran paused. His throat felt thick. Then he turned to the window again, eyes narrowing at the blurred horizon.
“Because,” he said, voice hardening, “I’m sure me faither kent it too.
I keep thinkin’ back when he still lived, when Sebastian was one of his advisors, and I daenae remember him ever takin’ his advice.
If anythin’, I remember him bein’ kept at an arm’s length.
Me faither never wanted him too near, and he wasnae a wise man. ”
“Then perhaps if he wasnae a wise man, he was wrong to keep him away,” Michael suggested. “Sebastian has certainly helped the clan plenty since ye took over as the laird.”
“Aye, that’s true,” he said. “But did he give his help selflessly, or was it another ploy to gain power when it would finally suit him? The clan is ready for him now… There isnae much he needs to do to keep it prosperous. There was never a better time for him to take over than now.”
“And ye think Lydia is the leverage he’ll use?” Michael asked.
Kieran nodded. “Aye,” he said in a grim tone. “He has tried the same in the past. He is tryin’ it again. He either wants to blame me for their deaths or… or I daenae ken what else.”
And the truth of the matter was that he, too, blamed himself for them.
“Kieran, all these are very serious accusations,” Michael warned. “Daenae throw them around so lightly.”
“Lightly?” Kieran scoffed. “I take nothing about this lightly. I rebuilt this clan from nothin’. I filled our coffers, trained our guards, repaired the reputation me faither destroyed with drink and women. I fought for every inch of this land, for every ally, every life under me care.”
His hands curled into fists, his nails biting into the flesh of his palm. The more he thought of everything he had accomplished, everything he had done for the clan and his people, the more he understood his uncle’s cruelty when he tried to take it all away from him.
“And I willnae let that man take Lydia or anythin’ else from me.”
Michael’s voice softened when he spoke. “Then we keep searchin’. We find the proof. We do this right. For Lydia’s sake and for the clan’s.”
“Aye,” said Kieran. “For her.”
But even as he spoke, he felt the weight of a dark certainty settling over him. His uncle was behind this. And sooner or later, the truth, hidden deep as rot under the floorboards, would come out.
And when it did, Kieran vowed, he would no longer hide behind suspicion. He would act. He would do anything to keep the man from taking what was rightfully his.
The healing chamber was fragrant with the scent of dried herbs and simmering tonics and warm with the flames that burned in the hearth.
Yet Lydia shivered as she paced back and forth in front of the large, wooden table in the middle of the room where Fenella had laid out all her parchments and books, some of them lying open.
Fenella rummaged through a basket of linen bandages with the same brisk efficiency she applied to everything in life, her gray brows knitted in mild irritation.
“Well?” the healer demanded without looking up. “Ye’ve paced a hole in me floor. Out with it, Me Lady. Yer face looks like someone’s told ye the loch’s frozen over in summer.”
Lydia twisted her fingers in her skirts. For about a week, she had been struggling with this heavy feeling in her chest, the one she didn’t know how to share with anyone. Fenella, of course, had been the first choice—perhaps the only choice.
Her throat felt too tight, but she forced the words out. “I… I’ve missed me monthlies.”
Fenella’s hands stilled. Slowly, the older woman straightened, fixing Lydia with those hawkish blue eyes. “How long?”
“Several days,” Lydia whispered. “More than a few. Enough to worry me.”
The healer grunted and crossed the room with surprising swiftness for someone of her age. “Lie back.”
Lydia obeyed, her heart pounding as Fenella pressed warm, steady palms over her lower abdomen. The chamber was silent except for the crackle of the small fire and the faint clink of glass jars hanging from the ceiling, swaying in the breeze.
After a moment, Fenella made another thoughtful noise. “Too soon to feel anythin’ certain,” she said. “And too early for the signs I’d normally look for.”
Dread curled in Lydia’s stomach. Of course, it was still too soon. She knew enough about pregnancies to know that a healer couldn’t tell this early. It had only been two weeks since she had slept with Kieran, and so her only symptom so far was that she had not bled.
There had been no nausea yet, nothing to alarm her. Nothing but the delay of her monthlies which scared her to the bone.
Lydia exhaled shakily. “So… there’s nothin’ ye can tell me?”
“Och, I can tell ye plenty,” Fenella said, straightening. “If a woman’s regular as the sunrise and then misses her monthlies by several days… after havin’ shared a marital bed, that is, there’s only one likely reason.”
Lydia’s breath caught. “You mean I… I am…”
“Aye, Me Lady.” Fenella softened, just a little. “Ye’re most like with bairn.”
Lydia sat up slowly, her fingers trembling as they pressed to her stomach. “God above…”
The healer placed a hand on her shoulder, firm and grounding. “It’s early. Early enough that only ye and yer own body ken. I may be wrong… such things are unpredictable. Sometimes worry can make a lass miss her blood. But ye’re healthy, and ye’re wedded, so it’s safe to assume ye’re with bairn.”
The timing for such a thing could not be worse. Someone was after her, someone who was hellbent on taking her life, and now, she was with child. How was she supposed to keep this child safe? How was she supposed to tell Kieran, who surely would never let her out of their chambers again?
As if I dinnae have enough things to worry about.
“I daenae ken what to do,” she confessed, her voice cracking. “Fenella… I’m frightened.”
“Ye’d be daft if ye werenae.” The healer snorted, squeezing Lydia’s shoulder. “Pregnancy is never a simple walk through the heather. And ye’ve a complicated life at the moment.”
Lydia drew in a shaky breath. “Do ye think all this… all this the danger could harm the bairn?”
Fenella’s expression hardened, fierce and protective.
“Listen to me, Me Lady. Fear’s natural, but it cannae rule ye.
With care, with rest, and with vigilance, ye and the bairn will thrive.
And as for danger… ye’ve a husband who’d throw himself before any blade.
Our laird may be troubled, stubborn, and wholly too grim for a man his age, but he willnae let harm come to ye if he can help it. ”
Lydia’s eyes stung with unshed tears. “He’s already lost so much.”
“Aye. Which is why ye must tell him.” Fenella tightened her grip. “Secrets fester. Tell him tonight, before fear convinces ye otherwise.”
The mere thought of telling Kieran frightened her, not because she thought he would be angered by this, but rather because she knew he, too, would be frightened for their child.
It was much too soon for something like this, and now that she had fallen pregnant before the threat to her life had been neutralized, there was no doubt in her mind Kieran would blame himself for it.
And he would do anything to stop harm from befalling her—to the point of recklessness. But what could she do? Hide it from him? That would be far from wise.
Lydia nodded slowly, breath trembling. “Ye’re right.”
“Of course, I am,” Fenella said, turning away to gather her jars. “Now, go on. And stop lookin’ like someone dropped ye in an icy stream. Ye’re with bairn… it’s a good thing.”
A shaky laugh escaped Lydia despite everything. She rose to her feet, still stunned, still frightened, but steadier than before.
As she stepped toward the chamber door, Fenella called after her, her voice gentler than Lydia had ever heard it.
“Blessings on ye, Me Lady. And on the wee life ye carry.”
Lydia’s hand flew instinctively to her abdomen, resting there for a moment. She was, indeed, carrying a life. Kieran’s child. Their child.
It was still difficult to believe.
With a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out into the croft, acutely aware that the truth she now carried would alter both their lives forever.