Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“They should have found shelter by now,” Lydia said, her voice nearly swallowed by the wind. “Elijah wouldnae march them through this if he could help it.”
The storm had wrapped Castle McMurphy in its fist. Rain lashed the tall windows of the drawing room, driven sideways by the wind, rattling the panes like impatient fingers.
Thunder rolled low and heavy over the hills, not sharp but constant, as though the sky itself were grinding its teeth.
Every so often, lightning bled pale light through the clouds, briefly painting the stone walls and embroidered tapestries in stark white before plunging them back into shadow.
Lydia sat rigidly on the edge of a cushioned chair, her hands folded over her stomach as if she could shield what lay under her ribs simply by will alone.
Across from her, Iris sat curled on the settee, her knees drawn up, her fingers worrying the fringe of a woolen shawl.
She looked calm at first glance, composed, as she always did, but Lydia knew her too well.
Her sister’s foot tapped softly against the rug, once, twice, then again, a quiet rhythm of unease.
Iris nodded though her eyes never left the dark window. “He kens these lands. He grew up ridin’ through worse storms than this.” Then she paused, her gaze darting to Lydia for a moment. “Still… I wish he were here.”
“So do I.” Lydia swallowed in a dry throat. “I keep thinkin’ of the borderlands. Of what they might find when the rain lifts.”
She didn’t finish the thought.
They both knew what waited out there—men with sharpened steel, ambition rotting at the core of it all, and Sebastian’s hunger for power. Lydia’s fingers tightened unconsciously, her palm pressing more firmly to her belly.
Iris noticed at once.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, sitting up straighter in alarm, as if ready to rush to Lydia’s rescue. With everything that was happening, Iris seemed to be far more worried than usual, fretting over the smallest things when it came to Lydia now.
“Nay,” Lydia said quickly, then softened her tone. “Nay, nothin’ like that. I just… forget sometimes. And then I remember.”
Her lips curved into a small, uncertain smile. Iris’ expression melted, worry giving way to something gentler. She shifted closer, lowering herself onto the arm of Lydia’s chair so they were nearly touching.
“It’s still early,” she said. “Ye’re nae showin’ yet. But when ye do, it will be difficult to forget.”
Lydia let out a soft laugh, nodding in agreement. “Och aye, I suppose that’s true.”
Silence settled between them, warm and comfortable. Lydia leaned into her sister’s side, seeking whatever comfort she could get from her, a sigh escaping her. It was so heavy that her shoulders sagged, some of the tension finally bleeding out of her body.
In that fragile silence, a confession ripped itself from her.
“I’m afraid to hope too much.”
Iris pulled back just enough to look at her. She was sporting a frown, her concern etched clearly into her features.
“What do ye mean?”
Lydia drew a deep, shaky breath. She didn’t even know what it was, precisely, that she meant.
“I mean… with everythin’ that has happened, I fear that somethin’ will finally go terribly wrong. Too wrong for any of us to fix it.”
There were so many unknowns, so many things that they surely hadn’t considered. With every passing moment Elijah spent out there, with every minute that kept Kieran away, doubt crept further and further into Lydia’s mind, weighing her down and threatening to pull her into a panic.
“Ye daenae have to think about any of this,” Iris said. “Elijah will take care of everythin’, Lydia. He always does.”
“But Sebastian… he has done everythin’ in his power to hurt me. Both me and the bairn,” Lydia said. “And I daenae think he will stop, Iris. He willnae stop unless he is stopped by someone else.”
Iris grabbed her hand in hers, holding it tightly. “He will be,” she promised her. “Come now… ye ken Elijah would never let anythin’ happen to yer bairn, and neither would Kieran. Nay matter what has happened between the two of ye, he will fight for ye. He will fight for this bairn.”
Outside, thunder boomed again, closer this time, making the candles on the side table tremble and gutter. Shadows danced along the walls. Lydia watched them, the sight of them more frightening than it had ever been before.
Iris sat up a little straighter next to her, a small smile dancing on her lips.
“Tell me, have ye thought about the bairn at all? Do ye want a laddie or a lass?”
Lydia let out a chuckle which, though half-hearted, was enough to lift her spirits a little. She placed her hand on her stomach once more, wondering at the life that was taking form inside her ever so slowly.
“I daenae ken what I want,” Lydia confessed, staring down at her hand.
“Sometimes I think… maybe a lass. Someone kind. Someone who loves books and gardens.” Her voice wavered, just for a moment, memory rushing back to her, emotion threatening to undo her.
“Someone I can protect better than I protected ye.”
Iris reached out, placing her hand gently over Lydia’s. Hers was warm, steady, just as solid as the rest of her. Iris had always been her protector. Even now, she was the only one on whom she could depend.
“Lydia,” she said, firmly but not unkindly, “ye daenae owe me a lifetime of penance.”
“I ken,” Lydia whispered. “Ye’ve told me that.”
Iris had, in fact, told her plenty of times. It was Lydia who couldn’t listen—wouldn’t. The guilt still threatened to consume her whole, and now that she would bring a life to the world, she desperately feared she would make the same mistake.
If she couldn’t protect her sister, if she had been so blind to it all, who was to say she could protect someone far more helpless?
“And yet ye still punish yerself.”
Lydia lifted her gaze. Iris’ eyes were soft but unyielding as they always had been. There was no accusation in them, only truth.
“I just want to do somethin’ right,” Lydia said. “For once. If it’s a laddie, I hope he’s brave but gentle. Like Elijah. Or…” She hesitated, the name catching painfully in her chest. “Or like Kieran.”
Iris’s brows rose slightly, but she said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch.
“I daenae ken what he’ll be like as a faither,” Lydia continued, her voice barely above the storm. “I daenae even ken if he sent me away to protect me and the bairn or if he…”
She hesitated, the words refusing to be spoken aloud.
“What, Lydia?” asked Iris, gently urging her.
“If he doesnae even want to be a faither,” Lydia mumbled. “If he sent me away because he wants to rid himself of me and the bairn.”
Her eyes burned though she refused to let tears fall.
Iris held her hand in a vice grip, forcing Lydia to look at her. “Come now. Daenae think like this. I’m sure he did it to protect ye.”
“I daenae ken. I was so angry,” Lydia admitted. “I still am. But every time the thunder sounds, I think of him ridin’ through this storm. And I hate that I still worry.”
Iris leaned in, resting her forehead briefly against Lydia’s temple.
“That doesnae make ye weak,” she said. “It makes ye human.”
A particularly fierce gust of wind howled outside, forcing both sisters to flinch. The fire in the hearth popped and hissed, throwing sparks upward before settling again.
“What if they’re hurt?” Lydia asked. “What if Elijah—”
“He willnae be,” Iris said firmly. “And neither will Kieran. They’re both too stubborn to die in a storm.”
That earned a small, breathy laugh from Lydia.
“Ye always ken what to say.”
Iris smiled softly, giving her a small nod. “Only when it matters.”
They sat together then, their shoulders touching, listening to the storm rage itself hoarse against stone and sky. The waiting was unbearable, each second stretched thin with fear, but there was comfort, too, in their shared warmth, in the quiet strength of their sisterhood.
Lydia closed her eyes and breathed, slow and careful.
“If she’s a lassie, I hope she’s like ye,” she said quietly, and Iris patted her shoulder gently, her breath soft against Lydia’s crown.
And if he’s a laddie, I hope he’s like his faither.
The storm showed no mercy.
Rain battered the temporary camp in relentless sheets, turning the ground under their boots into sucking mud and the air into something thick enough to choke on.
The wind tore at canvas and cloaks alike, snapping ropes taut and carrying the sharp scent of wet iron and smoke through the trees.
Torches hissed and flickered despite the men’s best efforts, their light bending and shuddering as if afraid.
Kieran did not sit. He paced back and forth along the edge of the camp, his boots sinking into the mud, his cloak thrown back as though the rain itself were an insult he refused to acknowledge.
His hands flexed repeatedly at his sides, fingers curling as if they sought the familiar weight of a sword hilt—something solid, something he could put to good use.
Waiting was worse than battle.
“She’ll be terrified,” he mumbled, more to the storm than to anyone else. “And I’m here, standin’ still.”
Elijah watched him from beside the largest fire, his arms crossed, his expression grim but patient. He had dismissed most of his men to their tents, keeping only a small watch posted. There was nothing to be done in weather like this, and every commander there knew it.
Kieran reached the edge of the camp again, spun on his heel, and started back.
“I’m ridin’ out,” he said abruptly.
Elijah straightened. “Nay, ye’re nae.”
Kieran didn’t even slow. “I’ve ridden through worse.”
“And buried men who thought the same,” Elijah shot back.
Kieran stopped then, slowly turning. Rain streamed down his face, plastering his dark hair to his temples, eyes burning like coals banked too long.
“She’s pregnant,” he said, voice low and raw. “And Sebastian is out there. I willnae sit by a fire while me wife—”
“—is behind stone walls, guarded by me household and half me garrison,” Elijah cut in. “Ye ride out now, ye’ll kill yerself before ye reach her.”
“I daenae care.”
“That,” Elijah said sharply, stepping closer, “is a lie.”
Kieran let out a harsh breath, laughter without humor. “Ye think I fear dyin’?”
“Nay,” Elijah said. “I think ye fear leavin’ her alone even more.”
Silence stretched between them, filled by the roar of rain on canvas.
Kieran dragged a hand through his hair, fighting the urge to rip out the strands. “Every moment I’m nae with her feels like a mistake I cannae take back.”
“And if ye die in the storm?” Elijah demanded. “What then? What does that do for Lydia? For yer child?”
Kieran’s jaw clenched.
“She’ll think I abandoned her again,” he said hoarsely.
Elijah’s expression softened, just a fraction. “She’ll think ye’re dead. And ye might well be.”
Kieran took a step toward the horses, tethered restlessly at the edge of the camp.
“I can make it,” he insisted. “If I leave now—”
“Kieran,” Elijah snapped, matching him stride for stride and planting himself squarely in Kieran’s path. “Enough.”
Kieran loomed over him, rain dripping from his beard, chest heaving. “Ye daenae understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” Elijah said, his voice hard as stone.
“I understand what it’s like to love someone so fiercely, it feels like standin’ too close to a fire.
I understand wantin’ to tear the world apart with yer bare hands to keep them safe.
But,” Elijah said, lowering his voice, “I also understand responsibility. Ye ride out now, blind in the rain, alone, and ye fail her again. Nae because ye daenae care but because ye cared recklessly.”
Kieran laughed bitterly. “I’ve been reckless since the moment I met her.”
“And yet she’s still alive,” Elijah said. “Because when it mattered most, ye planned. Ye protected. Ye trusted others to stand with ye.”
Kieran shook his head. “Trust dinnae save me previous wives.”
Elijah flinched, momentarily taken aback by Kieran’s words, then held his ground. “Nay. But it might save this one.”
Thunder cracked overhead, close enough to rattle teeth.
The storm showed no signs of slowing, of fading out.
The horizon was dark as ink, the sky a veil that could only be pierced by lightning.
Kieran watched, feeling utterly helpless in the face of the storm; the only thing through which he couldn’t fight.
“Ye think she wants ye to die tryin’ to reach her?” Elijah pressed. “Or do ye think she wants ye alive when morn comes?”
Kieran stared past him, toward the black hills swallowed by rain.
“She’s carryin’ me bairn,” he whispered.
“I ken,” Elijah said gently. “And that bairn will need a faither who doesnae throw his life away in a storm.”
Kieran’s shoulders sagged, just slightly, the fight bleeding out of him in slow, reluctant drops.
“I should never have sent her away,” he said.
Elijah nodded. “Maybe nae. But ye cannae undo that tonight.”
Another long moment passed. Finally, Kieran turned away from the horses. He dragged a hand over his face, rain and frustration streaking together.
“If anythin’ happens to her—”
“It willnae,” Elijah said firmly. “And if Sebastian so much as breathes near me castle, he’ll answer to both of us.”
Kieran exhaled, sharp and shuddering. “I hate this.”
Elijah clapped a hand on his shoulder, solid and grounding. “Good. Hold onto that. We ride at first light.”
Kieran looked back toward the storm, his fists clenched, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.
“First light,” he echoed.
And prayed the night did not take too much from him before then.