Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The calm broke quietly. It began with hurried footsteps on stone and a messenger’s low, urgent voice. Iris stiffened beside Lydia, her attention snapping away from the walls and toward the inner yard.
“Me Lady,” said the guard, red-cheeked and heaving, “yer presence is requested. The council is askin’ fer ye to handle the supplies and safe rooms.”
Iris nodded. “Tell them I will. Be there shortly.”
Her sister was the kind of solid, dependable presence that a clan needed during times of need.
Now, when they didn’t know whether or not an attack was imminent, Iris stepped into her role immediately, her face hardening into something older, something more resolute.
She was no longer Lydias sister but rather the Lady of Clan McMurphy—the change subtle but undeniable, the result of years of training.
She turned to Lydia, her expression grim. “I must go. Elijah wants contingencies in place if—” She stopped herself then forced a steadier breath. “If anythin’ happens.”
Lydia’s fingers tightened around her sister’s sleeve. “Do ye think it will?”
Iris hesitated, just long enough for Lydia to notice. Then she smiled, small but sincere. “I think we’re bein’ cautious. That’s all.”
She cupped Lydia’s cheek briefly, a gesture of open affection that she used often. “Ye stay in the keep. Daenae wander. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Lydia said at once. “I’ll be fine. Truly.”
Iris searched her face then nodded. “I willnae be far. If ye need anythin’, send a maid… or shout. Half the castle is on edge.”
As Iris hurried away, Lydia watched until her sister disappeared around a corner, her cloak vanishing like a shadow swallowed by stone.
The keep felt larger without her.
Lydia retreated inside as promised, settling into a small antechamber near the back stairs where a narrow window overlooked a quiet stretch of the inner grounds. The fire there had burned low, leaving only warmth and the faint smell of ash.
She tried to read, but the words swam uselessly on the page.
Her stomach rolled.
Lydia pressed a hand to her mouth, breathing carefully through her nose. “Nae now,” she whispered. “Please, nae now.”
The nausea came anyway, sudden and sharp, rising like a wave she couldn’t brace against. She lurched to her feet, her book forgotten, and hurried toward the nearest door.
Fresh air. She just needed fresh air.
The back door opened onto a small, sheltered yard rarely used except by servants. The stone was damp, the moss vivid green after the storm. The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of rain and earth. Lydia stepped outside and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing slowly.
“In and out,” she mumbled to herself. “Ye’re all right.”
For a moment, it helped. The fresh air, chilly and crisp, filled her lungs, settling her stomach a little.
It was not the first time she had felt nauseous since finding out she was with child, but it was the first time it happened so violently, making her feel like there was no promise of relief, no matter what she tried.
I’ll have to ask the healer for somethin’. Surely, there must be somethin’ I can take for this.
It was more than a simple inconvenience.
While she had been nauseous before, when sick, this was nothing compared to that passing feeling.
Ever so slowly, Lydia peeled herself off the wall and wandered a little farther away, near the walls where a bench stood—old stone, carved by years of rain and wind but no less useful for it.
She didn’t stray any farther—she didn’t dare.
It wasn’t only the promise she had given Iris that she wouldn’t leave the keep but also the fact that her own fear threatened to swallow her whole.
Ever since that first attack on her life, she had spent her days frightened.
Ever since it was proven Sebastian wouldn’t stop, she had spent her days in fear, looking over her shoulder.
But now she wasn’t far from the keep, only a few paces, and she would reach the door, barricading herself inside. Besides, Iris was right when she told her the keep was well-guarded. There were soldiers everywhere. There were eyes everywhere.
But there is danger too.
Lydia glanced over her shoulder, the short hairs at the back of her neck standing at attention.
She didn’t know what, precisely, it was that frightened her so.
Perhaps it was nothing more than the idea of danger, rather than a real threat, which rattled her so deeply and made her think an enemy lurked in the shadows.
Then she heard it—a sound, not loud, not obvious. The soft scrape of a boot against stone, too deliberate to be a servant, too close.
Her eyes flew open.
“Is somebody there?” she called, instantly wishing she hadn’t.
The silence answered her. Her pulse quickened, the nausea returning with a vengeance though this time, she didn’t know if it was because of the baby or the terror that gripped her. Suddenly, she was drenched in cold sweat, a shiver running through her that chilled her to the core.
Lydia stood from the bench, turning toward the door, eager to get back inside, as deep as she could into the heart of the keep.
She didn’t get far.
Hands grabbed her from behind, and a sharp gasp tore from her throat, cut short as one hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled instantly, her heart slamming against her ribs, her fingers clawing at rough wool and leather.
“Nay!” The word came out muffled, useless.
“Quiet,” a man hissed in her ear, his breath sour and close, hot against her cheek. “Daenae make this harder.”
Another arm locked around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground. Panic surged, white and blinding, and Lydia’s instincts kicked in as she tried to fight the men off.
Her hands tore at them, trying to claw out skin.
Her legs kicked out, desperate to get them to release her, but the men’s grips were strong on her.
She thrashed and twisted, trying to force them to release her mouth, at least, so she could scream, but her attackers struggled with her, tightening their hold on her until her skin bruised.
She hoped at least the guards would hear the men’s grunts of effort as they tried to contain her, but her hopes were low.
That part of the castle was not as well-guarded now that so many of Elijah’s men had followed him out.
While the keep would hold under an attack, the shortage of men was detrimental against a small-scale attack like this which relied on stealth rather than rude force.
It was just like Sebastian, Lydia thought in the haze of panic, to rely on a sneaky attack like this rather than a siege. He was not the kind of man to ever favor a direct confrontation. Why would he do so now?
We should have seen it comin’.
Lydia kicked, hard, her heel connecting with something solid. A grunt followed, but the grip didn’t loosen. She twisted, fought, every instinct screaming. Her elbow struck ribs; her nails scraped skin. She tasted blood—hers or theirs, she didn’t know.
Her mind raced, her fear sharpening into something desperate and feral. She bit down on the hand over her mouth with all the strength she had. The man cursed, jerking back, but the other tightened his hold, crushing her arms against her sides.
“Ye wee whore,” he snarled. “Hold her still.”
Lydia’s scream died in her throat as a rough cloth was pressed hard over her mouth and nose.
The smell was overpowering—damp fabric, sweat, something bitter.
She thrashed, her vision blurring, her lungs burning as she fought for air that wouldn’t come.
Stone blurred under her feet as she was dragged backward, deeper into shadow.
Her last coherent thought was not of fear but fury.
I willnae disappear quietly.
Then the world narrowed, darkened, and finally swallowed her whole.
When consciousness returned to Lydia, it did so in fragments.
Cold seeped into her first—into her back, her shoulders, the base of her spine—followed by the ache in her wrists and the dull throb behind her eyes.
The ground under her was uneven, roots pressing through thin soil into her bones.
Damp air filled her lungs when she finally managed to draw a breath, sharp and metallic with the scent of rain-soaked earth and smoke.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Trees loomed above her, their branches tangled like grasping fingers against a pale sky. For a heartbeat, disorientation wrapped around her. She did not know where she was or how she had come to be there.
Then she moved, and pain lanced through her shoulders. Her arms were bound behind her back, the rope biting into the delicate skin of her wrists. Each movement sent another sting through her arms, another sharp pain through her shoulders where they were bent too far back.
Panic surged so fast it stole her breath. Lydia jerked instinctively, only to be yanked short as the ropes bit into her wrists once more—rough hemp, tight and unforgiving tied firmly around them. She gasped, the sound tearing out of her chest, and her gaze snapped forward only to see soldiers.
Men moved through the camp with brutal normalcy, their boots crunching on wet leaves, their armor clinking softly, their voices low and casual as if this were any other morning. Tents dotted the clearing. A low fire smoldered nearby, sending thin fingers of smoke into the air.
Not McMurphy men. Not Elijah’s banners.
Her heart began to pound so violently she thought it might break her ribs. Panic swelled once more, entirely unbridled, the force fit so great it threatened to choke her.
“Nay,” she whispered.
The tree at her back was massive, its trunk wide and unyielding, the bark rough against her damp cloak. She was seated at its base like an offering, utterly exposed to the elements, and though the rain had long since ceased, she couldn’t say the same about the wind.
“Nay… nay, please—”
Her voice rose, cracked, then broke free entirely.