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Killian’s scowl deepened as he raised his glass and knocked back the whiskey in one gulp. The burn was sharp but welcome, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts.

“Ye’ve got it all wrong,” he muttered, setting the empty glass on the table with a thud. “This marriage is nothing like what ye think. It’s not a grand love match.”

Lachlan leaned back in his chair, his expression one of feigned innocence.

“Oh? Then enlighten me, old friend. What could possess you to finally tie the knot after all these years?”

Killian gave him a pointed look, but there was no escaping Lachlan’s curiosity.

With a resigned sigh, he recounted the events leading up to his marriage—the scandal involving Fiona and Edward, the rumors that threatened to ruin them all, and the convenient union with Yvette to restore the family’s reputation.

When he finished, Lachlan whistled low, shaking his head.

“No blood on yer hands, a beautiful bride by yer side—sounds like ye came out on top.”

Killian’s glare was immediate. “And how do ye know she’s beautiful?”

Lachlan smirked, leaning forward with a sly expression on his face.

“I did not know, but judging by that scowl on yer face whenever ye talk about her, I’d say she’s got under yer skin. And that, my friend, only happens when a woman is stubbornandbeautiful.”

Killian scoffed, but the heat rising in his face betrayed him. He downed another glass of whiskey, willing away the image of Yvette’s cherry lips and flushed cheeks when she was embarrassed.

Her defiance infuriated him, yes, but there was no denying that she was captivating in every sense of the word.

“Ye’re wrong,” he muttered, though the conviction in his voice was weak.

“Am I?” Lachlan teased, raising an eyebrow. “Yer face tells a different story.”

Killian didn’t dignify the comment with a response.

Instead, he set his glass down with a sharp click and changed the subject. “I’ve not come here to discuss my bride, Lachlan. I’ve a task for ye.”

Lachlan straightened, his teasing demeanor replaced by one of readiness.

“Name it.”

“I need ye to find out who started the rumor about Fiona and Edward,” Killian said, his tone firm. “Start in the north. If that leads nowhere, head to London. I’ll not rest until I’ve the name of the one responsible.”

Lachlan nodded, his expression serious now. “Consider it done. But are ye sure ye want to stir this pot? Sometimes the answers ye seek come at a cost.”

Killian’s jaw tightened. “Fiona’s honor was dragged through the mud for no reason. Edward’s reputation was almost tarnished. Lady Yvette and I had to marry to fix this damned situation. I’ll not let the one responsible walk free.”

Lachlan studied his friend for a moment before nodding again.

“Very well. I’ll leave in the morn.”

CHAPTER 6

The days at Braemore passed with a slow and painful rhythm. Each morning, Yvette rose early, determined to make something of her new role as duchess, but her efforts only seemed to backfire.

While the grand castle was a marvel to behold, it lacked the warmth of a home. The air inside its stony walls was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional sound of footsteps or a cough from a passing servant. Braemore felt like a fortress in every sense of the word—impenetrable, cold, and isolating.

One of her first decisions had been to implement family meals, particularly breakfast and dinner, where all would sit and dine at the table. It seemed like a small thing, but to Yvette, it was essential.

Meals brought people together, allowed them to talk, share, and form bonds, no matter how tenuous.

So she was motivated to go up to Killian with her idea.