Page 10 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER TEN

“ U se both hands, damn ye! Twist yer hips! Go low!” Kian barked.

Sweat glistened on his chest as he pivoted, dodging his opponent’s blade and countering with a hard strike to the side. The other man staggered backward, bracing himself, but Kian gave him no reprieve.

The clash of steel against steel rang through the morning air, as sharp as Kian’s barked commands. Both men dug their heels into the packed dirt as they circled one another like wolves.

Kian’s shoulders rolled with power, each movement calculated, fluid, lethal.

“Again! Ye all fight like wee bairns!” he growled, feinting a swing, then shifting and landing a blow against his opponent’s thigh.

The warrior grunted but recovered quickly, raising his sword and charging forward once more.

Their blades clashed like thunder. Kian’s blood sang in his veins, his muscles coiled and alive with the thrill of a fight. He moved fast—faster than usual—driven by something wild beneath his skin.

He parried another strike and spun behind the man, catching him off guard and slamming the flat of his blade against the back of his leg.

The warrior fell to one knee, gasping.

“On yer feet!” Kian snapped, panting hard. “This isnae a dance. This is a fight for survival. Me men will be strong!”

But the real fight was the one raging inside him.

He hadn’t slept the night before. He had been haunted by images of her —Abigail. Images of her lips parted beneath his, her hands on his chest.

That kiss… That cursed kiss had ignited a fire inside him that no cold bath in the loch could extinguish. He had meant it to rattle her. Instead, it had unraveled him.

Now, the only release was his fury, and his poor men would take the brunt of it as he trained them.

Another blow came at him, and he deflected it with a snarl, his arms moving with violent precision. His opponent struck again, but Kian ducked, then rammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him sprawling.

The crowd that had gathered let out a cheer.

“Ye’re bleedin’ savage this morn, Me Laird,” the man groaned, coughing as he pushed himself to his feet.

Kian didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

He was distracted by thoughts of Abigail—her fire, her mouth, the way her body fit so perfectly against his.

The more he tried to forget her, the more she seared herself into his mind. His desire for her churned low in his belly, a building pressure he couldn’t ease, not while she looked at him with hatred and heat in equal measure.

He gritted his teeth and raised his sword again. “Again,” he growled.

The warrior hesitated. “Me Laird, we’ve done six rounds?—”

“Do it!” Kian barked.

The man lunged at him with a roar. They collided like beasts, their blades clashing, their boots scraping across the dirt.

Kian welcomed the burn in his muscles, the sting of the blade that grazed his shoulder. Pain cleared his thoughts, if only for a moment.

But the moment her name crept back into his head, his strikes grew even sharper, faster, harsher.

He wanted her.

That truth festered like a wound beneath his armor, and no amount of fighting could drain it.

After another hour of training, Kian finally dropped his sword, his breath fogging in the morning air. The sun had risen higher above the training grounds, casting long shadows over the churned dirt.

The gathered men erupted in applause, most of them awed by the raw display of power they had just witnessed. Kian barely acknowledged them, too preoccupied with thoughts of a certain stubborn lass.

Leighton approached, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. “If I may have a word, Kian,” he said, his voice low.

Kian gave a curt nod and rolled back his shoulders before following him toward the edge of the yard, away from prying ears. His body was humming still, every nerve awake and sharp.

“That was a fine show,” Leighton muttered with a crooked grin. “Ye fight like a devil when ye have something on yer mind.”

Kian smirked. “Aye, well, I have plenty.”

Leighton glanced around before leaning in. “I thought I might ask more about the plan. Using the lass to force her sisters’ hands? Ye ken this is mad.”

Kian arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Did Helena tell ye to say that?”

Leighton chuckled under his breath. “Aye, me wife’s the voice of reason. We men are just the voice of chaos.”

“Aye, that we are.” Kian wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “But this chaos may just save our people. Without that trade agreement, we’ll be bleeding through the winter.”

“And what if they refuse?” Leighton asked, lowering his voice further. “What if her sisters’ husbands dinnae care that we’ve taken her?”

Kian’s jaw twitched. “Then we make them care.”

Leighton eyed him carefully. “That’s dangerous talk. Do ye truly believe ye can persuade Michael and Arthur?”

“Aye, they’re men. Men love their wives. And those sisters love each other fiercely. I’m bettin’ that love’s worth more than pride.”

Leighton sighed, clearly torn. “I swore loyalty to ye, Kian. Ye ken I’ll stand by ye nay matter how mad the plan. But I need to be kept abreast of everything.”

Kian clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “I wouldnae have it any other way. If plans change, ye’ll be the first to ken.”

Leighton nodded in understanding. “And the lass?”

Kian paused, his eye drifting to the tower, where he knew Abigail sat. “She’s a storm, that one. But she’s under me roof, and I’ll see to her safety.”

“Aye, she’s fiery enough to set the whole place ablaze,” Leighton muttered.

Kian allowed a rare grin to stretch his lips. “Let her try. I’ve never been afraid of a little fire.”

Leighton snorted. “That’s what Helena said about me, and now I’ve got three bairns and never a quiet night.”

Kian laughed, a deep, low sound that rumbled in his chest. “Then maybe there’s hope for me yet.”

Leighton shook his head as they turned back toward the yard. “Hope? Only if ye stop makin’ yer plans with fists instead of brains.”

Kian smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He left Leighton’s side and took the stone path leading to the far wall, his boots crunching against the gravel.

As he walked he attempted to push Abigail out of his mind, but the memory of Abigail’s lips on his still burned like fire in his blood, and not even the cold Highland wind could cool it.

He clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw tight, his breathing shallow.

He needed distance—from the lass, from his own cursed thoughts.

“Cousin, may I have a word with ye?”

Kian halted mid-step, his shoulders stiffening. He turned to see Peyton Maxwell gliding toward him, wrapped in a shawl the color of ash, her golden hair braided atop her head in a modest crown.

“Well, if it isnae the angel of McKenna,” he drawled, a dark smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I dare nae call meself that,” Peyton replied with a quiet grace. “‘Tis the folks who says so, only because I’ve dedicated meself to the Lord instead of a husband.”

“A noble path,” Kian said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And the reason ye still walk freely through these halls, despite yer faither’s treason. I thought it cruel to cast out a lass for the sins of her kin.”

Peyton’s expression flickered, yet she bowed her head. “God rest his soul.”

Kian’s eye narrowed, his mouth opening and closing as if to say more, but then he waved a dismissive hand. “What is it ye want, Peyton?”

“I only wish to ask about the woman ye brought here. Who is she?”

“That isnae for ye to worry about,” Kian replied curtly.

Peyton held her ground, though her hands were clasped tightly before her. “I thought perhaps I might be of service. In God’s name.”

“Yer services arenae needed,” Kian bit out.

He turned away from her before she could respond and walked toward the gates, his loud booted steps a clear end to the conversation.

Later that day, the hooves of his stallion thudded against the dirt as he rode into the village, Leighton close behind. Smoke curled up from a few low chimneys, but the air felt thin, like the hunger that clung to the bones of the people who watched from doorways.

Thatched roofs sagged under age and neglect, and bare patches marred the once-rich earth.

Kian clenched his jaw as he dismounted, scanning the weary faces that bowed in his presence.

A lanky farmer approached, his tunic stained with soil and sweat, a cap pressed to his chest.

“Laird McKenna,” he greeted with a slight bow. “I ken ye came to collect taxes, but I have nothin’ left to offer ye but prayers and me word that I’ve done all I could.”

Kian stepped forward, his eye narrowing as he took in the man’s calloused hands and sunken cheeks.

“I have three wee bairns and a sick wife. The blight took half me crop, then the rain never came. We tried, but the land turned stubborn as a mule.”

Kian turned his gaze to the thin line of turnips behind the man’s cottage and the few chickens pecking at dry dust. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I can see ye’ve done what ye could, Ian.”

“We’re nae beggars,” Ian added, his voice firm with pride. “If I had the coin, I’d give it gladly.”

Kian looked around again. He remembered a time when this land was full of color, when the villagers waved instead of hiding behind doors.

“Nay taxes will be collected today,” he declared finally. “We’ll find a way to make it work. Ye’ll nae be punished for the drought.”

Ian’s mouth fell open, and tears welled up in his tired eyes. “Truly, Me Laird? Ye mean that?”

Kian nodded once firmly. “Aye. I’ll nae make me people starve just to fill the coffers. Feed yer bairns. We’ll speak of taxes when the fields are green again.”

Ian reached out, hesitated, then dropped to one knee. “Thank ye, Me Laird. The McKenna name will be blessed in this house from this day on.”

Leighton stepped beside Kian, quiet but watchful.

Kian gave the man a brief nod, then turned and mounted his horse, his heart heavy.

“What good is a full vault if it’s built on graves?”

Leighton looked sideways at him. “Spoken like a true laird.”

Kian didn’t answer. The faces of the villagers haunted him as they rode toward the tavern.

The tavern fell silent the moment he stepped through the low wooden door. The smell of peat, spilled ale, and roasted onions hung thick in the air.

Villagers lowered their eyes, their heads dipped in reverence or fear—it was hard to tell the difference these days. Kian’s boots thudded against the stone floor as he crossed the room, Leighton following close behind.

They sat at a worn table near the hearth, where the fire crackled half-heartedly. A moment later, the tavern keeper, a squat, balding man with nervous hands, approached with a tray.

“Me Laird,” he murmured, setting down a wooden plate of soft cheese and crusty bread, along with two pewter cups and a jug of dark wine.

Kian gave a slight nod, and the man scurried off without another word.

“Still cannae tell if they hate us or fear us,” Leighton muttered, tearing off a piece of bread.

“Does it matter?” Kian poured wine into both cups. “As long as they listen.”

“They’re listenin’, aye,” Leighton said, his voice low. “But they’re starvin’ too.”

Kian took a long drink, then set his cup down with a sigh. “I saw it today. The land’s cursed. Crops are thin as the hair on a priest’s chin, and children are so thin that their ribs are showing.”

“Ye made the right call, Kian,” Leighton noted, chewing thoughtfully. “Nae collectin’ the taxes will keep them afloat for another month at least.”

Kian leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders stiff beneath his cloak. “Still, that’s nae enough. This alliance with the other clans… It’s desperate, aye, but it’s the only move we have left.”

Leighton eyed him over the rim of his cup. “Ye feel justified now? Stealin’ a lass from her folk?”

Kian’s jaw tensed, his eye flashing. “I’ll do worse if it means our people survive. She’s a means to an end, Leighton. I never claimed to be a hero.”

“Nay, that ye didnae,” Leighton said with a grim chuckle. “But even villains must eat, and I’d rather eat at yer table than starve behind another’s walls.”

Kian smirked faintly, the firelight catching the edge of his eyepatch. “That’s why ye’re still breathing.”

Around them, quiet murmurs rang through the tavern. A fiddler plucked at strings in the corner, but the mood remained cautious.

Kian glanced around the room, noting each face, each bowed head.

“Aye,” he muttered. “Let them fear me. Better feared than forgotten.”

They finished the last of the bread and cheese, the wine gone dry in their cups. Rising from the table, they nodded curtly to the tavern keeper, their heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor.

Outside, the cold evening air bit sharply, but neither man shivered as they mounted their horses, the beasts snorting softly. The village lay quiet behind them, the shadows stretching long in the fading light.

As they rode side by side, Leighton asked, “Ye’re confident the clans will heed our call? Or will this force only stir more violence?”

Kian fixed his gaze on the horizon, the castle walls looming like silent sentinels. “They’ll answer. They must. If Clan McEwan and Reid drag their feet much longer, we’ll find ourselves bleedin’ from every side.”

“A dance with war could be a cruel fate,” Leighton said grimly. “But if ye dinnae hold firm, the clan will fall to ruin.”

Kian clenched his jaw.

He knew Leighton was right, but the weight of his duties pressed heavily upon his broad shoulders. He couldn’t afford to be weak, no matter how much the thought of blood and battle turned his stomach. The trade agreements were the only hope left to keep their people fed and safe.

The path wound steadily upward, the cold night air thick with the scent of damp earth. Kian thought again of Abigail, of the fire she’d ignited in his blood—a distracting flame amid hard decisions. But there was no time for weakness.

“If the Reids and McEwans take too long to answer, I’ll be forced to show them the cost of defiance,” he murmured, his voice low and hard.

Leighton gave a brief nod. “Then may God give ye strength. The clan’s fate rests on yer shoulders.”