Page 11 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“ E nough of this. I can hardly breathe,” Abigail wheezed as she adjusted the stiff laces of her stays.

She stood in her bedchamber. Dressing was no easy task when the gown was not made for her figure. The endless layers that bound a woman like armor were a struggle, but more so when she had an ample bosom to stuff into the bodice.

She had started with a linen shift, soft against her skin, followed by the tight stays that dug slightly into her ribs. Over that, she pulled on a woolen petticoat, then a deep blue gown with fitted sleeves and a bodice that tightly hugged her chest.

“This will have to do,” she said.

The fabric bore McKenna colors, though she felt no pride in wearing it.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she looked at her reflection in the mirror above the washbasin, feeling inadequate.

She did not see herself as pretty as her sisters, and squeezing into a dress that was not hers only amplified that feeling.

Her thoughts strayed to Kian. She hadn’t stopped thinking of him, his dark eye, his brooding stare, and the way his voice rumbled like distant thunder.

She scolded herself inwardly.

It’s mad to think of a man who’d taken me like a prized filly.

A knock at the door made her jolt, her heart pounding against her confined ribs.

“Who is it?” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.

“It’s Isolde, Me Lady,” came the soft reply.

Abigail hesitated, then opened the door.

The maid stood before her, with her hands folded, but what made Abigail’s heart sink was the sight of the burly guard behind her, standing like a shadow.

“The Laird has requested yer presence in the Great Hall for breakfast,” Isolde announced with a small smile.

“I’d prefer to break me fast here,” Abigail said quickly, folding her arms.

“Aye, the Laird thought ye might say that.” Isolde winced. “Which is why the guard is here. Ye’re to join him, whether ye like it or nae.”

Abigail glanced from the maid to the guard, who made no move other than raise an expectant eyebrow.

“Of course he did,” she muttered.

With a heavy sigh, she stepped out into the corridor.

“Lead the way then, Isolde. Let’s nae keep the great and fearsome Laird McKenna waitin’ for his breakfast companion.”

Isolde dipped her head and began to walk, the guard falling into step behind them.

Abigail held her head high, determined not to let them see just how flustered she was, especially not when the thought of seeing Kian again stirred something deep within her.

The heavy doors of the Great Hall creaked open, and she followed Isolde inside, the silent guard still at her back like a shadow.

The air was warm with the scent of roasted meats and smoke, and the towering stone walls were draped with thick tapestries.

Tall, arched windows let in the pale morning light, which spilled across the long wooden table that dominated the center of the room.

At the far end, a grand hearth blazed, casting golden beams over the carved chairs and flagstone floor.

Abigail’s footsteps echoed as she was guided toward the table, where Helena and Leighton sat conversing in hushed tones.

She offered a polite smile and a brief curtsy. “A fine mornin’ to ye both.”

“Welcome, lass,” Leighton said.

“A pleasure to see ye again, Abigail.” Helena smiled.

Before Abigail could sit, another woman approached the table and was greeted by Helena with a kiss on the cheek.

“This is Peyton,” Helena said. “Kian’s cousin.”

Abigail took in Peyton’s striking looks—golden hair, soft brown eyes, and a serene smile. She nodded. “It’s lovely to meet ye.”

“Aye, and ye as well,” Peyton replied, folding her hands in her lap with practiced grace.

The moment Abigail took her seat, the air shifted. She didn’t have to twist around to know that he had entered—the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

Kian strode across the hall with quiet command, his long dark coat brushing the floor behind him, his black eye fixed on her like a brand. Her pulse quickened as he took the seat at the head of the table, saying nothing, though his presence said plenty.

Servants moved swiftly, placing plates and trays on the table.

Steaming bowls of porridge sat beside platters of smoked haddock, oat bannocks, blood sausage, and fried eggs with roasted mushrooms. There were small jars of jam, freshly churned butter, and warm barley bread that filled the room with a mouthwatering scent.

Abigail kept her eyes on her plate, though she could feel Kian’s gaze burning a hole into her face. Her appetite withered beneath the heat in her chest, a confused storm of shame and… something else.

She couldn’t stop thinking of the kiss. The way her lips had melted under his, the fire that had rushed from her toes to her throat.

She nibbled on a bannock, trying to appear composed, but her mind was far from the table. The chatter around her continued—Peyton telling Helena about the next delivery to the lower village, Leighton grumbling about the state of the grain stores—but she was half-lost in thought.

She glanced up once, only to find Kian still watching her, his head tilted slightly like he could read every thought in her mind.

She looked away quickly and sipped her water, her cheeks warm.

How could I be thinkin’ of that kiss again? Worse, how could I have liked it?

Abigail stirred her porridge absentmindedly and lifted the warm spoon to her lips. But then her mind drifted again, back to the heat of Kian’s mouth, the rough press of his hands, the feel of his breath against her cheek.

Her breathing deepened, and she lowered her gaze at once. What madness had pushed her to enjoy a kiss with a brute who had taken her from her home like a thief in the night?

She scolded herself inwardly, willing herself to remember the facts.

He is me captor, nae a suitor.

And yet, as he sat across from her, silent and composed, she couldn’t help but feel his presence like a second heartbeat. She clenched her hands in her lap and focused instead on the soft voices to her left.

“Peyton, how goes yer work with the children?” Helena asked kindly, her smile warm as she sipped her tea. “Still teachin’ them their verses, are ye?”

“Aye,” Peyton replied softly, her voice like a gentle breeze through chapel windows. “I’ve been meetin’ with the minister each mornin’. We’ve started teachin’ the younger ones. It’s slow, but they’re eager. There’s a boy named Fergus—barely six—but he’s already memorized three verses.”

Helena’s eyes lit up. “That’s a gift, Peyton. Ye have a holy light about ye. The children are lucky to receive such care from someone so patient.”

Peyton bowed her head modestly. “I only hope I can guide them to the truth. There’s little else I can offer the clan, but if I can give the young ones somethin’ to hold onto—faith, a bit of knowledge—then perhaps they’ll grow strong in both mind and soul.”

“Ye’re an angel,” Helena said with a fond shake of her head. “Truly. If we had more people like ye, the Highlands would be a better place.”

Abigail watched the exchange in quiet awe, her breakfast forgotten.

There was something about Peyton’s calm, her sense of purpose, that struck deep. She wasn’t loud or bold like Marissa, or sharp and commanding like Freya. But there was strength in her gentleness, a steadiness that Abigail found herself admiring more than she had expected.

She shifted in her seat, glancing once again at the woman whose golden hair caught the morning light like a halo. Perhaps there were different ways to be strong. And maybe—just maybe—there was still something good to be done, even in the middle of this madness.

She turned to see Isolde enter the Great Hall with careful steps, her eyes downcast, a fresh jug of water cradled against her apron. She moved toward the table with the quiet grace of someone trying not to be noticed.

Abigail noticed that as Isolde neared Kian’s side, her hands trembled slightly, spilling a bit of water onto the floor as she filled his cup. Kian said not a word, simply raised an eyebrow, and the maid all but fled to the other side of the table.

When she reached Peyton, the change in her demeanor was striking. She smiled sweetly as she poured the water, her shoulders relaxing just a touch.

“Thank ye kindly, Isolde,” Peyton said gently.

The maid flushed with pride, nodding quickly before retreating toward the wall.

It was as if Peyton were a saint come to life and Kian a devil best not crossed.

Abigail watched the entire exchange with narrowed eyes, the contrast settling heavily in her chest. The servants flinched near Kian like he might snap at any moment, but with Peyton, they nearly bowed in reverence.

It said more than words ever could—Kian inspired fear even among his own, while Peyton earned quiet devotion.

Abigail sipped her water and ignored the voice that whispered how even the servants deem Kian a beast… even if her heart didn’t quite believe it.

Her gaze wandered again, drawn to the man sitting at the head of the table like a storm held tight in flesh and bone. Kian hadn’t said a word to her all morning, hadn’t even given her so much as a nod.

But when she caught his eye flickering to her, her heart jumped—only for him to turn to Leighton, his expression as hard as stone.

The dismissal stung sharper than she had expected.

“So, the young lads are improving?” Kian asked gruffly, tearing a piece of bread in half.

“Aye, they are,” Leighton replied. “Dougal’s footwork is still a mess, but he’s showin’ heart. And Grant took down two men twice his size yesterday. I think he’s got the makings of a fine warrior, given time.”

Kian grunted, nodding slightly. “Good. I’ll be out in the field meself soon. They had better be ready.”

The two men continued on, trading notes on sword work and spear drills as though she weren’t even there. Abigail clenched her jaw as she sliced into her sausage, the scrape of the knife loud in her ears.

I cannae understand how a man could kiss me like he meant it—make me feel things I hadnae known existed—and then ignore me as though I were the maid fillin’ his cup.

She sat rigidly, her back straight, trying not to look over at him again. But the longer he spoke to Leighton, the tighter the knot in her chest grew.

What did that kiss mean to him? Had it been nothin’ more than a moment of lust? A tease? Some cruel game he played for his own amusement?

She reached for her cup of water, her fingers curling tightly around it.

Helena gave her a gentle look from across the table, perhaps noticing the tension in her shoulders.

“Ye all right, Abigail?” she asked quietly.

“Aye,” Abigail said too quickly. “Just fine.”

But she wasn’t. Not at all.

Kian never once glanced at her again. He leaned toward Leighton, nodding at something the man said, and her cheeks burned.

It wasn’t just frustration—it was offense. It was insult. It was being made to feel small in front of everyone.

When the last bit of cheese and oatcakes were eaten and the table was cleared, Kian rose to his feet. The chair scraped across the stone floor, and he stood there for a moment, finishing off his drink. Then, without a word, he turned to his man-at-arms.

“Come,” he said simply. “We have work to do.”

Abigail watched as both men walked away, their boots clicking on the floor as they exited the Great Hall.

Not a glance. Not a word. Not even the courtesy of an acknowledgment.

Her chest ached with something she could hardly name.

Helena leaned closer and whispered, “Ignore him. He always behaves foolishly after receivin’ the morning reports.”

But Abigail wasn’t comforted.

She sat in silence, watching the seat he had just vacated like it might quell the storm in her chest.

How dare he touch me like that—kiss me like I belonged to him—and then walk away without so much as a word? Does he think me feelings are a game? Is he toyin’ with me just because he can?

Abigail swallowed hard and forced herself to rise from her seat. She smoothed down her skirts, refusing to let anyone see the hurt brewing beneath the surface.

She was not some fragile flower. She would not break over a man like him.

Even if part of her heart had leapt like a fool when he kissed her.

She walked out of the Great Hall with her head held high, determined not to let anyone see her frustration.

Peyton offered her a soft smile as she passed, but Abigail could barely return it. Her thoughts were too busy chasing the man who’d turned her world upside down with a single kiss—and left her burning in the silence that followed it.

Back in her chamber, she sat by the window, looking out over the green hills that rolled endlessly into the horizon.

A breeze filtered in through the open shutters, brushing her cheek like a lover’s hand.

She hated how her mind kept circling back to him—his touch, his voice, the feel of his lips against hers.

She hated more how much she’d liked it.

“Curse ye, Kian Wright,” she muttered to herself. “Kissin’ me like that and walkin’ away as if it meant naught. What kind of beast plays with fire and then walks off into the cold?”

She crossed her arms, her heart still racing. She would not let him do this to her. If he thought he could kiss her and forget her, he was sorely mistaken.

She would not be ignored. Not by him. Not by anyone.

And yet, deep down, a part of her wondered if his silence meant something else entirely. Not indifference, but regret.

Does he feel ashamed for kissin’ a woman like me? Nae skinny and petite, but with meat on her bones?