Page 12 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER TWELVE

“ T he south wall needs to be reinforced,” Leighton said, matching Kian’s stride. “The rain last week soaked the mortar. I saw two cracks this morn.”

“We’ll send the masons before the week’s end,” Kian replied. “I’ll nae have the walls givin’ way if the McEwans or Reids decide to attack.”

His booted steps echoed sharply as he strode through the corridors along with Leighton.

The early morning light poured through the arrow-slit windows, casting long shadows on the walls.

The scent of stone, smoke, and heather filled the air, familiar and grounding.

Yet, despite the crisp air and sturdy stone beneath his feet, his mind was anything but still.

Leighton grunted in agreement. “And the granary?”

“We have enough oats to last the winter if we ration carefully,” Kian replied in a low voice. “But if the next shipment doesnae arrive soon, we’ll nae be able to take stores from the lower villages. They dinnae have the crops.”

Leighton scratched his jaw. “The villagers will riot if they feel stripped. They’re already suffering after the bad harvest.”

Kian sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Aye, I ken that.”

His steps slowed as his thoughts turned inward. Abigail’s face flashed through his mind—the softness of her cheek, the stubborn fire in her eyes. He’d kissed her like a starving man, then ignored her like a coward.

He hadn’t spoken to her at breakfast. Because if he had, he would’ve pulled her into his arms in front of the whole bloody Great Hall.

“Ye went quiet,” Leighton muttered, glancing over at him. “Thinkin’ of the lass?”

Kian shot him a sharp look, but the smirk on Leighton’s face was knowing.

“I dinnae have time for matters of the heart,” he grumbled. “She clouds me thoughts, aye, but she’s here for a reason. A purpose.”

“Aye, but ye’re nae blind. Nor dead,” Leighton said dryly. “She’s bonnie, and it’s obvious she stirs somethin’ fierce within ye. I’ve seen the way ye clench yer jaw whenever she walks by.”

Kian let out a long breath and balled his fists at his sides. “I kissed her, and since then, I cannae think straight. If I look at her, I’ll forget why she’s here. I’ll forget why I took her.”

“Maybe ye already have,” Leighton suggested, his eyes sharp.

Kian paused at the archway overlooking the training grounds. Below, the young warriors clashed with wooden swords, sweat flying as shouts rang out.

He watched them, though his mind was far away. The memory of Abigail’s lips on his, soft and yielding, made his blood roar.

“I did it to secure a future for our people,” he said, at last. “To force the McEwans and the Reids into trade. That’s all.”

Leighton nodded. “Just make sure to remember that although she sometimes looks at ye like she wants to murder ye, she also looks at ye like she wants to kiss ye. Again.”

Kian’s gaze hardened. “Damn it, Leighton.”

Leighton chuckled and clapped him on the back. “I’m just sayin’ what ye think but dinnae say aloud. Ye’ve gone soft over a pretty face.”

“Soft?” Kian growled. “I’ve never been more resolute.”

“Resolute men dinnae flee from their bloody breakfast table,” Leighton quipped with a grin.

Kian turned away from the yard and resumed walking, his steps heavier now. The council chamber lay just ahead, where his councilmen would no doubt be waiting with complaints and requests. He would have to listen. He would have to act.

That was what it meant to be Laird.

But inside, he felt chaos.

He hadn’t meant to kiss Abigail. He hadn’t meant to want her. And yet every time she spoke back, every time she narrowed those fierce eyes at him, he found himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

She wasn’t meek. She wasn’t soft-spoken. She was maddening and defiant and utterly impossible, and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything.

He shook the thoughts out of his head and gritted his teeth.

“If word gets out that the lass is more than a hostage,” Leighton said quietly now, “ye’ll lose leverage with her sisters.”

“I ken that,” Kian snapped. “Which is why I willnae hear talk like this. Keep yer mouth shut.”

Leighton raised his hands in surrender.

They reached the doors to the council chamber, where two guards stood to attention. Kian nodded once, and they opened the doors.

“I’m in control,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

As they stepped inside, the room fell into silence.

A long table spanned the length of the chamber, surrounded by men of varying ages and status, including Paul. Scrolls were unrolled, inkpots filled, and frowns etched on every brow.

Kian took his seat at the head of the table. He was Laird McKenna—leader, warrior, and protector. For now, that had to matter more than the girl with fire in her soul and a kiss that still haunted him.

He pushed it all aside to start the meeting, listening to reports of tenant farmers having bad harvests—all things he had heard before. But a decision had to be made.

“From now on, we will ration the food. We will nay longer eat our fill at supper. Let that be the new plan,” he announced.

“Aye, Me Laird. I will go to the kitchens meself to deliver the message,” Paul said.

The meeting was then adjourned.

Kian looked at Leighton. “Follow me to the cellars.”

“Aye,” Leighton said, falling into step behind him.

They walked out of the room, turned and closed the door behind them.

They continued down the corridor and took a right turn.

Then Kian descended the narrow stairs, his boots thudding heavily against the damp stone steps.

The air thickened with the scent of salt, old wood, and cured meats as they entered.

Rows of shelves lined the walls, stacked with dried grains, smoked fish, wheels of hard cheese, and hanging bouquets of herbs.

Barrels of oat, salt, and ale stood against the back wall, but they were not enough to see them through winter.

Leighton followed behind him, his face grim. “The barley’s nearly gone, and the root cellars in the village are nearly empty. It hasnae rained in a while, and the river’s sunk low. We cannae keep feedin’ everyone through the winter like this.”

Kian paced slowly between the barrels, running a hand over a dusty lid. The stores looked fuller from a distance, but up close, the truth was stark—too many half-empty containers, too many mouths to feed.

He exhaled hard, his jaw tightening. “If the McEwans or Reids dinnae come through soon, we’ll nae just be fightin’ enemies—we’ll be fightin’ our people.”

“Aye,” Leighton said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Desperate folk do foolish things.”

Kian turned to face him, his gaze dark. “This plan has to work.”

He left the chill of the cellars behind, striding through the halls with purpose. His mind was tangled in the worsening state of things.

When he reached his study, he threw open the heavy door and barked at a nearby guard, “Fetch the messenger. Now.”

The hearth crackled low in the corner as he paced the room, the scent of smoke clinging to the air. His desk sat covered in scrolls, maps, and ledgers.

The longer the Reids and McEwans remained silent, the more restless he grew. He poured a finger of whisky and downed it in one gulp, still pacing.

Moments later, the door creaked open, and a young man entered, out of breath and red-cheeked.

“Me Laird,” Gavin said with a bow. “Ye called for me?”

Kian turned around, his gaze sharp. “I did. Tell me, were the messages delivered?”

“Aye, Me Laird,” Gavin replied, standing straight. “I delivered both with me own hands. The guards at the gates received them.”

“But nay reply has come,” Kian muttered darkly, his jaw tightening. “Nay letter. Nay rider. Nothin’.”

Gavin hesitated, shifting slightly. “They showed nay sign of ill will, Me Laird. They only said they’d pass the messages on.”

Kian waved a hand. “That’ll be all. Go.”

Gavin bowed again and slipped out quickly, leaving him alone in the flickering shadows.

His mind raced, trying to understand the silence of Abigail’s kin, wondering why they had not responded to his letters. He drank heavily in his study as he attempted to devise another plan, in case her sisters decided to abandon her.

Later that evening at supper, the Great Hall was colder than usual, lit only by a few oil lamps and the low-burning hearth. The long table held a modest spread—barley porridge, a few smoked fish, turnips, and oatcakes barely warmed.

The meager rations were a sharp contrast to feasts of the past, where roasted venison and fresh bread would line the table. Now, each person picked at their portion with grim acceptance, their eyes downcast, their bellies never full.

Kian sat at the head of the table, cloaked in shadow and silence, and drunk. His shoulders were tense beneath his black wool jacket, the weight of his clan’s suffering pressing hard against his ribs.

His appetite had long since vanished, replaced by guilt and burning frustration. His gaze swept across the room, searching for a distraction, for answers—until the doors opened.

Abigail entered, flanked by Isolde and a guard. She wore the same borrowed dress, her full curves straining against the seams, her chin jutted despite her evident discomfort.

Kian’s eyes locked onto her, and something surged through him—want, yes, but also a cold fury that she could look so proud when everything else was crumbling.

He stood up abruptly and strode toward her.

Without a word, he caught her arm—not harshly, but firmly enough to command—and dragged her to the corridor, away from the hushed murmurs behind them.

“Ye’ve got a lot of gall, walkin’ in here with yer head held high. Do ye ken how me clan suffers?” he growled.

Abigail ripped her arm free, glaring up at him. “Ye’re drunk, and I never asked to be brought here. But I have more right to hold me head high than a laird who steals women to trade like cattle.”

He stepped closer, towering over her. “Why hasnae yer family written back, eh? Do they nae care? Yer sisters, their fine husbands—why the silence? Have they abandoned ye?”

Abigail bared her teeth at him. “Me family is strong, Laird McKenna. They’re nae fools. They willnae bend to threats from a desperate man.”

“Desperate?” he scoffed, his voice a dark rasp. “Is that what ye think this is?”

“Ye said it yerself. Yer crops die, yer people go hungry, and ye think takin’ me will fix it?” She crossed her arms, her eyes blazing. “Ye think threatenin’ me kin will secure ye trade deals?”

Kian’s lip curled. “Nay, I think ye will. Whether ye mean to or nae.”

Abigail’s laugh was cold and cutting. “Ye think I’m some pawn ye can move around a board. But I’m nae yer wife, nor yer ally.”

“Aye, but ye could be,” he said suddenly.

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he uttered, turning away.

He had let the words slip through his drunken haze. He had no control.

He turned back and stepped even closer, the air between them thickening. “I’m doin’ what needs to be done, and pressuring yer family is the only way. Perhaps I need to be more aggressive with them.”

Abigail’s lips parted in stunned silence, before her expression hardened. “Ye’re mad. Ye’d have me whole family in chains to feed yer people. Ye are a brute.”

His nostrils flared. “I dinnae see it that way. But damn it, lass, yer pride may cost ye more than just yer life.”

“And yer arrogance will bring ruin,” she shot back, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “Ye dinnae even see it, do ye?”

Kian looked at her, truly looked at her, and something in him shifted.

The fire in her… aye, it’s infuriating, but it’s also bonnie.

“Ye’re the only one who speaks to me like that,” he muttered.

Abigail scoffed. “Then maybe yer people are too afraid to tell ye the truth.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heated. His gaze dropped to her mouth, the memory of their kiss flashing through him like lightning.

“I should hate ye,” he rasped.

“But ye dinnae,” she whispered, her chest heaving.

He clenched his jaw and turned away, cursing under his breath. “Go back to the hall before I do somethin’ I will regret.”

“Regret?” she echoed, her heart stuttering.

But then her anger flared.

“Gladly,” she spat, shouldering him aside and storming off.

Kian stood in the corridor long after she was gone, his heart pounding like a war drum.

She infuriated him, challenged him, made him feel more alive than he had in years. And God help him, he knew he didn’t just want her to help his clan.

He wanted her for himself.