Page 13 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T he next day dawned grey and still, the light mist clinging to the windows.

Abigail sat in the small armchair near the hearth, a heavy book open in her lap. Her eyes skimmed over the words, but her mind drifted—never far from thoughts of her home, of him.

Just as she turned a page with a distracted sigh, a gentle knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” she called, setting the book aside.

The door creaked open to reveal Helena, the healer, her hair tied back and her cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Good mornin’, Abigail,” she greeted brightly. “I thought ye might like some company. It gets lonely in these stone rooms.”

Abigail offered a small smile, genuinely touched. “Aye, that’s kind of ye, Helena. Please, come sit.”

Helena closed the door behind her and crossed the room, lowering herself gracefully into the chair across from her. “I ken what it’s like to be cooped up. I’d go mad without someone to speak to.”

Abigail’s smile faded as she stared into the flames. “I’m used to noise. To laughter. Me sisters never let a day pass without chatter and mischief.”

Helena tilted her head, her expression softening. “Ye miss yer sisters, then?”

Abigail nodded, her eyes stinging, though she refused to let the tears fall. “More than I can say. Even when they drove me mad, they were me heart.”

“I’m sure ye’ll see them again,” Helena said with conviction. “Kian means to use yer presence here to secure an alliance. He’ll reach out to them. He already has, I think.”

At that, Abigail’s stomach twisted. She looked away, her jaw tightening. “Aye, I ken that. I’m just a means to an end.”

Helena frowned. “I didnae mean it like that, lass. I only meant it willnae be forever. Ye’ll be reunited with yer family.”

“I ken,” Abigail said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s… foolish of me, but that stings.”

Helena blinked. “Why would that sting?”

Abigail hesitated, pressing her lips together. She wasn’t ready to voice the truth, not even to herself.

“Never mind. I suppose I’m just tired of feelin’ like a pawn on someone else’s board.”

Helena reached over and touched her hand gently. “Ye’re nae a pawn, Abigail. Ye’ve got fire in ye. I can see it.”

Abigail gave her a grateful look but said nothing, the ache in her chest too raw for words.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was soft, comfortable, like a balm on a bruise. Helena didn’t pry, nor did she offer more false reassurances.

After a moment, she straightened. “Would ye like to go on a walk with me later? The gardens havenae bloomed, but the air does wonders.”

Abigail considered it, then nodded. “Aye, I’d like that.”

Helena smiled and stood up. “I’ll come back for ye after midday, then. I have some tinctures to make before then. Try nae to let this castle swallow ye whole in the meantime.”

As the healer left the room, Abigail picked up her book again. But this time, she didn’t open it. Her gaze remained on the door, her thoughts spinning.

Why did it hurt so much to hear that Kian meant to use her? Why did it matter, when she’d known it from the beginning?

The answer was simple, though she refused to speak it aloud.

Because a part of her—a foolish, stubborn part—wished she mattered to him more than her bloodline.

I already ken why I was taken, so why do I feel hurt that he doesnae care for me?

The hours slipped by slowly as she sat by the hearth, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Her thoughts drifted to home—to Freya’s laughter, Marissa’s gentle teasing. A lump formed in her throat as the silence of the castle pressed around her like a second skin.

A knock pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Come in,” she called, her voice quieter than she had intended.

The door creaked open, and Helena stepped back in, her braid swinging over her shoulder and a smile tugging at her lips.

“Ye still up for a walk, Abigail? The air is cool, and I ken it’ll do ye good.”

Abigail stood up, brushing her hands down her skirts. “Am I even allowed?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “So far, I’ve only been to the Laird’s study and the Great Hall. I dinnae think I have the permission to roam.”

Helena scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Och, who cares? If anyone questions it, they can come speak to me. I’ve got enough spine for both of us.”

Abigail smiled despite herself. “Well, if we’re defyin’ orders, I suppose I had better prepare.”

“Aye, wear somethin’ warm, though,” Helena advised, looking her over. “The wind bites worse than a jealous lass. Best take a shawl.”

Abigail faltered. “This is all I’ve got. I was never given anything warmer.”

Helena’s face fell, her eyebrows drawing together. “That’s unacceptable,” she huffed. “Come with me, lass. We’ll get ye sorted out.”

She turned on her heel, and Abigail followed, surprised by the fire in the woman’s strides.

They moved through the corridor, passing a few servants who bowed their heads as Helena walked by, clearly used to her presence. Abigail kept her head down, still feeling more like a prisoner than a guest.

Helena opened the door to her chambers and beckoned Abigail in. The room smelled of herbs and firewood, lined with shelves laden with jars and neatly folded cloth. Over a nearby chair hung a few thick shawls, woven in deep greens and soft greys.

“Here,” Helena said, picking out two. “This one’s made of wool, and this one’s lined with rabbit fur. Take both. Ye’ll nae freeze under me watch.”

Abigail’s hands trembled slightly as she accepted them. “Thank ye, Helena. Truly.”

Helena waved her off. “Think nothin’ of it. The Laird should’ve seen to it himself. But since he didnae, I’ll do it for him.”

Abigail draped the shawls around her shoulders, instantly feeling the chill recede. It wasn’t home, but it was the kindest thing anyone had done for her since she’d arrived.

As they walked back toward the stairs that led to the gardens, she found herself breathing a little easier.

Helena glanced at her and smiled. “Come now, let’s walk among the hedges. Just for a while.”

The gardens were tucked behind high stone walls, framed by wild hedges and lined with beds of herbs and wintering flowers. Abigail breathed deeply as she walked beside Helena, the chilly air burning in her lungs. The shawls around her shoulders did little to ease the tremors running through her.

Still, it was a freedom she hadn’t experienced since her arrival, and she would not take it for granted. The stone paths beneath their feet curved through the trimmed spaces.

They rounded a bend, and Helena slowed down. “Come, I want to show ye the far gate. It’s where we keep the…” she trailed off.

Abigail had stopped in her tracks, her eyes drawn across the garden to the training grounds just beyond the hedgerow. Through the bare branches, she could see men locked in combat, and her breath hitched when she spotted him .

Kian.

He was fighting with a broad man, and yet he moved like water, fluid and sharp, every movement precise and deliberate. He twisted low and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him staggering backward.

His shirt clung to his sweat-slicked back, his muscles flexing with effort, and when he stood, victorious, he ran his forearm across his brow.

“Our Laird is handsome, is he nae?” Helena teased.

Abigail turned to her. “I—what? Nay. He—he’s awfully rude.”

Helena laughed. “I didnae say he was tolerable. I said he was handsome.”

Abigail huffed, her face hot. “I suppose if ye like broodin’ beasts who think they can bark orders at folk like they’re nothin’…” she trailed off, her eyes drifting once more toward the training grounds.

She hated the flutter in her chest, the heat that bloomed low in her belly.

Of course, Kian would never look twice at her, not truly. Not when she looked like this , not when she?—

Helena linked her arm through hers and tugged gently. “Och, lass. Dinnae go dark on me now. Come, let’s walk a bit more. It’ll do ye good.”

Abigail let herself be pulled away, stealing one last glance over her shoulder.

Kian had his back to her now, speaking with the man he’d bested, his stance confident, commanding. She scowled and turned her focus back to the gravel under her feet.

“Do ye always walk through the gardens?” she asked, trying to chase away the thoughts plaguing her.

Helena nodded. “Aye. It’s one of the few quiet places in the castle. The kitchens are always noisy, the corridors filled with stomping boots, and the Great Hall—well, ye saw it for yerself.”

Abigail gave a tight smile. “It’s all so loud. I never imagined it would be like this.”

“The McKenna way,” Helena said with a chuckle. “Bold voices, bold spirits. But it’s nae all as harsh as it seems.”

“Ye dinnae find it difficult?”

Helena shrugged. “Some days, I do. But I’ve lived here most of me life. The Laird, though rough-edged, takes care of his people. The men respect him, the servants follow him, and the villagers fear him—but they also trust him.”

Abigail glanced at her sideways. “Ye speak kindly of him.”

“Aye, I do. Because when me wee braither fell ill, Kian rode with Leighton through a storm to fetch the herbs he needed from two villages over. He nearly lost his horse doing it. That sort of thing leaves a mark.”

Abigail stayed silent, her thoughts churning. She didn’t want to believe that Kian Wright had kindness in him. Not when she’d been taken, not when her life had been upended by his schemes.

“Still,” she muttered, “he shouldnae have kidnapped me.”

Helena sighed. “Aye, he shouldnae have. But he did, and now ye’re here. The best ye can do is figure out how to survive it, and maybe—just maybe—learn what sort of man he truly is.”

They paused beside a stone bench. Abigail sat down, wrapping the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“What’s life like here?” she asked softly. “I mean, truly.”

Helena sat beside her. “Well, for those who serve, it’s honest work.

The kitchens are busy sunup to sundown, and the maids keep the place from becoming a mountain of dust. The men train every morning in the yard.

The blacksmith works till his arms nearly fall off.

But there’s also music in the Great Hall during feast, laughter around the fire in winter, and stories told so often ye’d think they were gospel. ”

Abigail smiled faintly. “Sounds almost like home.”

Helena tilted her head. “Then perhaps ye’ll find a home here, Abigail. Even if it’s only for a while.”

“I dinnae ken if I can,” Abigail whispered. “Everything here feels foreign.”

“Foreign things can still be beautiful,” Helena said gently. “And sometimes the strangest paths take us where we’re meant to be.”

Abigail looked down at her hands. Her fingers were cold, but her heart was slowly warming in ways she hadn’t expected.

Still, as the wind blew through the hedges, she wondered just how dangerous a path this would turn out to be.

Helena turned to her with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Come now, I want to show ye a certain flower that grows in the meadows by the stables.”

Abigail’s eyebrows rose, and she hesitated. “Ye mean, outside the castle walls?”

“Aye,” Helena said, already starting toward the gate. “And if the Laird gets cross about it, he can take it up with me. It was me idea, after all.”

Abigail glanced at the towering stone walls, her heart lurching with nerves. “He’ll be furious.”

Helena waved a hand dismissively. “Och, let the man stew. Sometimes, it is worth the risk.”

With that, Abigail drew the shawl tighter around her shoulders and followed. Her boots crunched over the gravel as they stepped through the archway that led to the stables.

The cold air outside the walls bit at her cheeks, but the open sky and smell of earth gave her a strange sense of freedom.

When they stepped onto the worn path behind the stables, she slowed down. The meadow was beautiful, though dry.

“Ye come here often?” she asked.

“Always.” Helena grinned. “It reminds me that there’s still beauty in the world when I see the vast sky.”

And for the first time since her arrival, Abigail felt like she could breathe because she didn’t feel like a prisoner.