Page 14 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“ Y er stance is weak, Rory,” Kian called out. “Keep yer knees bent, or ye’ll be on the ground in seconds.”

He stood watching two younger warriors circle one another with raised wooden swords.

Leighton approached from the far side, his arms folded over his chest. “That lad’s got fire, but he’s green as spring grass,” he muttered.

Kian grunted in agreement, his eye trained on the two clashing blades. “Aye, fire’s only useful if ye ken how to wield it.”

With a flick of his wrist, he motioned for the boys to stop. He stepped forward, took one of their swords, and faced Rory directly.

“Come on then,” he said, widening his stance. “Show me what ye’ve got, lad.”

Rory hesitated for half a breath before lunging, and Kian met his strike with ease.

The clash of wood rang out sharp, and within three moves, he had Rory on the ground.

“Again,” he ordered, offering a hand to the boy and pulling him up. “Ye’ll never win if ye hesitate.”

Leighton chuckled softly behind him. “Ye enjoy tossin’ lads around more than eatin’ yer supper.”

Kian smirked and stepped back. “Aye, because I dinnae trust anyone else to knock sense into them.” He turned to another group of men standing nearby, sharpening blades and watching. “Jorah, Fergus, ye’re next.”

The two warriors stepped onto the field, both larger and more experienced than Rory.

Kian handed off the wooden sword and picked up his blade, heavier and worn from use.

“Let’s make this quick,” he said. “I have reports waiting.”

They came at him together, coordinated strikes meant to overwhelm. Kian grinned as a thrill surged through his limbs. He blocked Jorah’s blade and twisted, knocking Fergus’s off course, then drove his shoulder into Jorah’s chest, sending him down.

“Ye’re movin’ slower than usual,” Leighton called out from the side, laughing. “Is the lass distractin’ ye that much?”

Kian growled under his breath but said nothing. He ducked beneath a wide swing and countered with a precise blow to Fergus’s thigh. The older warrior winced but held steady, and they danced for several more minutes before Kian finally drove both men back, ending the spar.

The onlookers erupted in applause and hoots.

Kian stepped back, breathing hard but satisfied. He rolled his shoulders and passed his sword to a waiting squire.

“That’s enough for now,” he said. “Get back to yer drills.”

Leighton approached him again, his face damp with sweat even though he hadn’t fought. “Ye’re beastly when ye’re angry.”

“I’m nae angry,” Kian muttered. “Just focused.”

“Focused,” Leighton echoed with a raised eyebrow. “Or maybe tryin’ to forget the kiss ye shared with the lass?”

Kian shot him a glare. “Mind yer tongue.”

Leighton held up his hands in surrender. “I’m only sayin’—it’s written all over yer face. Ye’ve been boilin’ like stew since that day.”

Kian said nothing. He turned away from the men and walked toward the far end of the yard, where the mist from the loch carried in cool relief. His boots thudded against the earth, his mind spinning faster than a carriage wheel.

The memory of Abigail’s lips returned with a vengeance. The heat of her against him, the sound of her breathing—damn it all. He clenched his fists and exhaled, trying to push the thoughts away.

She is a means to an end, nothin’ more.

And yet the fire in her eyes had taken root in his mind. Every time she defied him, he wanted to crush that defiance with his mouth. Every time she looked away, he burned to make her look at him again.

“Ye need to clear yer head,” Leighton said beside him, his voice quieter now. “Ye’re fightin’ better than ever, but ye’ll be of nay use if ye lose yerself to it.”

Kian glanced toward the castle walls. “I’ll clear me head when I receive word from the Reids or the McEwans.”

He spotted Paul making his way toward him.

The old man walked with a cane, but there was an urgency in his steps that made Kian’s hackles rise. His face was grim, and the roll of parchment in his hand already told Kian that he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear.

Kian wiped his brow with the back of his hand and met the man halfway.

“Paul,” he said curtly. “Ye have somethin’ to report?”

“Aye, Me Laird,” Paul answered, trying to catch his breath. “I’ve just come from the eastern fields, near the orchard run by the MacArdens.”

Kian frowned, already uneasy. “What of it? The orchard’s always been a fertile land.”

Paul held out the parchment. “Nae this season. The trees bear near to nothin’. The men say the fruit’s stunted, if it even shows at all.”

Kian snatched it and unrolled it. His jaw clenched as he read the scribbled numbers, far lower than he’d hoped. “They blame the dry spell?”

“Aye,” Paul replied. “It’s been weeks since the last downpour. The soil’s hard as rock.”

Kian stared out at the fields beyond the castle walls, his mood darkening. The hills that once bloomed green now looked tired, thirsty, and withered under the sun.

“We have too many mouths to feed this winter,” he muttered. “And too low stores as it stands.”

Paul nodded slowly. “The rationing ye ordered can only go so far.”

Kian’s grip on the parchment tightened until the edges crumpled. “How am I to keep the people content, let alone obedient, when their bellies are empty?” he sighed. “I cannae handle a famine and unrest at once.”

Paul gave him a sympathetic look. “The folks will listen if they ken ye care for them, Me Laird. Even if ye cannae perform miracles, they’ll trust in yer plan. But if word spreads of weakness?—”

Kian shook his head, cutting him off. “Nay. I’ll nae have our enemies sniffin’ out our troubles like wolves to blood. Keep this between us for now.”

“Aye, Me Laird.” Paul gave a respectful bow and turned to go, his cane tapping against the ground with each slow step.

Leighton approached. “What did the old man say?”

Kian passed him the roll of parchment with a snarl. “Keep it to yerself. Nay one can ken but us. The orchards are dry. The harvest will be half what we need, if that.”

Leighton read quickly, his face darkening. “Christ above. This, on top of waitin’ for word from the Reids and the McEwans?”

Kian nodded. “Aye. It’s all stackin’ up like tinder. One spark, and the whole of it will burn.”

He turned away from the fields and headed back to the castle, his steps heavy. His mind raced with unwelcome thoughts—hunger, unrest, betrayal. And still, beneath it all, the image of a lass with flushed cheeks and fire in her gaze flickered like a ghost.

Abigail.

He ground his teeth. “I’ve nay time to be thinkin’ of her,” he mumbled under his breath. “Nae when everythin’ else is fallin’ apart.”

He strode down the path with his jaw set, still brooding over Paul’s grim report. The sun glared down from a cloudless sky, the air dry as old parchment.

As he rounded a bend, he spotted two figures in the meadow just beyond the stables. Helena’s braid caught the light, and beside her stood Abigail.

His stomach tightened.

“What in the devil are they doin’ out there?” he hissed.

He didn’t recall giving Abigail leave to wander the grounds, and certainly not outside the castle walls. The lass had tried to flee once already, and while Helena was clever, she had a rebellious streak that made him uneasy.

His boots struck the ground harder as he stormed toward the path leading to the stables, his temper simmering just beneath his skin.

She was supposed to be under watch.

“Bloody hell, Helena,” he growled.

As he approached the fence, he caught sight of Abigail lagging behind Helena, who was deep in conversation with a maid at the far edge of the meadow, showing her which flowers to pick.

Abigail stood with her back to him, her hands clasped before her, bent toward the wildflowers swaying in the breeze. A gentle smile played on her lips.

Then, he heard it—the sharp, frantic neigh of a horse.

His head snapped to the left, and he saw a dark stallion barreling through the open paddock gate, its nostrils flared and eyes wild. One of the half-tamed beasts they’d been breaking over the last few weeks. It charged at full speed down the slope, straight for Abigail.

Helena’s voice rang out, shrill and desperate. “Abigail, move!”

Abigail jerked her head around, confusion written all over her face as she stiffened in shock. The beast’s hooves pounded against the earth, kicking up dust.

Kian’s vision turned red, instinct shoving everything to the side. “Christ Almighty!”

He took off.

The world narrowed. There was only the lass and the beast, and the thudding of his boots against the ground. He ran harder than he ever had before, his breath tearing from his throat like fire.

He lunged forward. Abigail turned to him, her eyes wide, her lips parted. The horse was nearly upon her.

With a grunt, he caught her around the waist, yanked her against his chest, and threw them both to the side. They hit the earth hard, a tangle of limbs and breath.

Behind them, the stallion let out another scream and veered, dirt flying as it circled back.

Kian shoved Abigail behind him, already rising to his feet.

“Stay down!” he barked.

The horse charged again.

Kian met it head-on. He reached out at the perfect moment, his fingers catching the reins as the beast tried to sidestep.

It reared, its powerful legs rising in the air, nearly knocking him backward.

Kian dug his heels into the soil, his muscles straining, his eye blazing with determination.

With a brutal yank and a loud growl, he forced the stallion down.

“Easy, ye bastard,” he hissed. “Ye’ll nae kill anyone this day.”

The horse snorted violently but finally relented, lowering its head.

Kian held tight to the reins, sweat dripping from his brow, his chest heaving. Only then did he glance back.

Abigail was kneeling in the grass, her shawl tangled around her elbows, her wide eyes locked onto him.

“Kian,” she whispered.

He turned back to the stallion, tied the reins to the nearest fence post, and stormed toward her.

“What in the name of all that’s holy were ye thinkin’?” he growled, kneeling in front of her. “Wanderin’ the grounds without a guard? I could wring both yer necks!”

Abigail’s eyes shimmered, her cheeks pale. “I didnae ken… it would happen. Helena just?—”

“Helena’s nae in charge of yer safety—I am!” he snapped, his trembling hand brushing leaves from her shoulders. “Do ye ken how close ye came to bein’ trampled?”

Her lips parted. “Ye… saved me.”

He stared at her, his heart pounding still. “Aye. And I’d do it again. But I swear to the heavens above, if ye ever pull somethin’ like that again?—”

He broke off as she pressed her hand against his chest, right over his heart. She was breathing fast, her eyes locked onto his, her lips trembling with something unsaid.

His anger twisted into something else—something hot and wild. Her closeness knocked the air from his lungs.

“I dinnae mean to cause trouble,” she said softly.

His voice lowered to a murmur. “Ye are trouble, lass.”

She flushed but didn’t pull her hand away.

The silence between them burned hotter than any fire. Kian’s gaze dropped to her mouth, and for a wild second, he nearly kissed her again.

But then Helena rushed over, out of breath.

“Is she hurt?” she asked, dropping to her knees beside them.

“Nay,” Kian said quickly, straightening. “But she’s lucky I was near.”

Helena’s face paled as she looked at the trampled patch of grass. “That horse—he’s nearly wild.”

Kian helped Abigail up, gripping her waist longer than necessary. “I’ll deal with the beast later. For now, both of ye are going back to the castle—with me.”

Abigail didn’t argue.

As they walked back, she glanced up at him once. “Thank ye, Kian,” she said quietly.

He gave her a sharp look, though something warm stirred in his chest.

“I told ye before, bunny. Ye belong to me, and I protect what’s mine.”