Page 18 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“ S o,” Leighton said, drawing out the word in amusement. “When do ye plan on stoppin’ yer glowerin’ and admittin’ that the lass has changed ye?”

Kian stood by the window in his study, the light slanting through the glass, casting long shadows on the stone floor. His arms were crossed over his chest, his jaw tight, his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes.

Behind him, Leighton leaned casually against the wall near the hearth, the faintest grin pulling at his lips.

Kian didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that the man was enjoying himself far too much.

He turned slowly, his good eye narrowed. “Mind yer tongue, Leighton. Ye’re treadin’ close.”

Leighton raised his eyebrows. “Aye, I ken. Close enough to get a rise out of ye, clearly.”

He pushed off the wall, crossing to the desk and picking up the half-finished report Kian had been ignoring.

“Enough,” Kian snapped, his voice sharp like a blade. “If ye dinnae stop, ye willnae see Helena for a month. I’ll send ye on a long mission.”

Leighton stiffened. “Ye would do it?”

Kian said nothing, only stared at him, the air thick between them.

Leighton shook his head with a smirk and dropped the report back on the desk. “Understood, me lips are sealed.”

Kian didn’t answer. He turned back toward the window, his gaze falling on the rolling hills beyond the castle walls. His reflection in the glass was tight-lipped and shadowed.

Had the lass truly affected him so deeply? He had bedded women before, had enjoyed their company, but none had left him feeling raw and half-wild the way Abigail did.

He thought of the way she looked at him—furious, flushed, vulnerable. The way her lips had trembled beneath his.

She should hate him. He’d kidnapped her, used her as a pawn in a dangerous game. But still, something about her undid him.

He frowned.

He couldn’t afford to get closer, not when the time would come to let her go, to hand her back in exchange for food.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Nay reply has come from the McEwans?” he asked abruptly.

Leighton, who had poured himself a cup of wine, paused mid-sip. “Nay, still nothin’. It’s been longer than expected.”

Kian’s expression darkened. “That’s unusual. Lady McEwan is fiercely protective of her sisters. I’d thought she’d storm through the gates by now.”

“Aye,” Leighton said, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Unless they’re plannin’ somethin’. Maybe marchin’ instead of writin’. It’s possible they’ll declare war.”

Kian shook his head. “Unlikely. That’d put Abigail in danger, and they ken it.” Still, he turned away from the window and crossed the room to the mantelpiece. He lifted his sword, testing its weight in his palm. “Prepare for it anyway. I’ll nae be caught unawares.”

Leighton nodded, some of the mirth fading from his eyes.

There was a long pause, the crackle of the fire the only sound.

“Any news from the scouts?” Kian asked.

Leighton sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Some. We’ve found a few pockets of land touched by rain, but the crops will barely feed half the village.”

Kian’s jaw clenched. “We cannae feed the people on hope. Send the scouts further, to lands untouched, places we’ve yet to settle. There must be fertile soil somewhere we’ve missed.”

“That’ll take time,” Leighton warned. “Months.”

“Then we start now,” Kian insisted, his voice hard. “This is why the alliance with Abigail’s kin matters so much. If we can secure an alliance, protection, our people will survive the winter. We cannae survive on strength alone.”

A heavy silence fell between them again.

Leighton knew better than to press further.

“I’ll send the scouts further,” he said finally.

“Good,” Kian muttered, turning to the desk and the maps that littered its surface. “And send word to the blacksmith. If war’s comin’, we’ll need our blades sharp and ready.”

“Aye, Me Laird.”

Leighton hesitated for a moment, then left the room quietly, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor.

Kian remained still for a long while, staring down at the parchment and ink. But his thoughts weren’t on strategy anymore. They were on Abigail. And the fact that, one way or another, he would have to choose between duty and the woman who now haunted his every waking hour.

He let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw, then narrowed his eye at the movement outside. There, just at the edge of the forest, walked two familiar figures—Abigail and Peyton, side by side.

“What are those two doin’ out there?” he growled.

He turned around abruptly and left the study, the echo of his boots sharp against the stone. His jaw clenched as he made his way down the stairs and out into the crisp morning air.

The edge of the forest was thick. He moved swiftly, his eye scanning the woods until he caught the flash of a blue shawl between the trees. Just as he opened his mouth to shout, a scream pierced the air.

Abigail.

His blood ran cold, and his legs moved before his thoughts could catch up. He sprinted, leaping over roots and ducking beneath branches, his heart thudding hard against his ribs. Another shout came, followed by a cry from Peyton.

He burst into the small clearing, his sword half drawn, his breathing ragged.

There, Abigail sat in the grass, holding her arm, her cheeks flushed from a fall. Peyton was kneeling beside her, murmuring soft reassurances as she helped brush dirt from her dress.

Kian’s gaze swept over her quickly, checking for blood, broken bones—any sign of injury. His heart pounded harder than it should have.

“What in God’s name are the two of ye doin’ out here alone?” he barked, stalking toward them.

Peyton lifted her chin, ever calm. “We were only walking. The lass tripped on a root.”

Abigail flushed deeper, lowering her gaze as she tried to rise to her feet. “It’s nothin’. I only lost me balance.”

Kian stepped forward, catching her elbow firmly. “The forest’s nae a place for a lass like ye to be wanderin’ about. Did ye think I wouldnae have found out?”

Abigail’s eyebrows knitted together. “I was with Peyton. She said it was safe.”

“I was keepin’ watch,” Peyton added, her tone gentle but pointed. “The lass is hardly runnin’ wild.”

Kian grunted, ignoring them both as he scooped Abigail up into his arms.

She gasped, immediately pushing against his chest. “Put me down! I can walk!”

He growled. “I’ll nae risk ye fallin’ again.”

She huffed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as he carried her. “This is wrong. I dinnae need coddling. I’ve got legs of me own.”

Kian didn’t reply. He only tightened his arms around her and strode toward the castle, not caring that a few people paused to stare.

Peyton followed quietly behind, her expression unreadable. “I truly meant nay harm, Cousin,” she said softly. “I take full responsibility.”

“I ken ye meant well,” Kian assured, his voice softening slightly. “But next time, ask before leadin’ her beyond the walls.”

Abigail tensed in his arms again. “He’s nae angry because ye led me to the forest,” she snapped. “He’s angry because he cannae control every step I take.”

Kian’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t reply.

At last, they reached the castle gates, the guards standing aside without question.

He carried her up the steps, into the main hall, and directly to her chambers. Her blush deepened with every step.

“Ye can let me down now,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

Kian kicked her door open and entered without pause. Gently, he set her down on the edge of her bed, but he didn’t step back right away.

His gaze met hers, intense and unreadable. “Do ye think I carried ye for show?” he asked quietly. “That I rushed after ye for the pleasure of bein’ seen?”

Abigail’s breath caught. She couldn’t find her voice, not with his gaze pinning her to the spot.

“I’ll do whatever I must to keep ye safe,” Kian continued, his voice low. “Even if ye hate me for it.”

He took a step back, exhaling as though her silence were a dagger to his gut.

“I’ll send Helena over to see if ye need healing.”

And then he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud.

He stormed through the corridors like a bull released from the pen. His boots thundered against the stone floor as he searched for Helena. When he found her speaking with one of the maids, he didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“The lass fell,” he said gruffly. “See to her.”

Helena’s eyes widened, before she grabbed her satchel and rushed off.

Kian didn’t wait to see her go. He turned and headed to the nearest hall, his hands clenched at his sides, his breath coming fast. His mood was black as pitch and only growing worse.

He ended up in the small storage room off the study, where he kept his private stash of whiskey.

With shaking hands, he poured a heavy dram and tossed it back in one swallow.

It burned down his throat, but it didn’t extinguish the fire in his chest. He poured another dram, then another, until the bottle was near empty.

The warmth dulled the edge of his rage, but it brought no peace. He slumped into the nearest chair, glaring at the hearth even though no fire burned.

His mind played the scene in the forest over and over—Abigail’s startled eyes, her flushed cheeks, the way she fit in his arms like she belonged there.

“Damn me,” he muttered.

Eventually, his head lolled back, and sleep took him like a hammer.

The whiskey did its work, and he slept hard, his fingers twitching with dreams he’d never speak aloud.

When morning came with a throb in his skull and the sour taste of regret, he dragged himself up and ran a hand down his face.

He stood up, his limbs heavy but his mind clearer. He knew where he had to go.

Abigail had every right to be angry—he’d handled her like a sack of grain, barking orders like she was one of his warriors. But she wasn’t. She was fire and softness and pride wrapped in stubborn flesh.

He went to her chambers and knocked once, then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer.

She sat near the window, wrapped in one of Helena’s spare shawls, her hair hanging loose over her shoulders.

Her eyes snapped to him immediately, and he could feel the heat of her glare even from the doorway.

He stepped inside. “I’ve come to see how ye’re faring,” he said in a low voice.

Abigail stood up. “I am fine. But ye cannae keep manhandlin’ me and expect me to stay quiet about it. I need air—space to breathe, Kian.”

He clenched his jaw, then exhaled slowly. “Aye. Ye’ll get air, but nae in the forest. Come with me.”

She crossed her arms but didn’t protest as she followed him through the halls. He didn’t speak as they made their way out into the front courtyard. The sun was bright, but the wind ruffled the grass around them.

Kian gave a sharp whistle. One of the stablehands came running, and Kian took the reins of a large chestnut mare.

He walked the beast to Abigail and paused, his eye raking over her. “Up ye go.”

When she hesitated, he grunted and reached for her waist. She yelped, but before she could argue, he had her lifted in one smooth motion and deposited on the saddle.

His hands lingered for a moment on her hips, his fingers curling around her curves.

She looked down at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. “Ye really need to stop throwin’ me about like I weigh nothin’.”

His gaze met hers, heat simmering just beneath the surface. “Ye weigh nothin’, lass.”

He turned quickly, his jaw tight, and mounted behind her.

They cantered out of the bailey, the wind tossing Abigail’s hair. Kian kept his gaze ahead, trying not to think about the way her skirts fluttered or how good her body felt in his hands.

It was dangerous, his hunger. And worse still, it had nothing to do with alliances or plans.

He led them down the winding path past the lower fields, toward a quiet glen tucked between two hills. The trees thinned out here, the land softer and sun-drenched, the wind quieter. Wildflowers were scattered in the tall grass, and a small stream bubbled over stones.

He drew his horse to a halt and dismounted.

Abigail looked around, surprise softening her expression. “This is… beautiful.”

Kian reached up to help her down, but she dismounted on her own, smoothing down her skirts.

“I thought ye’d like this better than a prison,” he said, watching her closely.

She nodded, still looking around. “It is quiet.” Her tone had lost its bite, at least for the moment.

They stood there, neither moving nor speaking, until the breeze shifted and stirred her hair again.

Kian couldn’t look away from her—from the way the sun kissed her face, the way her lashes lowered when she glanced at the stream. He crossed his arms and tore his gaze away.

“I didnae mean to snap when the horse came at ye,” he said suddenly. “But when I saw it…”

“I understand,” she murmured. “I was scared, too.”

He nodded once, but didn’t say more.

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with things he could not say, things too dangerous to speak yet.