Page 19 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A bigail sat stiffly in the saddle, the coarse wool of Kian’s plaid brushing her back as he rode behind her. His arm rested firmly across her waist, holding the reins with one hand and steadying her with the other.
The warmth of his body seeped into her, and every time the horse shifted, she felt it—strong, immovable, and far too solid for her peace of mind. Her breath hitched, but she said nothing.
They were riding toward the village—one of the ones hardest hit by the famine, or so Kian had said. The journey had been quiet, save for the clip-clop of hooves and the occasional murmured instruction.
Kian didn’t talk much, but his presence spoke volumes, especially when his thumb brushed her side every time he adjusted the reins. She wasn’t sure if he noticed, but her stomach tightened each time.
As they crested a hill, she saw the village nestled below; it was small and quiet, the roofs old and sagging, smoke curling up from a few chimneys. Chickens scattered as they approached, and a dog barked somewhere in the distance.
The place looked sad, weary, as though it had survived something terrible and was still holding on. Abigail swallowed thickly, feeling unease twist in her gut.
They passed a crooked wooden sign that marked the village border, and almost at once, heads began to turn. A boy dropped a pail of water, his eyes wide, and an older man shouted something unintelligible before hobbling toward them.
“The Laird’s here!” the cry rang out, high-pitched and thrilled.
Abigail flinched as people poured through cracked doors and leaned over fences, their eyes wide and their faces hopeful. She couldn’t believe the sudden flood of warm greetings.
“Laird McKenna!” the villagers cried, their voices full of something she hadn’t expected—gratitude.
Kian didn’t smile, didn’t speak right away, just inclined his head as the villagers closed in on them. They didn’t shrink from him, didn’t avoid his gaze the way the servants did.
A pair of small children, barefoot and covered in dust, ran forward. Each clutched a wildflower, tiny and bruised, but they offered them with reverence.
“For ye, Me Laird,” they said in trembling voices.
Kian accepted the flowers with a curt nod and tucked them into his saddlebag.
Abigail blinked, caught off guard by the gesture.
The children beamed up at him, clearly expecting nothing in return. She watched Kian’s jaw flex, and though his expression stayed grim, there was a softness in the way he nodded again before turning his gaze back to the crowd.
Something inside her shifted.
Then, a woman stepped forward, her belly swollen with child, her hands red and raw from hard labor.
She curtsied, breathing heavily, and offered a smile. “Laird McKenna, bless ye. If it hadnae been for the grain ye sent, we’d all have starved.”
Kian looked at her for a moment, then nodded once. “It was me duty. A laird does what’s right for his people,” he said gruffly.
The woman dipped her head again, tears in her eyes.
Abigail’s throat tightened as she watched. The way he carried himself, receiving their gratitude without basking in it… it wasn’t what she had expected.
At the castle, the servants treated him like a beast to avoid. But here, among the villagers, he was entirely different.
A young lad approached with a bundle of sticks strapped to his back. “Me Laird, the roof of our cottage is sagging. Ma says if the wind blows wrong, we’ll be sleepin’ under stars.”
Kian reached down and ruffled his hair. “Tell yer da I’ll send a man to help fix it. Ye’ll nae sleep in the cold this winter.”
The lad grinned and took off running, shouting the news.
Abigail’s heart ached. She felt foolish now, remembering how she’d judged Kian based on the servants’ whispers.
Here was a man whose people loved him, not out of fear but loyalty. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.
He finally turned to her. “Come,” he said quietly. “There’s more to see.”
She followed him through the village.
Smoke and peat hung heavy in the air, but the villagers’ spirits seemed to have improved by Kian’s presence.
They bowed their heads as he passed, children darting between their legs to steal glances at him. Kian said little, offering only nods or a kind word now and then.
They stopped near a well where a group of women were drawing water. One of them—middle-aged, her sleeves rolled to her elbows—called out, “Me Laird, we’ll be havin’ that gathering ye promised? The one for sharin’ seeds?”
“Aye,” Kian answered, crossing his arms.
“Aye, Me Laird!” the women chorused, all smiles.
Abigail stood beside him, trying to come to terms with this side of him. She saw no cruelty here. No dark shadow of the brute she had painted in her mind. There was still a hardness about him, but perhaps that steel was forged in duty, not malice.
“They all care for ye,” she noted quietly. “These people.”
Kian grunted but didn’t answer.
“Back at the castle, the maids willnae even look ye in the eye,” she went on. “But here—here, they call ye ‘Laird McKenna’ like it means something.”
Kian stopped and glanced over his shoulder at her. “The castle’s a place of rules. This”—he nodded toward the village behind them—“this is the heart of it. What they think matters more.”
Abigail didn’t reply. Her chest felt tight, but not unpleasantly so. She turned her gaze toward the cottages to see the smoke curling up gently and hear the laughter of children on the wind.
Perhaps she had misjudged more than just the man. Perhaps she had misunderstood what it meant to lead, to carry weight on one’s shoulders that others never saw.
Kian was no monster.
And suddenly, that terrified her more than anything.
They continued on their ride and then slowed down as they reached the far edge of the village. Rolling fields spread out before them. Only, they weren’t rolling with green or gold. Instead, dry, cracked earth stretched in jagged lines, brittle as parchment beneath the wind.
Abigail stiffened, her brow creasing in confusion and alarm.
Kian slid down behind her, helping her dismount before turning to face the fields with a grimace. She slowly stepped forward, the hem of her gown brushing the brittle soil.
“What happened here?” she asked, her voice soft with disbelief. “This land looks… dead.”
Kian didn’t look at her as he answered. “The skies dried up, and the rain fled from us. Our crops withered before we could harvest. The heat and wind took what was left.” He gestured toward the empty fields. “And this village isnae the only one.”
Abigail wrapped her shawl tightly around her.
“All of it… ruined,” she murmured, her heart heavy. Turning to him, she frowned. “This is why ye want to strike a deal with me sisters.”
“Aye,” Kian said flatly. “I’ll pay whatever price they ask. I’ll give gold, land, titles if I must. But I need food, grain, fish—whatever they can spare.”
She blinked at him, stunned. “Why didnae ye just ask?” she demanded. “Me sisters are proud, aye, but they’re nae cruel. They’d listen—if ye’d written with respect, with truth.”
Kian finally turned to her, his eye cold. “I did ask. I sent letters to three clans before. Everyone sent back polite rejections—or nay word at all. I dinnae have time for pretty words and empty promises.”
“That’s nae fair,” she protested, her voice rising. “Ye’re lumpin’ me family in with strangers. We’re nae like that.”
He scoffed bitterly. “We’ll see.”
They stood there in silence, the dry wind stirring the hem of her skirt. Then, Abigail turned to him again, her expression softer now.
“Why are yer servants so afraid of ye?” she asked gently. “Even Isolde—she shakes when she pours yer wine. But these villagers dinnae fear ye.”
Kian froze. His gaze met hers, dark and shuttered.
“Because I killed me uncle,” he answered flatly, as if stating the weather. There was no emotion, no flicker of remorse.
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat. She had almost forgotten about his bad reputation and the stories told about him killing his uncle. She had expected anger, a brooding silence, not this blunt admission.
Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her shawl, uncertain.
“He tried to steal the lairdship from me. Tried to turn the council against me, poison their ears with lies. He took what was rightfully mine.”
She stared at him, her thoughts racing. “Then that makes him the monster, nae ye.”
Kian looked away, his jaw tight. “He made me into one,” he muttered. “Raised me to be just like him—brutal, without kindness or care. I did what I had to do, and I’ve been payin’ the price ever since.”
Abigail stepped closer, her voice low. “I dinnae think ye’re a monster.”
When his eye snapped back to hers, she held her ground.
“Though ye did take me against me will,” she added with a teasing smile, trying to ease the tension.
To her surprise, he let out a quiet breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. “Ye’re braver than most,” he said, shaking his head. “And more stubborn.”
She looked out over the fields again, her smile fading. “This land… it means everythin’ to ye.”
“It does,” he agreed. “I’d burn the world before lettin’ me people starve. They depend on me. If I must be a monster to save them, then so be it.”
Abigail’s heart ached at his words. She understood now—the weight he bore, the guilt that followed him like a shadow.
He wasn’t cruel by nature. He had been shaped by hardship, hardened by another, his cruel uncle.
“I see it now,” she murmured. “Why they love ye in the villages. Why they cheer when ye ride past. Ye take care of them, even if it costs ye yer peace.”
He didn’t reply, but she saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. A subtle reaction, but it was something.
She turned back to him, her voice softening. “Ye dinnae have to carry it all alone, Kian. There’s still a chance me sisters will listen—if I speak to them. Let me try.”
Kian’s expression shifted. He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time, not just as a pawn in a game but as a woman with spirit and heart.
“I’ll consider it,” he said gruffly.
They stood there for a while longer, the wind rustling the dead grass, stirring up memories and dust alike.
Abigail watched him out of the corner of her eye, feeling something change between them. Not trust—not yet—but something close.
He offered his hand to help her back onto the horse. She took it, warm and rough in her own. As he swung up behind her, his hand lingered a moment longer on her waist.
She didn’t pull away.
The ride back to the castle was quiet, though Abigail was far from calm. She could feel his arm around her waist, steady and strong, but his silence weighed heavier than his hold.
Her thoughts churned, looping between what he had confessed and the way he looked at her, like he wanted her but didn’t dare tell her.
His words are true, I ken that much. But I dinnae ken what he thinks of me now. Am I still only a means to an end, or am I something more?
The steady rhythm of the horse beneath them did little to calm the storm inside her.
As they passed through the castle gates, Abigail kept her gaze ahead, trying not to lean into him. But it was impossible to ignore the heat of his body or the faint scent of leather that clung to him. It made her stomach twist in ways she didn’t understand.
He helped her down from the saddle.
“I’ll escort ye to yer rooms,” he rumbled.
For once, Abigail did not protest. She turned toward the front doors, happy that he was following her.
When they finally reached the corridor leading to her chambers, she half wished their walk would stretch on just a bit longer.
They stopped at her door.
“Rest well,” he said, his voice rough. He stood tall, his arms folded, like he was guarding something deep inside. “Ye’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
She hesitated at the threshold, her hand resting on the handle. “Ye should rest, too,” she replied softly. “Ye carry too much on yer shoulders. I see it.”
His gaze met hers, and for a moment, the air between them crackled.
Abigail’s breath caught as yearning rose in her chest. Part of her begged him to lean in—to kiss her again, to chase away the doubt and confusion that clouded her mind. But after a long moment, he blinked, turned on his heel, and walked away without another word.
Abigail let out a slow, trembling breath and stepped into her room. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it.
The silence in her chambers was deafening. And though she had longed for space from him, now that she had it, she only felt the ache of his absence.