Page 2 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)
CHAPTER TWO
“ I will be all right, Marissa,” Abigail said, watching her sister.
Marissa stood by the great oak door of Castle Reid, her eyes full of concern. “Are ye sure ye dinnae want to stay the night, Abigail? The roads are treacherous this time of year, and ye’ve a long journey back to McEwan.”
Her voice held the warmth of sisterly care, but also the quiet firmness of a lady used to command.
Abigail smiled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m grateful, Marissa, but I must go back. There’s a charity event at McEwan tomorrow, and I cannae miss it.”
She looked up at the sky, where the sun hung at its highest.
Marissa arched a curious eyebrow. “What sort of charity is it, then? Ye dinnae speak often of these matters.” Her voice softened, sisterly curiosity shining through the formalities of noble life.
“It’s for young widows, teachin’ them skills to stand on their own two feet,” Abigail explained, her tone steady and sincere. “Ye ken how harsh the world can be toward a woman without a family to lean on. It’s nae much, but it’s somethin’.”
She clasped Marissa’s hand firmly, her eyes shining with quiet determination, then stepped toward the waiting carriage.
“Goodbye, dear sister,” she said.
“Send me love to the others,” Marissa called.
Abigail settled into the carriage with a soft sigh, the heavy wooden door closing behind her with a solid thud.
As soon as the wheels began to turn and the familiar sight of Castle Reid faded from view, her smile vanished like mist in the morning sun.
Her fingers clenched the folds of her gown tightly, and her eyes dropped to the floor, clouded with thoughts she dared not voice.
The carriage rocked gently, but inside her heart, a storm raged.
She thought of her sisters—their laughter, their bright eyes, the way suitors had always flocked to them with genuine affection and respect. Marissa, the Lady of Clan Reid, was so graceful and fair, and had a husband who loved her.
Abigail scoffed inwardly as she considered her own appearance—plain brown hair, soft brown eyes, average height, and a figure fuller than she wished it to be.
Why was I nae blessed with such beauty?
The thought made her chest tighten. The men who approached her were different—hungry for titles and power, only eager for marriage alliances and how they might benefit them. No one looked at her for the woman she was, only for what she could offer.
The thought pressed heavily on her chest, like a stone she could not cast aside.
Her fingers traced the edge of the embroidered cushion, trying to ease her inner turmoil. “Will I ever find real love?” she wondered, her voice barely above a whisper.
She longed for the warmth of a true companion, someone who would cherish her for her heart and spirit. Yet doubt settled deep, and she feared she was destined to be merely a means to power, never a love partner.
Time passed in a blur as the carriage rattled on steadily, the rhythmic clatter of wheels over dirt blending with the hum of her thoughts. She sat in silence, her fingers resting loosely in her lap, her gaze unfocused as memories and worries churned behind her eyes.
The warmth of her sister’s farewell had faded, replaced with the ache of longing she kept well-hidden. Love still felt like a distant thing, a dream other women were allowed to chase, but never her.
At last, she turned her head toward the window, blinking as she took in the golden sweep of afternoon light across the moors.
Rolling hills stretched wide beneath a sky streaked with silver clouds, and heather bloomed in patches across the land.
The air was crisp, the kind that kissed the skin with wind and whispered secrets through the gorse.
“Oh,” she murmured, a small smile curving her lips, “the time’s gone by quickly… I didnae even realize we’re halfway home.”
Her smile faded as she felt the carriage shift, turning down a road that did not feel right beneath the wheels. The rhythm changed, and the path became rougher, less familiar.
Abigail leaned out of the window, her brow furrowed. “Wait… this isnae the way to Castle McEwan,” she said, her voice tight.
The trees here stood closer together, the road narrowing with each jolt of the wheels.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she shouted, “Carter! Carter! Why have we turned this way?”
Her voice cracked with urgency, but the wind drowned her words.
The driver gave no sign of hearing her, focused only on the reins, his back stiff. Her thoughts scattered—perhaps a bridge had collapsed, or heavy rain made the main road too dangerous to cross. Maybe there was a fallen tree or a washed-out path.
She tried to steady her breathing, pressing a hand to her chest. “He should have told me,” she whispered, her voice thin.
Then came a sudden shout from the front, sharp and startled.
The horses shrieked, their hooves striking the ground in frantic beats.
The carriage lurched violently, throwing Abigail against the wall as it came to a jarring halt.
Pain bloomed across her shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the cold grip of fear on her chest.
She scrambled up as best she could in the cramped carriage, her breathing shallow and fast.
“What’s happened?” she called, her voice trembling as she leaned toward the shuttered window. “Carter! Answer me!”
But there was only silence—no voice, no movement—only the restless whinnying of the horses.
Her heart thundered in her chest, loud enough that she thought it might break through her ribs. She reached beneath the folds of her gown with shaking hands, pulling out the small dirk she kept strapped to her thigh.
The metal was cold and reassuring in her grip, though her palm was clammy. She’d heard tales of bandits on the back roads—men who preyed on lone travelers like wolves in the dark.
Then came the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate—crunching on gravel just outside the carriage door.
Abigail froze, her breath catching, every hair on her arms rising. She clenched the dirk tighter, forcing her mind to quiet. The door rattled, then flew open with a bang.
With a gasp, she lunged forward and slashed blindly, her blade catching the intruder across the arm. He cursed low under his breath but grabbed her wrist with lightning speed and twisted, disarming her with practiced ease.
“Get away from me!” she screamed, trying to pull back, fury and terror colliding in her chest.
But the man only chuckled, as though her fear amused him.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly handsome, despite the dark eyepatch covering his left eye. His smirk curled like a knife’s edge, cruel and far too confident.
“Found ye, little bunny,” he drawled, his voice deep and rough with a Highland lilt.
And just like that, Abigail knew—she was not in the hands of a bandit, but someone far more dangerous.
Her back hit the far wall of the carriage as she glared at him, her chest heaving. “I dinnae ken who ye are, but ye’ll regret layin’ a hand on me,” she spat, fury rising to meet the fear in her belly.
Her wrist throbbed where he’d twisted it, but she refused to show weakness—not to him. Not to this arrogant brute with the smirk of the devil himself.
Unbothered by her words, the man climbed into the carriage, ducking slightly to fit through the narrow door.
“Oh, I think I will never regret this,” he said, wiping the blood from his arm with his cloak. “And ye, lass, are a long way from safety.”
“Why would a man like ye come for me?” she asked, her voice low but steady. “I travel with nay jewelry or baubles. This carriage isnae one of opulence. Ye will find that I have nothin’ to give ye.”
“Because, lass,” he said in a gravelly voice, “yer hand is about to change the Highlands… and I intend to make sure it changes it in me favor.”
“What? That doesnae make any sense. I am nay one,” she huffed.
“Aye, ye are someone to me. I dinnae need yer baubles, lass. I need ye ,” he insisted.
Abigail’s breath caught, her fingers curling into fists as her pulse thundered in her ears. “Ye’ve nay right,” she hissed, lifting her chin defiantly. “I’ll never marry a man who thinks he can steal a bride like cattle.”
The man leaned in close, his face inches from hers. “I dinnae care for a wedding, lass. Either way, ye’re comin’ with me.”