Page 22 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“ T here now,” Kian murmured to his horse.
He moved the soft brush down the mare’s neck, slow and steady. The quiet hum of the stables usually soothed him, but not today. Not with Abigail’s words still echoing in his head.
She had brushed off his proposal like it meant nothing. He’d meant every word of it, and yet she’d looked at him as if he were jesting.
Foolish, that’s what I am—lettin’ it slip without a thought, without any control over me cursed tongue.
He dug the brush harder into the mare’s neck, earning a disgruntled snort from the creature.
“Easy, lass,” he muttered, though the words were more for himself than the beast. He leaned his forehead briefly against hers and closed his eye. “What have I done?”
A voice suddenly pierced the still air.
“Kian! Kian!”
His head snapped up. It was a woman’s voice, sharp and panicked. He dropped the brush and strode out into the light.
Peyton was running across the grass, her skirts billowing, her hair wild. She looked half mad, her boots smeared with mud and her eyes wide with fear.
“What is it?” he barked. “What’s happened?”
She didn’t answer, not at first. She staggered to a halt in front of him, clutching at her side, gulping in air like she’d run for miles.
Kian stepped forward, his fists clenched. “Speak, woman! Tell me what’s wrong, will ye?”
“I-I saw her,” Peyton gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Abigail. She was taken.”
His blood ran cold. “Taken?”
“Carried off—into the woods, from the meadow,” she stammered. “Someone had her. She wasnae moving, Kian!”
“Why did ye nae stop them?!” he roared, his fury rising like fire through his chest.
“I was high up in the tower. I couldnae get there in time! I saw it from me window.”
He turned on his heel without another word and stormed into the stables. The mare he’d been grooming sensed his fury and stamped her hooves once, but he saddled her with quick, efficient hands.
If anything happens to Abigail… if a single hair on her head is harmed, I will burn every bandit at the stake.
He cinched the strap, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The fury had nowhere to go, so it coursed through his body—his hands, his legs, his back, all pulsing with it.
“I’ll find her,” he growled to no one in particular. “And I’ll make them pay.” He mounted the mare and steered her around, his eye fixed on Peyton. “Where in the woods?”
He reached down, grabbed her by the wrist, and hoisted her up behind him without a word.
She pointed ahead. “That way—into the woods, past the old stone wall. I saw them drag her through there.”
“Ye had better be sure,” he growled, his knuckles white on the reins. “If we lose her because of yer stammerin’ and gaspin’, I’ll have yer hide.”
He knew he was being harsh unnecessarily, but he didn’t care. His heart was thundering like a war drum, and none of it had to do with the bloody alliance or the trade deal he’d once convinced himself he needed Abigail for.
No, this was different. He needed her because her laughter had carved a place inside him that hadn’t existed before. Because her stubbornness made him want to fight and kiss her all at once. Because the thought of her in another man’s arms made his vision blur with rage.
“Over there,” Peyton said, this time more firmly. “Through the trees. There’s a clearing in that direction.”
Kian kicked the mare into a gallop, the world blurring around him, his heart leaping into his throat.
The trees parted suddenly, and he yanked on the reins. He slid off the saddle before the horse had fully stopped.
In the middle of the clearing, Abigail stood surrounded by four armed bandits, her hands tied in front of her, her skirts dirt-smudged and torn.
Her eyes found him instantly, and her voice cracked as she cried out, “Kian!”
The sight of her face, the tears streaking down her cheeks, nearly brought him to his knees. But he didn’t falter.
He drew his sword in one fluid motion, the steel catching the last of the sunlight.
“Let her go,” he barked, his voice low and deadly. “Or I’ll gut the lot of ye where ye stand.”
One of the men, a tall brute with a scar across his brow, stepped forward with a sneer. “We’ve been paid a handsome sum for the lass. What will ye give us to hand her back?”
His companions chuckled darkly behind him, their blades gleaming.
“I’ll give ye a shallow grave and nay name on a stone,” Kian snapped. “That’s what I’ll give ye.”
His boots crunched forward, step by deliberate step, and he angled himself to shield Abigail with his body.
The second man raised an eyebrow. “Ye talk big, lad, but there are four of us and one of ye. Ye think that steel will save her before we slice her throat?”
“Ye touch her, and I’ll make sure ye bleed out slowly,” Kian snarled. “I’ll chop off yer hands, then yer tongue, and then I’ll let the wolves have what’s left.”
Fury pulsed in his blood, hot and wild, but his hand was steady on the hilt of his sword.
“Ye’re mad,” the third bandit muttered, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to another.
“Aye,” Kian said coldly, “mad for her. Mad enough to burn this whole damn forest if I have to.”
He let the words hang in the air like smoke.
The scarred man laughed low. “She’s worth all of that, is she nae? Pretty little thing—but we’ve seen finer.”
He reached out and grabbed Abigail’s arm roughly, pulling her closer.
Kian’s sword was at his throat in a blink. “Let. Her. Go.”
Abigail gasped as the blade kissed the bandit’s skin.
The man froze. The others pointed their weapons, but no one moved. Kian’s stance was pure threat, rage simmering beneath his skin like a fuse ready to snap.
“I’ll ask once more,” he bit out. “Ye can walk away with yer lives if ye let her go now. But if one of ye so much as breathes wrong, I’ll make sure yer maithers willnae recognize what’s left of ye.”
One of the younger bandits—barely a lad—lowered his weapon. “He means it,” he muttered. “I’m nae dyin’ for this. I was promised gold, nae a grave.”
“Coward,” the scarred man spat. But he also hesitated, his grip on Abigail wavering slightly.
Kian’s eye locked onto his, dark and full of fire.
“Three seconds,” he warned. “One… two…”
“Kian!” Abigail screamed when she saw Peyton pull something shiny from beneath her skirts.
Peyton had used the distraction to inch closer to him, but the warning came too late.
He felt a sharp pain in his side. He staggered backward, clutching his side where the dirk had sliced through flesh.
Warm blood seeped between his fingers, but the pain was nothing compared to the burn in his chest when he turned around and looked into Peyton’s eyes. She was holding the dirk she had just stabbed him with.
“Ye snake,” he growled, breathing hard. “Was this yer plan all along?”
His voice trembled with betrayal more than rage, but he straightened, standing tall despite his injury.
Peyton’s cruel smirk deepened as she twirled the dirk in her hand, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
“Aye, it was,” she said coldly. “Ye always thought yerself smarter, stronger, but ye never saw what was right before yer eyes.” She tilted her head, almost pitying him. “Ye made it far too easy, Kian.”
He spat blood at the ground, sneering through the pain. “Ye think stabbin’ me in the side makes ye powerful?” he snarled. “Real power doesnae come from deceit and knives in the dark. It comes from loyalty, from strength earned, nae stolen.”
Her laugh rang out sharp and bitter.
“Spare me yer noble shite. Ye stole the lairdship from me without so much as a thought. It should’ve been mine— me legacy, me right—and ye stole it by murderin’ me faither.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. “And now I’ll take everything back. Startin’ with her.”
At the mention of Abigail, Kian bared his teeth, the pain forgotten. “Touch her, and ye’ll breathe yer last, even if I have to crawl through hell to ensure it.”
His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, the blade gleaming in the dappled light.
Peyton raised her chin, her eyes narrowing at the threat. “She is what made ye weak, Kian. She’s clouded yer mind and made ye soft.” Her grip on her dirk tightened. “Ye were never meant to rule. Ye were meant to fall.”
“I’ve never stood taller than I do now,” he snapped, blood still trickling down his side. “Despite this wound, despite yer treachery, I’ll fight. For her. For the clan. And for everythin’ ye tried to ruin.”
His boots shifted, steady in the dirt.
The bandits hesitated now, glancing between them. The tension shattered the allure of the gold they’d been promised, and fear crept into their eyes.
Kian saw it, clung to it, pushed through the ache in his ribs.
“Run,” he barked at them. “Unless ye want to bleed alongside her.”
Peyton turned to glare at the bandits, but the damage was already done.
“Cowards,” she hissed. “He’s one man, and wounded at that. Ye will get the gold I promised.”
But the leader stepped back, uncertainty written all over his face.
“Ye never had control,” Kian gritted out. “Ye only ever had lies and shadows.” His legs trembled beneath him, but he remained standing.
Her fingers clenched her dirk tighter, and for a moment, he thought she might try again. But her eyes flicked to Abigail, who sat sobbing a few paces behind, bound and bruised.
“She’s the reason ye’re weak,” she hissed, “and she’s the reason ye’ll die.”
“Then so be it,” he growled. “But I’ll die defendin’ someone worth bleedin’ for, nae for some twisted hunger for power.” He raised his sword, ready now. “Come then, if ye intend to finish what ye started.”
His good eye held no fear, only blind rage.