Page 24 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“ H old on for me,” Abigail begged.

She rode ahead of the group, her fists tight around the reins as the forest closed in on them. The pounding of hooves followed, but all she could hear was the roar of her heart, each thud a hope that Kian was still breathing.

Branches clawed at her skirts as she led the search party toward the place she had left him. When she reached the clearing, she didn’t wait—she leapt from the saddle and ran to him.

“Kian,” she gasped, falling to her knees beside him. “I’m here. I brought help, just like I said I would. Please… please hold on.”

His face was pale—too pale—and his skin was damp with sweat and blood. She pressed her hand to his chest. When she felt a faint heartbeat, relief tore through her.

“Ye dinnae get to leave me, d’ye hear?” she said through her tears. “Ye’ve fought through worse, ye’ll fight through this.”

She brushed his hair back from his forehead, her fingers trembling.

Helena slid down from her horse with practiced grace, already pulling bottles and cloths from her bag.

“Let me see him, Abigail,” she said firmly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Abigail nodded and backed away on her knees, giving her room to work.

Helena tore open Kian’s blood-soaked shirt and quickly examined the wound. “We have a chance.”

She uncorked a vial and poured it into the gash.

Abigail let out a teary gasp as the bleeding slowed. She watched as Helena worked swiftly, cleaning the wound with a steady hand and wrapping it in white linen. The cloth turned pink almost at once, but the healer wrapped more layers around it and tied them tight.

“Hold on, Kian,” Abigail murmured. “Ye’re the strongest man I’ve known.”

“Bring the cart! This way—hurry now!” Leighton’s voice cut through the trees like thunder, and within moments, the guards maneuvered the cart as close as possible.

Four men dismounted and came to lift Kian, their hands reverent as they cradled their Laird. He didn’t stir. His head lolled to the side, but he was still breathing.

That was enough.

Abigail followed, climbing into the cart and taking her place beside him.

Helena joined her, kneeling again to check the dressing. “It’s holdin’ well, but I’ll need to stitch him up at the keep.”

Abigail nodded and wrapped her hand around Kian’s.

Leighton turned to the guards again, his blade gleaming at his side. “Take Peyton to the dungeons,” he barked. “Strip her of her weapons and bind her hands in chains.”

The cart lurched forward, the wheels crunching over leaves and roots as they began the slow ride back to the castle.

Abigail leaned over Kian and stroked his cheek. “Ye’re goin’ home, Kian. I’ve got ye now.”

Helena sat back slightly, her brow creased with concern. “What sort of wound is it?” she asked, glancing at her.

“A dirk,” Abigail said softly, her eyes fixed on Kian’s chest. “Peyton stabbed him with a dirk when he wasnae lookin’.”

Helena let out a slow breath. “That’s good news, in a way. A short blade cannae go too deep. It may be good with time.”

“I hope ye’re right,” Abigail mumbled, her voice trembling.

“How did all of this happen?” Helena asked gently.

Abigail took a shaky breath. “Peyton knocked me out. I woke up in the woods, and she admitted she’d paid bandits to help her. Said she wanted me gone—said she wanted Kian to suffer.”

Helena’s eyes darkened. “So, she lured him out?”

“Aye. She told me she made it look like I’d been taken. Kian came straight away. Walked right into her trap.”

Helena looked down at Kian’s chest, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I guess Peyton never truly forgave him for killin’ her faither.”

Abigail looked at her sharply. “Aye, she said as much to him.”

Helena smoothed the edge of the dressing. “But Peyton never spoke of it, nae to me. I think she carried that anger quietly.”

Abigail’s throat tightened. “She said he owed her. That takin’ me from him would make things right.”

“Vengeance doesnae make things right,” Helena said quietly. “It only brings ruin.”

They rode on in silence for a few moments, the cart rattling slightly beneath them.

Kian groaned softly, his fingers twitching.

Abigail clutched his hand tightly. “He moved,” she breathed, hope rising in her chest.

“He’s still fightin’,” Helena said. “He hears ye, lass. Keep talkin’ to him.”

Abigail leaned down and put her lips to his ear. “Ye had better fight, Kian Wright. I’ve nay plans to live alone in yer castle. I’ll stay by yer side every step, I swear it.”

Tears slid down her cheeks, but she never released his hand.

The trees began to thin, and the castle walls loomed ahead, a promise of shelter and safety.

The guards crowded around as they lifted Kian and carried him into the healer’s chambers, before leaving quietly.

Abigail sat near the hearth, her hands trembling as she dipped fresh bandages into a basin of steaming water. The scent of herbs clung to the air, mingling with the tang of blood and fear.

Kian lay motionless on the bed, his skin pale in the flickering candlelight.

Helena worked swiftly, muttering to herself, her hands stained with tinctures.

Abigail stirred the strong tea she had brewed, the steam rising in the air like restless spirits. Her thoughts were tangled and restless, but she kept moving, kept busy. It was the only way to keep from falling apart. The tea would help. If it was not for Kian, then it was for Helena to stay alert.

The door creaked open behind her, and Leighton entered, his face grim, his boots muddy. Abigail turned to him at once, her eyes brimming with questions.

Helena barely looked up, fully focused on stitching Kian’s wound. The room fell quiet for a beat, the crackling of the fire the only sound.

“How is he?” Leighton asked, stepping closer.

Helena exhaled, her brow furrowed. “He’s struggling. He’s lost a lot of blood, aye, but there’s somethin’ else. I cannae put me finger on it.”

Leighton reached into his coat and pulled out a folded cloth. He laid it gently on the table beside the teapot. “Perhaps this will help.”

Abigail stepped forward, her eyebrows knitting together. “What is it?”

Leighton slowly unwrapped the cloth, revealing a slender dirk. Blood still clung to the steel, dark and dried.

Abigail recoiled slightly. “That’s Peyton’s. That’s what she stabbed Kian with.”

Helena paused and reached for the blade. She brought it to her nose, her eyes narrowing as she sniffed the edge. A beat passed. Then, her eyes went wide.

“It’s poisoned,” she hissed.

Abigail’s heart lurched. “Nay!” she cried, rushing to Kian’s side. “What do we do?”

Helena was already moving. “We have nay time to waste! Abigail, boil more water—fresh, now! Quickly, lass!”

Abigail nodded and ran to the hearth, refilling the cauldron with trembling hands.

“Leighton!” Helena barked. “Get a bunch of cleavers from the rack above the window. Pluck the leaves and bring them to me.”

Leighton didn’t argue. He sprang into action, reaching for the thick clusters of green leaves drying above the window and yanking down handfuls.

Abigail watched the water with urgency, urging the bubbles to rise. “What does the poison do?” she asked, her voice tight with panic.

Helena started grinding the leaves, turning them into a thick paste. “It makes the blood clot. Makes a man sleep deeper than death, though his heart still beats. If we dinnae drain it from his veins, he’ll slip away before morning.”

Abigail stared at Kian’s pale face, more tears welling up in her eyes. “Fight it, Kian,” she whispered.

Helena quickly made a paste of cleavers and then ordered her to throw some leaves in the kettle to make a brew. She spread the paste over the wound, then grabbed clean bandages around it.

“This will help draw out the poison,” she said. “But we need to keep his blood movin’. He needs warmth—tea, broth.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Abigail said, not waiting for permission. “I’ll keep him warm.”

Helena nodded once. “Then sit close and speak to him. Let him ken that he’s nae alone. That helps more than folk believe. We’ll try to get him to drink this tea.”

Abigail took Kian’s cold hand into hers and sat on the bed.

“Ye must be thirsty, Kian,” she began in a trembling voice.

Helena worked silently beside them, her brow slick with sweat. She handed Abigail a small cup of cleaver tea.

Abigail took it, while Helena lifted Kian’s head.

“If ye can hear me, I need ye to drink this, only a sip,” she pleaded, lifting the rim of the cup to his lips.

Kian’s lips parted on a slow breath, and his eyelids fluttered.

“That’s it, very good,” Abigail murmured.

Hope filled her heart as he slowly drank the tea. Then, he was out again.

Abigail turned to Helena.

“That is better than none at all,” Helena assured her.

Leighton plucked more herbs and placed them on the table nearby, then went to the hearth and threw a log in the fire.

The scent of cleavers and peppermint filled the air as Helena brewed a stronger tea.

“Will he survive?” Abigail croaked.

Helena didn’t answer right away. She stared at Kian, eyeing the rise and fall of his chest. Then, she said, “He’s strong, Abigail. If any man can survive poison and a wound like this, it’s him. But he needs ye beside him.”

Abigail nodded, squeezing Kian’s hand tighter. “Then I’ll stay until he wakes up and tells me he’s all right.”

Leighton stepped to her and draped a soft blanket around her shoulders.

Abigail looked up at him. “What did ye do with Peyton?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Locked her in the dungeons, chained and gagged. I wanted to slit her throat, truth be told, but that’s for the Laird to decide—if he wakes up.”

“If?” Abigail’s voice rang sharp across the room. “Nae if , but when ! He will wake up!”

Leighton’s mouth tightened. “Aye… ye’re right,” he said softly. “Forgive me.”

She turned away from him, the fire warming her back. Her eyes burned, but she refused to let more tears fall. She couldn’t lose Kian, not now.

She’d never expected to care for the man who had taken her from her home. But somehow, despite everything, he’d wormed his way into her heart. His stubbornness, his fierce protectiveness, the way he looked at her as if she were more than just a pawn.

She stood up and paced the room, her arms wrapped around her middle, unsure if it was the cold or fear that made her shiver.

It’s madness, is it nae? To care for the man who abducted me.

Still, when she stopped beside Kian and took his hand in her own, she felt something shift inside her. His fingers were cold, but she held them tightly.

“His skin is so cold.”

“I’ve done everything I can,” Helena sighed. “The tea might hold the poison at bay, but it willnae stop it for long.”

“There’s naught else?” Abigail asked, her voice trembling.

Helena shook her head. “There is one thing that might work—yarrow. But I have none left. I went to the villages to refill me stocks, but with the droughts, I found none.”

Abigail blinked, then a thought flashed like lightning through her mind.

“Wait, me sister,” she breathed. “Freya’s got yarrow in her garden, and she kens how to use it.”

Helena turned to her sharply. “Are ye sure?”

“Aye, certain,” Abigail said, already moving to the table. “She used it once when our sister fell ill. She’ll ken what to do. She always has bunches of dried herbs because she is a healer as well.”

She grabbed a quill and parchment. She dipped the quill in the inkpot and began to write with shaky hands. Ink smudged in one corner, and emotion clogged her throat.

She looked up at Leighton. “Ye must go to her. Take this letter and ride hard and fast. His life depends on it.”

Leighton nodded without hesitation. “Aye, I will find her.”

When she finished, she folded the letter tightly and handed it to him.

“Go,” she said. “And ride like the devil’s on yer heels.”

Leighton took the letter.

“I’ll take it to her,” he promised, holding her gaze. “Even if I have to ride through fire.”

Abigail watched as he turned on his heels and left, the door swinging shut behind him.

She stood there for a moment, her heart pounding, then slowly made her way back to Kian’s side.

Her fingers found his again, and this time she didn’t let go.

“Hold on,” she whispered. “Help is coming.”

The candlelight flickered, shadows dancing across the walls as if echoing the turmoil in her heart.

I cannae lose ye, and now me sister is our only salvation. But will she come? Will she forgive ye?