Page 25 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T he night dragged on, endless and cruel, pressing down on her like a stormy sky. She sat by Kian, her eyes fixed on his chest, watching it rise and fall. Every creak of the timber overhead made her flinch, thinking perhaps it was Leighton returning—or worse, not returning at all.

Since Kian had abducted her, her world had tilted on its axis. At first, she had raged and cursed him for his boldness, his arrogance. She had plotted her escape, had even come close to striking him. But somehow, over the days that followed, she had gotten to know the man behind the eyepatch.

She had seen the way he spoke with his men, not as a tyrant but as a brother. She had seen him give bread to the starving villagers. And when danger crept close, he had thrown himself in its path to shield her without a second thought.

It was in those moments, those fleeting heartbeats of kindness and courage, that her heart had betrayed her.

The door creaked open, and Helena entered bearing a tray. The scent of stew wafted in first, rich and earthy, followed by the soft tang of cheese and warm bread. She gently set the tray on the table, her face contorted with worry.

“Ye must eat, lass,” she urged softly. “Or else ye’ll make yerself sick. Ye’ve been through a lot. Dragged to the woods, knocked unconscious. Yer body has taken a beating.”

Abigail barely turned her head. “I havenae the stomach for it.”

Helena folded her arms, frowning. “Fastin’ willnae keep him alive, Abigail. Ye need yer strength if ye mean to stay by his side.”

Abigail’s eyes welled with tears, but she blinked them back fast. “I cannae stop wonderin’ what Freya would do when Leighton shows up with that letter. She might slam the door in his face. Worse, what if she thinks it’s a trap? What if she doesnae believe him?”

Helena moved closer and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What’s done is done. It’s out of our hands now. Worryin’ willnae change a thing.”

Abigail stood up and walked to the narrow window, her movements stiff. Outside, the sky was a deep indigo, the stars fading slowly.

“The sun will rise in two hours,” she whispered. “The poison’s been in his blood for too long. It might be too late.”

Helena stepped up to her. “If only I kenned what kind of poison it was… I might be able to make an antidote.”

Abigail froze, her breath catching in her throat. Realization struck like a thunderclap. She spun around, her eyes wide.

“Of course!” she gasped. “That’s the answer, Helena. Stay with him. Dinnae leave his side!”

“Abigail!” Helena called after her. “Where are ye goin’?”

But Abigail was already at the door, the hem of her skirt catching on a nail as she tore down the corridor. Her boots clicked loudly on the cold stone.

She flew past closed doors and unlit torches, her heart pounding like a war drum. Down the spiral staircase she rushed, deeper into the belly of the keep, where the air was damp and foul.

Blind with fury and desperation, she cursed herself.

How did I nae think of it sooner? There’s one person here who kens what kind of poison coated that blade. The one person who has everything to gain from Kian’s death. The one who had plunged the dagger into his side. Peyton.

The air in the dungeons reeked of rot and mildew. A lone torch flickered on the wall, casting long shadows down the corridor. The guard on duty stood up as she approached, startled by her sudden appearance. But one look at her face—wild, determined—was enough for him to fumble with his keys.

“Unlock it,” she commanded, her voice like flint.

“I am nae to let anyone inside,” he said.

“Ye willnae release the prisoner, only let me speak with her. She is the cursed wench who poisoned yer Laird. I must find out what she used. If he finds out that ye kept me from seekin’ the answer, ye ken he will make ye pay for it,” she said slowly, her eyes narrowed.

The guard hesitated only for a second before obeying.

The door to the long corridor of cells creaked open. Abigail gathered her courage and walked down to the end, where Peyton sat behind iron bars.

She was huddled on a bench, her dress torn, her hair a tangled mess, but her eyes still gleamed with defiance. She looked up as Abigail approached, her lips curling into a sneer.

“Come to gloat, have ye?”

Abigail clenched her fists at her sides. “Tell me what poison was on the dirk.”

Peyton laughed, the sound bitter and hoarse. “Why should I tell ye anything?”

“Because his life hangs by a thread,” Abigail spat. “And if he dies, there will be nay mercy for ye. Nae from me. Nae from anyone.”

Peyton tilted her head, considering. “And if I do? What, then? Ye’ll free me? Pardon me for treachery?”

“I’ll do what I must to save him,” Abigail said, stepping forward. “Ye may rot in this cell, but if there’s a shred of humanity left in ye, ye’ll tell me what I need to ken.”

Peyton scoffed. “Yer heart’s gone soft, girl. I see it now. All that fire’s been smothered by love for a man who took ye from yer family.”

The word ‘love’ stirred something in Abigail’s gut.

Love? Do I love him?

She didn’t flinch. “He may have abducted me, but I gave him me trust, and now he may die for it. So, tell me which poison ye used!”

Peyton hesitated, then smirked. “Nightshade… mixed with viper’s root.

Nasty stuff. Slow, cruel. Nae enough to kill him outright, just enough to prolong his suffering.

I thought the blade would do most of the work, but I planned to leave him in the clearing anyway.

The poison would have guaranteed he’d be unable to shout for help. ”

Abigail turned on her heels without another word. She didn’t trust Peyton’s reasons for giving up the answer, but it didn’t matter. Now, Helena would know which antidote to make.

Abigail bolted out of the cell, shouting for the guard to lock the door behind her, and quickly ran back to the healer’s chambers. She shoved the door open with both hands, her breath coming in sharp bursts.

Helena spun around, nearly spilling the herbs she was mixing into a bowl.

Abigail’s hair was wild from her sprint through the halls.

“Peyton,” she gasped, “she told me what poison she used.”

Helena set the bowl hard on the table, her eyes wide. “She did? Lass, that’s… Abigail, that’s good work.”

She reached out and pulled her into a tight hug, trembling with relief.

Abigail pulled back, her heart still hammering. “She said she used Nightshade, but nae just that. She mixed it with viper’s root—some kind of compound meant to slow the pulse, then put him in a deep sleep to prevent him from shouting for help.”

Helena let out a quiet curse, already reaching for her bag.

“We can try somethin’, but I still need yarrow,” she muttered, shoving vials aside. “That’s the key ingredient. We can make do for now with elderflower and wormwood, but?—”

The door flew open with a loud bang that echoed off the walls. Abigail whirled around to see Leighton standing there, out of breath. Behind him stood Freya and her husband, Michael, whose hand rested protectively on the small of her back.

“Abigail!” Freya’s eyes filled with tears as she crossed the room in three strides.

Abigail wrapped her arms around her sister, clutching her like she might vanish.

Freya immediately started with the questions. “Are ye all right? Have ye been hurt? Leighton told us everything, and I?—”

“I’ll explain later,” Abigail cut in, holding her tight. “There’s nay time now. I need ye, Freya. Kian’s still breathin’, but barely. We think the poison is Nightshade, mixed with viper’s root. Helena’s treated him with cleavers and prayers.”

Freya’s eyes turned sharp, alert. She reached behind her and handed Michael her cloak. “Show me where he is.”

Abigail led her to the far corner of the room, where Kian lay pale and still on the bed. The shadows had deepened beneath his eyes, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

Abigail’s voice trembled as she knelt beside him. “This is all me fault. I should’ve known, should’ve seen what Peyton was doing.”

“Stop that, Abby,” Freya said softly, kneeling on Kian’s other side. “Blamin’ yerself willnae help him now.” She opened her bag and pulled out several bundles of dried yarrow wrapped in linen. “Thank the stars I brought this. Let’s get to work.”

Helena joined them at the table, clearing space with practiced hands. She poured boiled water into a mortar while Freya began crushing the yarrow. Abigail helped by fetching cloth, cutting strips, and adding the ointment that Helena handed her.

“We’ll make a poultice and a tincture,” Freya muttered. “He needs internal and external treatment, or else the poison will continue to spread.” She worked quickly, sweat beading on her brow despite the cold. “He’s lucky ye came to me when ye did.”

Helena poured the mixture into a small glass vial and handed it to Freya, who held Kian’s head up gently and coaxed the liquid into his mouth. Kian’s lips barely moved, but he swallowed.

The ensuing silence was deafening.

Freya laid a hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “All we can do now is wait.”

Abigail sat down on the stool beside the bed, her fingers gripping Kian’s hand. His skin was cold, but not as cold as before.

“Ye really think he’ll pull through?” she asked, her voice raw.

“I think he has a chance now,” Freya said. “More than he did before ye brought me.”

The door creaked open, and in stepped Cody, Michael’s son, his arm wrapped around his wife, Amara. Their cheeks were wind-kissed.

Abigail’s breath caught as she rushed toward them, throwing her arms around Cody first, then pulling Amara beside them.

“Ye’ve nay idea how glad I am to see the both of ye,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Cody gave a tight squeeze and stepped back, his brow furrowed. “We were with the horses. Is it true? Laird McKenna’s been poisoned?”

Abigail simply nodded, her throat too tight to answer.

Freya stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “Enough of this. I want answers, Abigail. What happened to ye? We were told ye vanished from the carriage—did he take ye? Did he hurt ye?”

Abigail raised a hand, her tone calm but firm. “I’ll tell ye everythin’, I swear it. But nae here, nae now. Let Kian rest—he doesnae need us shoutin’ over his head.”

She turned and gestured toward the corridor, glancing once over her shoulder.

Freya frowned but nodded. “Fine. But ye better start talkin’ before me head explodes with worry.”

Michael stepped forward, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and gave Abigail a small nod of support.

With swift steps, Abigail led them down the long stone corridor, the torches along the walls casting warm orange light.

Her skirts whispered across the flagstones as they reached a thick oak door at the end.

She pushed it open and stepped inside, revealing a quiet sitting room with an already lit hearth.

“Here,” she said, gesturing for them all to sit.

Her heart beat hard in her chest, but she steeled herself as she turned to face them.

“Now, I’ll tell ye everythin’. From the moment Kian took me from the carriage to the moment I realized he might nae survive. But ye must let me speak.”