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

CHAPTER THREE

K ian grabbed her firmly by the arm. She twisted against his grip, fierce and unrelenting, her teeth bared like a wildcat.

“Unhand me, ye brute!” she snarled, digging her heels into the floor of the carriage.

He yanked her out with ease, lifting her down onto the dirt road as she struggled.

Her skirts tangled around her ankles, and she barely caught herself before she fell. As soon as she found her footing, her eyes darted to the driver—and froze.

The man was standing just off the road, his head bowed as he emptied a small pouch of coin into his palm, handed to him by another rider.

Kian watched the shift in her expression with keen interest.

Her face fell at the betrayal of her carter.

“Ye scum of the earth!” she spat at the driver, her voice sharp enough to flay flesh. “Me sisters will make ye pay for this!”

Her fury was so vivid, so hot, that Kian felt a strange pull in his chest. There was fire in her, and she wore it like a crown.

“Dinnae worry, lass,” he said, unable to stop the half-smile curving his lips. “Ye’ll see yer sisters soon—if ye obey me, that is.” His voice was low and even, but every word held the weight of a promise.

He watched as she went still, her shoulders stiff and her jaw clenched tight. Her face flushed a furious red, her eyes blazing.

“Obey ye?” she snapped. “I’ll never submit to ye, ye beast!”

Her words only made Kian’s blood heat up.

“Dinnae be so sure, lass,” he murmured, stepping closer.

Without warning, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her again.

She kicked at him, cursed and writhed, pounded her fists against his chest, but he held firm.

“Ye’ve got claws, I’ll give ye that.”

He set her down near his horse, and with quick precision, he bound her wrists in front of her, the knot tight but not painful.

“Ye’ll nae come to harm,” he said quietly, though he knew she wouldn’t believe him—not yet.

He turned toward his horse, already saddled and waiting, its reins held by Leighton.

The woman’s chest rose and fell with angry breaths as he hoisted her up.

He climbed up behind her, settling into the saddle with his chest pressed firmly against her back. He wound his arms around her to take the reins, her bound hands resting just above the horn.

She sat stiff as a board, her chin jutted, but he could feel the tension thrumming through her.

“Comfortable?” he asked, though the smirk in his voice said he knew she wasn’t.

“Go to the devil,” she bit out, refusing to look at him. Her hair smelled of lavender and wild air, and it brushed against his jaw as the wind picked up. “I hope yer horses throws ye both into the river.”

Leighton chuckled from atop his mount nearby, adjusting the strap on his saddlebag. “She’s a lively one,” he remarked. “Shall I ride ahead, Me Laird?”

Kian gave a short nod. “Aye. We’ll take the north trail—avoid the road. If her kin comes lookin’, we’ll nae make it easy.”

He urged the horse forward, the beast trotting into the thickening woods.

They rode in silence for a while.

The woman sat as stiff as a board to be as far from him as possible, which wasn’t far at all. The sun dipped lower behind the trees, painting the forest gold.

Kian kept his focus ahead, but he was aware of every breath she took, every twitch of resistance in her limbs. The lass had spirit—and she’d need it, if she was to survive what lay ahead.

As the horse moved beneath them, she slumped against him, exhaustion overcoming her. He couldn’t help but notice how she fit perfectly against his body—soft, full, and warm despite the cold wind.

She was no frail, breakable thing like the thin noble girls he’d been offered before.

No, this woman had meat on her bones, curves that filled his arms just right, and he liked that…

more than he ought to. To him, a woman should feel real, solid, alive, not like a brittle branch ready to snap in a storm.

Aye , this lass was built like a storm.

Kian tightened his grip on the reins as his gaze fell once more to the dip of her waist, where his arms rested. He wondered, just for a breath, what it would feel like to grab her hips, to pull her against him and feel every inch of her softness.

He shook the thought away with a low grunt. Now wasn’t the time for such distractions. No matter how bonnie the lass was, his mind had to stay sharp. Desire was a weakness he couldn’t afford at that moment.

“Who are ye?” she demanded suddenly, her voice sharp as flint. She twisted around, trying to look over her shoulder. “What right have ye to take me like this?”

Her anger hit hard, but Kian only exhaled through his nose.

“Does it matter?” he replied, his voice cold and quiet. “Ye’ll ken in time. But for now, ye’d better stop squirmin’, lass.” He shifted slightly in the saddle.

The trail narrowed as they entered a stretch of forest, the trees thick and bare, the branches clawing at the darkening sky. Roots jutted from the earth, and the horses had to pick their steps carefully.

The woman struggled again, her bound hands gripping the pommel as she tried to throw herself to the side. Kian only tightened his hold with ease.

“Ye’re a spirited thing,” he murmured in her ear, “but ye’ll nae get away from me. Nae like this.”

She let out a grunt of frustration, but the fight in her was beginning to fade, her movements more frantic than forceful.

Kian steadied her again, his jaw set as the forest deepened. Whatever storm this lass brought with her, he was ready to face it.

“Stop yer wigglin’—it is of nay use,” he groaned low and deep.

“I’ll stop strugglin’,” she shot back, “if ye tell me yer name. And dinnae lie. I deserve to ken the name of the man who’s stolen me off the road like some wild beast.”

She didn’t look at him, but she held her chin high.

Kian turned his head toward Leighton, who was a few paces ahead. “Do ye hear that, Leighton? The lass is makin’ demands of me.” His voice was low and mocking, but a hint of something sharper lingered underneath.

“If ye’re too scared to tell me who ye are,” she said coolly, “then just say so. I would expect that from a man who hides behind a false name.”

Her words pricked his chest like a thorn. His smirk vanished. “Kian Wright—yer new Laird. For now.”

His jaw tensed, and he stared straight ahead, the reins clenched tight in his hands.

The woman’s breath hitched. “The Mad Laird of Clan McKenna?” she whispered, all color draining from her cheeks. “What will ye do to me?”

And just like that, her defiance evaporated. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap, and she lowered her head in fear.

Kian leaned into her ear and spoke so low that she nearly didn’t hear him. “Nothin’ ye willnae enjoy, bunny.”

He felt the shiver run through her, and it stirred a dark satisfaction deep in his gut.

“Aye,” he murmured, leaning back with a smirk, “we understand each other now.”

His smirk lingered as fear oozed off her like a sweet perfume.

Yes, he liked that. He was a man of games—of control, of power—and this woman pleased him more than most. She had shrunk the moment his name fell from his lips, as if it alone could cut her down.

His reputation had done the work for him. The Highlands whispered of what he’d done to his uncle, and no one had dared to challenge it. Blood had crowned him Laird, and blood kept him feared. And now, he held the result of that fear in his arms.

Still, there was something else about his captive that pulled at him like a thread.

He’d kidnapped women before for the sake of deals and demands, but never one like her. This wasn’t about power alone—it was about something deeper, something that made him feel more alive than he’d felt in years.

He had grown into a man who relished cruelty and control, and everything in him ached to claim this lass, to make her obey him. She hated him now, sure enough, but the game had only just begun.

And Kian Wright never lost.