Page 32 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“ H e’s healin’ just fine, lass. A few more days, and he’ll be back to barkin’ orders and refusin’ his broth,” Helena assured.

Abigail exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing. “Aye, I’m glad to hear it. For once, time is on our side.”

She stepped out of the room with Helena, the soft swish of their skirts echoing through the stone corridor.

The air was lighter than it had been in days, and though exhaustion clung to her shoulders, there was a peace that steadied her steps now. She kept glancing back at the door, half-expecting Kian to rise from bed and argue his way back to the council chambers again.

Helena gave her a quick, fond look before linking their arms. “Ye did well, Abigail. Ye brought more than just a laird back to his folk. Ye’ve given this clan a chance—against the cold, against hunger.”

Abigail swallowed the emotion rising in her throat. “Och, dinnae say that. I only wanted to help… to make it right.”

Helena stopped in the corridor and pulled her into a firm embrace. “And ye did. Ye’ve done more good than ye ken. If the winter goes soft on us now, it’ll be because ye softened it first.”

Abigail hugged her back, her eyes stinging with tears. “Ye speak as if ye were me sister.”

Helena smiled warmly and brushed a hand down Abigail’s arm. “I’d be proud to be called that. Now, go get some rest, love. The Laird’s snorin’ like a wild boar, and ye ken well he’ll nae be stirrin’ for hours.”

Abigail gave a small, wet laugh. “Mayhaps I will lie down. Me room’s felt too empty these last few nights.”

“Rest while ye can. There’s peace now, but I daresay ye’ll both find new battles,” Helena said with a wink, before turning down the hall.

Abigail watched her go, her chest full with something too intense for words. She turned toward her chambers, her steps slow but sure, knowing for once that the path ahead was hers to choose.

She walked down the corridor, her fingers trailing lightly along the stone wall. Kian’s scent still clung to her skin, and her cheeks were warm with the memory of his lips. Her heart felt light, as if it might lift her off the floor entirely.

So much had changed since she first arrived at Castle McKenna. She had come filled with fear and suspicion, determined to resist every kindness offered to her. But Kian had unraveled her bit by bit, until she no longer knew the woman she used to be.

Now, as she reached her chambers, she felt like someone new—braver, fuller, and blessed. She hummed a low tune, the sound echoing softly in the corridor.

She entered her room and unfastened her bodice with a dreamy smile. She hadn’t noticed she was humming as her gown fell in a whisper to the floor, and she tossed back the covers on her bed.

A loud yawn escaped her lips as she sank onto the mattress. Sleep was already tugging at her limbs when a voice stopped her cold.

“Enjoy yer happiness while ye can, lass.”

Abigail gasped and jumped out of bed. There, standing in the doorway like a ghost risen from the grave, was Peyton. Her hair was loose and wild, and in her hand gleamed the unmistakable curve of a blade.

Abigail’s breath caught in her throat.

“Peyton?” she whispered. “How did ye get out of the dungeons?”

Peyton stepped inside, the tip of her blade dragging lightly across the floor. “Och, it was far easier than ye’d think. I said prayers with the guard every day. Pretended I was still a woman of God.”

Her voice was sweet, but her eyes were icy.

“He believed me. Held me hand like a fool. I told him how Kian wronged me… how he wrongfully took me da’s life.”

Abigail’s mouth went dry, her eyes darting to the table by the window, where a pitcher sat. Her mind scrambled to make a plan—any plan. She rose slowly, keeping her hands in front of her.

Peyton took a step closer, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her sword. “Kian killed him, aye, but nae before me da took his eye. That wound still bleeds in me dreams. And yet it wasnae enough.”

“I… I see,” Abigail said gently, inching toward the pitcher. “Ye’ve suffered. I can feel it in yer words.”

Peyton sneered. “Dinnae pretend to understand me. Ye love him. Ye sleep in comfort while I rot.”

“Ye have me wrong,” Abigail insisted. “I’m nae his ally. I’ve been a prisoner since the moment I arrived.” She forced a soft, bitter laugh. “I ken what it means to be trapped.”

Peyton tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Then why smile in the corridor? Why sing, if yer heart’s chained?”

“Because I’ve learned to hide me fear behind a smile. It’s what keeps the men from thinkin’ I’m weak.” Abigail’s voice cracked slightly. “I’ve pretended for so long, I can barely tell what’s real anymore.”

The words weren’t all lies.

Peyton paused. “Ye say that, but he touches ye like ye belong to him.”

“I didnae ask for his touch,” Abigail said quickly. “But when a man like Kian claims something, do ye think a woman like me can refuse?”

Peyton studied her, the sword no less deadly in her grip, but her eyes flickered with doubt, or maybe curiosity. “Then ye dinnae love him?”

Abigail shook her head slowly. “I dinnae ken what love is anymore. Me life’s been lies and locked doors.” She let her shoulders sag. “I thought maybe… maybe ye could tell me the truth. What happened between yer da and Kian?”

Peyton took a few steps forward, lowering her blade ever so slightly. “Me da was a cruel man, aye, but he was still me da. Kian killed him like a beast and gave him nay chance to plead for his life. And I swore right then and there that I’d end Kian Wright.”

Abigail’s heart thundered beneath her ribs, but her voice remained steady as she moved a step closer to the table.

The pitcher sat just out of her reach, glinting in the soft light from the hearth.

She kept her eyes on Peyton, watching the woman’s trembling fingers tighten around the hilt of her sword.

There was madness in her eyes, but also pain—raw, deep, and festering.

“Ye must be tired, lass,” she soothed. “Let me pour ye a drink, aye? There’s nay need to raise swords tonight. Ye’re right. I have questions about Kian. Perhaps we can speak, woman to woman.”

Peyton’s brow creased. She took a cautious step forward, though her grip did not loosen on her sword.

“Ye lie well, Abigail. But I’ve heard tales of yer loyalty to him. How ye ride at his side like some Highland queen. Do ye truly expect me to believe ye care for what I’ve lost?”

Abigail shook her head slowly, her voice trembling now with just enough emotion to seem honest. “I didnae ken the truth till recently. I didnae ken what Kian did to yer faither. And I still dinnae ken everythin’, Peyton, but I ken this—revenge has eaten away at ye, same as confusion’s been eatin’ at me. ”

Peyton hesitated, her lips twitching. “I prayed with that guard every night. I fed him lies like honey, and he lapped them up like a starved hound. I told him that justice required me freedom, and he believed me.”

“That says more about yer pain than yer wickedness,” Abigail said gently, now just a pace away from the pitcher. “Ye lost yer da. I cannae imagine that grief, Peyton. But takin’ Kian’s life willnae bring him back. It’ll only curse ye worse than before.”

Peyton’s jaw clenched, her sword lowering just slightly as uncertainty flashed across her face.

“I thought I’d come here screamin’, drivin’ steel through flesh. But I see ye standin’ there, soft-eyed and calm as water, and I wonder if I’m mad. Or if the world is.”

Abigail dared another step, her hand brushing the handle of the pitcher now. “Maybe it’s both. But madness doesnae need to win. Sit down, Peyton. Talk with me. If justice is to be served, we must first understand each other.”

“Ye willnae convince me, Abigail,” Peyton scoffed.

Abigail’s heart thundered in her chest, but she lifted her chin.

“Ye’ll never get away with this.”

Peyton barked out a cold laugh. “I convinced the guard he’s in love with me. The fool’s gone now to fetch supplies and two horses. He’ll be waitin’ just outside the wall, thinkin’ he’s runnin’ off with a saint.”

Abigail narrowed her eyes at her. “Then what are ye doin’ here?”

Peyton’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Finishing what I set out to do,” she declared, raising her sword an inch. “I’ll take yer life, then Kian’s. But nae just yet. First, ye’ll take me to him, so I can run ye through in front of him.”

“Ye’re mad,” Abigail whispered, stepping slightly to the side.

“Aye,” Peyton said, her smile widening. “Mad with grief.”

Abigail felt sweat trickling down her spine. Her eyes flicked to the pitcher on the table, then back to Peyton. Her fingers moved with purpose, pushing the heavy pitcher. It crashed to the stone floor, water and ceramic flying in every direction.

Peyton jerked back in surprise, her blade rising higher. “What the devil?”

Abigail widened her eyes. “Forgive me. I get clumsy when I’m nervous.”

Peyton eyed her suspiciously. “Watch yerself. I’ve waited too long to be fooled by a broken pitcher.”

“And what happens after? After ye kill me and Kian? Think the clan will welcome ye as queen?”

“I dinnae care for the clan,” Peyton spat, her sword glinting as she stepped closer.

Abigail felt the distance shrinking. Her mind worked furiously. If she could just get to the door…

“Ye’re nae thinkin’ straight,” she said. “Revenge will rot ye from the inside. If ye loved yer faither, let him rest in peace.”

Peyton’s hand trembled for a moment, but then she steadied herself.

“Dinnae speak to me of peace. Nae when me heart’s been hollowed out by what yer man did. Now, move. We’re goin’ to see him.”