Page 36 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“ A bigail?” Kian stepped into his bedchamber.

The room was empty. He frowned, glancing around as if she might emerge from the shadows.

He supposed she’d gone off with her sisters, or perhaps needed space after the tension that lingered between them. He couldn’t blame her, not after the day they’d had.

The riders were rested and fed, and the messenger was treated with as much courtesy as Kian could offer. But it was a treacherous game; one misstep could cost more than bruised pride.

He turned and made his way toward the healer’s chambers.

Helena stood near the window, tying bundles of herbs in practiced motions. She looked up as he entered, her eyebrows rising as she took in the weariness on his features.

“Ye look like death walked over ye, Me Laird,” she said dryly.

“I feel nay worse than usual,” Kian replied, lowering himself onto the bench near the hearth. “Is Abigail here?”

Helena shook her head and crossed the room to him, reaching for the bandages on his side. “Nay. She left nae long ago. We had tea.” She muttered under her breath, tugging at the linen. “Now, hold still. This will sting.”

He hissed as she removed the bandages and inspected the angry wound beneath.

“What happened?” she demanded. “It looks worse than before. What foolish thing did ye do?”

“Only dealt with Peyton,” Kian grunted. “There was a bit of strain, maybe.”

“A bit?” Helena shot him a sharp look. “The stitches tore, ye great ox.”

“Can ye fix it?” he asked.

“Aye, I can fix it. The question is, will ye let it heal properly after I do?” she scoffed, already threading a needle. “Ye ken ye shouldnae be strainin’ yerself.”

“A laird cannae wait for his wounds to heal,” Kian muttered.

Helena heaved a long-suffering sigh and pressed the needle into his skin with swift efficiency.

After securing the last stitch, she wrapped fresh bandages around his wound.

“There. That’ll hold. But only if ye rest and stop thrashin’ about like a bull in rut.”

Kian chuckled despite himself. “Ye have such a way with words, Helena.” He rose slowly, flexing his shoulders with a grimace. “Thank ye, truly.”

“Go find her,” Helena said, her voice softening. “She didnae look well when she left.”

Kian nodded, concern rising in his chest. “Aye, I’ll find her. It’s time for supper; she is most likely dining with her sisters.”

“Aye, I’ll follow shortly,” Helena said.

Kian stepped into the Great Hall, the scent of roasted meat and herbs rising to meet him. The table at the center was full, Teyrn riders seated and speaking in hushed tones.

He scanned the hall, his eye darting past familiar faces, searching for the one that mattered most.

Abigail was not there.

He crossed the hall, his footsteps echoing in the large space, until he reached her sisters. They looked up at him in surprise, pausing their meal.

“Where’s Abigail?” Kian asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“We’ve nae seen her since the mornin’,” Marissa replied, her brow furrowed.

His heart sank like a stone thrown in still water. Without a word, he turned and gestured to a nearby maid.

“Isolde,” he called, beckoning her over.

She curtsied and came swiftly to his side, her hands folded before her. “Aye, Me Laird?”

“Go to me bedchamber,” he ordered. “Fetch Lady Abigail. Tell her supper’s been served.”

Isolde dipped into another curtsy. “Aye, Me Laird.”

She turned to go, but then hesitated mid-step, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Me Laird, but I did see her leavin’ earlier. She wore her thick cloak.”

Kian straightened, every muscle tense. “When?”

“Just after eleven o’clock, I’d say,” she said, her eyes wide now. “She told me she was goin’ out for a walk. I thought nothin’ of it. She headed toward the moors.”

Kian’s face turned white as linen. His breath hitched, and his chest tightened, panic surging through him like wildfire. His hands trembled as he turned toward the doors of the Great Hall, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Leighton! Guards! Sound the bloody alarm, she’s gone!”

The Great Hall exploded into action. Chairs scraped, torches flared, voices shouted over each other. But Kian stood frozen, his mind spinning.

Abigail. If anything happened to her… if she’s lost out there in the wild, hurt or cold, or frightened, I couldnae bear it.

“I’ll nae lose her,” he muttered fiercely.

He grabbed his cloak and sword and bolted toward the stables.

He saddled his horse, his hands moving with hurried desperation. Every second felt like a lifetime. He could barely see through the fear and love twisting together in his chest.

His Abigail, his wild, brave lass, was somewhere out there, alone.

Behind him sounded a shrill cry. Marissa and Freya, red-faced and frantic, ran toward the stables.

“We’ll ride with ye, Kian!” Marissa called, tugging at her skirts as she mounted her horse.

“We’ll find her!” Freya said.

Their husbands followed close behind, all grim-faced and determined. Cody joined them as well.

The torches were lit, the flames cutting through the encroaching night. The party galloped into the dark with haste and fury.

Kian led the way, his eye scanning every rock, every path, every shadow. The moors stretched out vast and cold beneath the stars. The wind bit through wool and leather, and his heart sank lower with every mile.

He rode as if the devil himself were chasing him, spurred on by dread and love. Then, at last, he saw a shape beneath a jagged crag, curled up like a wounded fawn.

“Abigail!” he bellowed, his voice rough and full of anguish.

She didn’t move.

He urged his horse forward, then leaped from the saddle before his mount had stopped. He landed hard, stumbling through the brush and dropping to his knees beside her.

“Abigail, lass, look at me.”

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy with tears. Her lips trembled.

“Kian?” she whispered, weak and broken. “It’s nay use, leave me where I am. I’d rather perish out here than watch ye leave me for another.”

He pulled her into his arms, wrapping his cloak around her shaking body. “Never, bunny. Never. Why would ye think such a thing?”

“I heard…” Her voice cracked, and her tears fell freely now. “I heard the messenger say… another laird offered ye his daughter’s hand. I thought ye’d say aye. It is a good deal.”

Kian leaned back, cupping her face in his hands. “Och, Abigail. That letter came from one of the lairds I’d written to long before I met ye. Aye, I received it. But I wrote a reply, refusing it plain and clear.”

She furrowed her brow and looked away, ashamed. “Ye did? But ye didnae refuse the messenger outright.”

“It is a delicate matter,” he explained gently. “I didnae want to insult Laird Teyrn by refusing outright. Nay faither likes to hear that his daughter has been turned down. But lass, never have I considered it. Not once. Ye already had me heart long before that message came.”

Abigail let out a sob that shook her entire frame. She clung to him, burying her face in his chest.

“I was so afraid,” she whispered. “So sure I’d lose ye.”

Kian pressed his lips to her forehead. “Ye’ll never lose me,” he whispered into her hair. “Nae in a hundred lifetimes, nae in ten thousand storms. I’d ride through fire to reach ye, bunny. Ye’re mine.”

A series of thuds followed as Marissa and Freya dismounted at once.

“Abigail!” Freya cried, dropping beside her sister and taking her hand. “Och, lass, we were scared witless!”

Marissa knelt too, wrapping an arm around Abigail’s shoulders. “What on earth were ye thinkin’, runnin’ off like that? Do ye ken how worried we were?”

Abigail looked at them. “I didnae think. I only felt… lost.”

Kian held her tighter, his jaw clenched. “She heard the wrong words at the wrong time, that’s all. But she’s here now, and that’s all that matters.”

The torchlight flickered over them, casting warm gold on tear-streaked cheeks and weather-worn cloaks. The cold wind had softened, the stars blinking down like distant promises.

Kian caught Marissa’s gaze as she looked between them, her eyes soft with understanding.

“I see now,” she said quietly. “I see just how much ye love our sister.”

Kian met her eyes. “More than life itself.”

At that moment, even the moors seemed to hush.

He lifted Abigail gently, her cold frame limp against his chest. He carried her to his horse with urgency but care, lowering her into the saddle before mounting behind her. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, his cloak enveloping them both.

“Ye’re safe now, bunny,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her damp hair.

“Ye’re bleeding,” she gasped, looking at his side.

“Bleeding?” Marissa echoed. “What’s happened?”

“Och, nothing but a stitch pulled again,” Kian said.

The ride back was silent but for the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the howl of the wind.

Kian cradled Abigail tightly, feeling her shiver despite the warmth of his body. His mind raced with what might have happened had they arrived a moment later.

He didn’t loosen his hold until they passed through the castle gates.

Inside his chamber, he barked at the maids, “A bath, hot as hellfire. Set it by the hearth now.”

The maids scurried to carry out his order, and another brought a decanter of whiskey.

He poured a measure and held it to Abigail’s lips. “Drink this, bunny. Warm yerself from the inside out.”

She sipped, her teeth chattering, her eyes never leaving his.

Finally, when the tub steamed before the hearth and they were left alone, Kian removed her damp layers with care, his fingers moving gently, reverently.

When she stood before him in only her shift, she shuddered.

“I dinnae want ye to see me,” she said.

“I willnae touch ye till our wedding night,” he assured. “I promise.”

“It’s nae that,” she sighed. “I’m nae thin like the other women and?—”

“Shh,” he soothed. “Ye are perfect for me. Yer body is beautiful, and it’s a shame ye cannae see what I see.”

She took a deep breath and lifted her hands in the air, and he pulled the shift over her head. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld her, the firelight painting her skin in gold.

He averted his gaze and guided her into the steaming water.

“There, lass,” he murmured. “Let the warmth chase out the cold.”

She sank down with a sigh, her body relaxing at last.

Kian knelt beside the tub, his hand resting on the rim. Though every inch of him ached to touch her, to claim her, he did not move. His care demanded more than hunger; it demanded honor.

“I’ll wait, bunny,” he said softly. “For as long as it takes. But I’ll be yers, and ye’ll be mine.”