Page 5 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER FIVE

K ian strode into the courtyard with Abigail at his side, his hand firm around her elbow. The grounds buzzed with hushed voices as every servant, guard, and stablehand watched him lead a bound woman to the keep. He could hear their whispers.

“Who is she?”

“Why are her hands tied?”

And yet he didn’t flinch. He was Laird McKenna, and no one dared to question him out loud.

Still, as he gripped her arm, heat shot through him, sharp and unwelcome.

It was the same feeling he’d had when he’d tossed her over his shoulder, the press of her curves against him far too pleasing.

Her body wasn’t slight or delicate—it was full, soft, and warm in a way that made his mind wander where it shouldn’t.

He cursed inwardly.

Focus, ye great fool. She’s nae here for yer pleasure.

“Hurry,” he barked, suddenly agitated. “Ye walk like yer feet are made of stone.”

She glared up at him as they neared the front doors. “Go ahead then,” she sneered, her voice thick with contempt. “Throw me in yer dungeons, ye brute. I’d rather rot there than stay by yer side.”

“I may be a brute,” Kian growled, “but I willnae throw a lady like ye in me dungeons.”

She tried to wrench her arm free, fury in her eyes. “And what exactly does that mean?”

They stepped into the cool interior of the keep, the stone walls swallowing their words.

She gasped, skidding to a halt. “I willnae reside in yer chambers, if that’s what ye’re thinking! I am a proper lady, nae some harlot to be used by the likes of ye!”

Kian let out a low groan and rubbed a hand down his face. “I cannae lie and say that the thought hasnae crossed me mind,” he muttered. “But that’s nae me plan, lass. Ye’ve got me all wrong.”

He watched as she blinked at him, stunned by his admission, then she scowled harder. “Ye think ye can confuse me with half-truths and smirks.”

Ignoring her, he guided her up the stone steps and down a wide hall lit by iron sconces. He stopped at a tall wooden door and pushed it open to reveal a set of beautifully appointed chambers—a large bed, a hearth, and rich woven rugs on the floor, with a proper sitting room.

“These rooms are yers,” he said simply.

She looked around, shocked. “I see why they are so comfortable. These rooms are next to yers, I wager?”

“Aye,” he said, with a smug tilt to his mouth. “Close enough to ken what ye’re doing, bunny. But far enough to give ye privacy, for now.”

He shut the chamber door firmly, the echo echoing through the stone hall behind them. Then, he guided Abigail forward, his grip steady but not painful, and eased her into the cushioned chair by the hearth.

“Sit,” he ordered, his voice rough with command.

She narrowed her eyes at him but obeyed, the firelight dancing across her flushed cheeks.

She glanced around the room, her expression shifting from defiance to confusion.

“Why such comfortable rooms and nae the dungeons?” she muttered, her eyebrows drawing together.

The rugs were rich, the bed large, and the scent of fresh herbs clung to the warm air. Nothing like what she had braced herself for.

Kian folded his arms. “Ye’ll be treated as a guest here.”

Abigail scoffed and leaned back stiffly in the chair. “I am yer captive , nae yer guest. Ye can wrap a chain in silk, but it’ll always be a chain.”

Kian bent at the waist until his face hovered just above hers. Her breath hitched, and he noticed the small quiver in her lips, the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

It was obvious that she wanted to be brave, but she was rattled. Her fear thrilled him. He enjoyed it.

Slowly, he reached down and unsheathed his dirk, the steel catching the firelight as it slid free.

Abigail gasped, her entire body tensing, her eyes widening in fear. Her chest rose and fell with quick, heavy breaths.

Kian watched her reaction with a quiet intensity.

“What is that for?” she asked.

Something about her fear stirred him—not cruelty, but control.

He grabbed her hands and held them steady as he brought the blade between them.

“Wait, stop…” she hissed.

With one quick slice, the rope fell to the floor in a loose coil.

Abigail exhaled sharply, her shoulders slumping in tense relief.

“See?” Kian murmured, sliding the dirk back into its sheath. “I’m nae goin’ to hurt ye. I was merely cuttin’ yer bonds.”

She looked down at her wrists, rubbing the faint red marks where the rope had bit into her skin.

“Ye could’ve warned me,” she muttered.

“Aye, I could’ve,” he acknowledged, straightening and stepping back. “But then I wouldnae have seen the fire in yer eyes, and I quite enjoy that look on ye, lass.”

She glared at him again, but this time there was something else beneath it. Something cautious. Something that burned just as bright.

He walked to the door, opened it, poised to leave, “Dinnae even think of escapin’, bunny. I’ll catch ye right away,” Kian warned with a smirk, he leaned against the doorframe.

His good eye flicked over her trembling form, the gleam in it sharp with amusement and something far more dangerous.

“Ye’ve got that wild look again. Like a wee creature about to bolt.”

Abigail stiffened in the chair, her hands clenching in her lap. “Stop callin’ me that,” she snapped, though her voice wavered. “I’m nae a bunny. I’m a lady of Clan McEwan.”

“Aye, and a very frightened one at that,” Kian said, his voice smooth as honey but hard as steel. “Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll stop.”

“What do ye want from me?” she demanded, lifting her chin despite the tremors wracking her body.

“From ye?” Kian tilted his head, pretending to consider. “Nothing. Yet . That depends on how things play out.”

Her eyes narrowed, studying him with suspicion. “And if I refuse to be part of yer scheme?”

“Things are far more complicated than ye ken,” he said flatly, all trace of amusement gone. “But if yer sisters behave, ye willnae have to stay here for long. This will all be over quicker than ye think.”

Abigail’s jaw tightened, her pride still holding firm even as fear swirled in her chest. “Me sisters? But what do they have to do with this?”

“Everything will become clear in time.”

“Ye’ve made a mistake by kidnappin’ me,” she huffed.

He arched an eyebrow. “If I have, I’ll suffer the consequences gladly.”

With that, he turned toward the door and opened it.

“Rest up. And dinnae waste yer time plannin’ foolish things. Dinnae let me catch ye attemptin’ to persuade a maid to set ye free, or breakin’ the lock, understood?”

Abigail surged to her feet. “Ye cannae keep me locked in like a prisoner!”

Kian glanced over his shoulder at her with a grin. “I can. And I will.”

Then, the door closed, and the click of the lock echoed through the chambers like a final word.

Kian stalked through the dim corridors of Castle McKenna, his boots thudding against the old stone floor. The torches along the walls cast a flickering orange light that clashed with the growing shadows. His jaw was clenched tight, his decisions weighing heavily on his shoulders.

He entered his study and kicked the door shut behind him.

The room smelled of aged leather, smoke, and dust. Maps lay scattered across the long oak desk, and sheaves of parchment were stacked in piles beside the hearth.

Kian paced the room like a caged wolf, his hands fisted behind his back, countless thoughts racing through his head. There were too many variables, too much risk.

He paused beside the window, looking out across the hills that stretched wide and quiet beyond the castle walls. His mind drifted to Abigail—her sharp tongue, her flushed cheeks, the fire in her frightened eyes. He hadn’t expected her to affect him like she did.

“Get a hold of yerself,” he growled under his breath.

A knock sounded at the door, sharp and persistent.

Kian turned around, his teeth gritted in annoyance.

“Enter,” he barked, his voice cracking through the room like a whip.

The heavy door creaked open to reveal Paul, the elderly councilman. His lined face was set into a neutral expression, yet his eyes were cautious.

“Me Laird,” he greeted, slowly stepping inside. “What’s all this I hear? The castle’s abuzz with talk of ye dragging a lady in here—in bonds, nay less?”

Kian’s nostrils flared as he turned fully toward him. “What I do is nay concern of yers, old man.”

Paul straightened his back, though his fingers trembled on his cane, betraying his fear.

“If it endangers the clan, it is me concern,” he stated firmly. “Folks are already whisperin’. They say ye took another lass from another clan—ye’ll start a war.”

“Aye?” Kian stepped forward, his gaze burning holes into the older man’s face. “And what of it? I’ll end it just as quickly.”

Paul frowned. “The clan cannae afford another conflict, nae with winter comin’. The harvest’s bad, and our stores are low. This isnae the time for pride and bloodshed.”

“I am the Laird. Ye willnae lecture me like a boy. If I choose to take a woman, I’ll do it. If I choose to use her for me plans, then that is me right.”

Fear flickered across Paul’s face, and his voice lowered. “Isnae she related to a laird? Ye’re just makin’ an enemy out of another strong clan in the Highlands. They will retaliate.”

“I’m countin’ on it. Let them come knockin’. Let them ken what it is like to face a McKenna when he’s ready,” Kian bit out.

I didnae mean for this to lead to war, but me fury at the lecture from the councilman makes for acting with resentment. I must assert me readiness for war to show who’s in charge in the room.

Paul’s lip quivered nervously. “Ye’ve always been stubborn. Yer uncle?—”

“Dinnae speak of him ,” Kian snapped. “He was weak. He let the clan rot. I took what was mine by right.”

Paul’s expression turned grim. “There’s a difference between strength and cruelty, lad. And ye’re walkin’ a line so fine that it’s hard to tell the difference.”

Kian’s lips curled into a snarl. “Then perhaps I should cross it entirely. Maybe then ye’ll finally learn nae to question me.”

Silence stretched for a long, tense moment. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shifting shadows over the stone walls.

Paul looked more terrified than usual as he stepped closer to the desk.

“Kian,” he said quietly, “ye’ve got the clan in yer hands. Dinnae crush it with yer stubborn pride, I beg ye.”

Kian didn’t reply at first. He gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white. Then, he let out a slow breath.

“Leave. I’ll hear nay more of this,” he bit out.

Paul stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded once. “I pray to the saints that yer temper doesnae cost us more than we can afford.”

He turned and slowly made his way to the door.

Just before stepping out, he paused. “And if ye care for nothin’ else, think of the lass. There’s a cost to what ye’re doin’, whether ye admit it or nae.”

The door closed behind him with a final echo.

Kian stood still, breathing hard, the air heavy with tension. He turned back to the window, his reflection barely visible in the glass.

She’ll be useful. She’s a tool, nothin’ more.

But deep down, he knew the truth was already tangled with something far messier. Something he didn’t want to admit—not to Paul, not to anyone. And certainly not to himself.

He meant to take her and use her as leverage, but now, having seen her fire, he wasn’t sure that was all he wanted her for.

However, it was his concern and no one else’s what he did with the lass. He had not come this far to be questioned like a child. It dredged up memories of how his uncle treated him, and that put him in a black mood.

He stormed out of the study and into the corridor, then stomped toward the servants’ quarters. His mind raced with plans, but beneath it all, that cursed woman’s face flickered like a flame—defiant, frightened, beautiful.

The way she had jumped from his horse, not caring for her safety… She was wild, and that made his blood sing in a way that he had not experienced in a long while.

He scowled and shoved the thought away. Emotions were a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Spotting a young maid carrying linens, he snapped, “Isolde!”

The girl jumped, nearly dropping the bundle, but then quickly turned around and curtsied. “Aye, Me Laird?”

“Go to the red room. Draw a bath—hot enough to steam the flesh off bones. Fill the tub, bring fresh clothes, and see it done before I return.” His tone brooked no argument, sharp and cold.

Isolde blinked but nodded quickly. “Aye, right away, Me Laird.”

“And listen well.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “There is a guest in that room. She isnae to leave it unless I say so. Take this.”

He pulled a heavy iron key from his belt and placed it firmly in her hand.

Isolde clutched it tightly, her eyes wide.

“When the bath is ready and the clothes laid out, lock the door. Then, bring the key straight back to me , nay one else. Understood?”

“Yes, of course, Me Laird. Right away.”

“One more thing,” Kian added, half turning. “Find James, the guard and tell him his Laird orders him to post guards at the door. The guest is spirited and clever. She’ll bolt if she sees a chance.”

Isolde nodded and curtsied low again. “I’ll see to it, Me Laird.”

Satisfied, Kian turned away and headed to the kitchens.

The scent of roasted onions and warm bread enveloped him as he entered the busy room, flames crackling in the hearths and pots almost overflowing with thick stew.

The cooks paused at his arrival, bowing quickly, flour and grease smudged on their aprons.

“We have a guest,” Kian announced without preamble. “Prepare the best ye’ve got. Stew, warm bread, cheeses.”

“Aye, Me Laird,” Lara said, already turning toward the larder. “We’ll see it done.”

“And make it look fine,” Kian added, his voice like steel. “The kind of meal fit for a queen—even if she’s here in chains.”