Page 6 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER SIX

A bigail stood still for a long moment after the lock clicked behind her.

The room was nothing like she’d expected.

No chains, no moss-covered walls or foul-smelling straw for a bed.

Instead, soft crimson red drapes hung from the windows, the walls were paneled in polished wood, and a large, canopied bed stood in the center, its blankets made of fine wool.

She walked around the room, cautious. Her eyes widened as she saw the hand-carved armoire, the silver mirror, and the embroidered pillows arranged neatly on the chair by the hearth. It was luxurious—far too fine for a captive.

Surely this was some sort of trick. A way to confuse her, disarm her.

Moving toward the window, she pulled back the curtains and peered down. Her stomach sank.

The window overlooked a sheer drop down the cliffside wall of the castle. There’d be no climbing out that way, not unless she grew wings.

“I need to get out of here,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the cold glass.

She turned and went to the door, grabbing the handle and giving it a hard twist. Nothing. She tried again, then braced her shoulder against it. Still nothing.

“Of course, ye locked me in,” she muttered bitterly. “Ye monstrous brute.”

Sighing, she walked to the bed and sat on the edge, her skirts bunching around her. Her hands rested in her lap as she stared down at the floor. The silence in the room pressed in on her, and her thoughts wandered—unbidden—back to her sisters.

They would be frantic by now. Marissa, most of all, poor thing. Abigail’s gut twisted as she imagined her sister blaming herself. Marissa had arranged for the carriage, after all.

“Well, at least this isnae a first in me family,” Abigail murmured with a weak smile.

Between the wild chaos that had once ensnared Freya and even older tales of near-disaster, it seemed that danger always followed the women of her family.

Still, Michael had trained them on what to do if ever one of them was taken. He had plans, scouts, and signals. Surely, even now, word was spreading across the Highlands.

Help would come.

She clung to that. But even so, she remembered the sick worry she’d felt when Freya had gone missing, and now she was putting her sisters through the same torment.

A knock at the door startled her out of her thoughts. Before she could rise, the lock turned, and the heavy door creaked open.

Abigail braced herself, expecting the brute himself. Instead, in came a line of maids bearing buckets and a tub.

The young woman at the head bobbed a small curtsy. “Me Lady. I’m Isolde. The Laird bade me to draw ye a hot bath.”

Abigail blinked. “A bath?”

“Aye.” Isolde smiled softly, nodding to the others as they emptied steaming water into the tub near the hearth. “And bring ye clean dresses and a chemise.”

She laid a bundle on the bed with care.

“Well… thank ye, Isolde. I am in need of a bath, as ye can see,” Abigail admitted, brushing mud from her skirts with a grimace.

Her legs ached, her hair was stiff with dust and wind, and the idea of soaking in hot water almost overshadowed her plans of escape.

She had half a mind to try something. Perhaps the bath was a distraction, a lapse in security. But when she glanced over, she saw the silhouette of a guard just outside the door, standing like a statue.

Any plans of escape dissolved like mist.

She bit her tongue and cursed Kian under her breath.

Once the water had been poured and the maids had finished their quiet preparations, Isolde bobbed a final curtsy. “When ye’re done, Me Lady, leave the linens in the basket. The Laird said ye were to be comfortable.”

“Comfortable in captivity. What a strange kindness,” Abigail muttered under her breath. But then she gave the maid a tight nod. “Thank ye.”

The door closed softly behind them, and the click of the lock sounded again.

Alone once more, Abigail stood still for a long moment, torn between fury and fatigue. The warmth of the room was calling to her, steam rising from the tub in curling wisps. The scent of lavender tinged the air.

“I suppose there’s nay harm in washin’ off the worst of the road,” she whispered, and began to strip out of her travel-worn mud-caked clothes.

The warmth of the bath wrapped around her like a cloak the moment she sank in. Her breath hitched at the heat, then released in a sigh as her muscles relaxed. The ache in her shoulders dulled.

Her fingers trailed through the water, and for the first time since she was taken, her thoughts slowed.

It was a strange feeling, being imprisoned in such luxury. She’d been prepared for harsh stone and calloused hands, not hot water and lavender-scented soap. And yet she didn’t trust it for a second.

Her captor might offer comfort, but that didn’t make him less dangerous.

Kian Wright was known across the Highlands. She’d heard the whispers, the stories passed from clan to clan. Ruthless. Merciless. Mad. The one who had slaughtered his uncle and taken the title by force.

Abigail clenched her jaw, splashing water over her arms. She would not be lulled into a false sense of security. No matter how kind the maids were, no matter how warm the water, this was still a cage—one with silk-lined bars.

Still, she couldn’t help the curiosity that stirred in her chest.

Why did he take me? And what does he plan to do next?

After her bath, she grabbed the fresh dress. The fabric was fine—soft wool with delicate embroidery along the hem—but the cut was cruelly unforgiving for her full figure.

As she struggled into the corset, the bones dug into her ribs, making each breath a painful effort. She reached behind her and loosened the laces as much as she could, though the garment still left her feeling trapped and exposed.

The dress clung tightly to her curves, accentuating every swell and dip she wished to hide.

She bit her lip, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, aware that the fit was far from flattering.

It wasn’t like the comfortable, worn dresses she used to wear back home.

This was a dress made for someone much slimmer, someone less ample in the bosom.

Yet she had no choice; her clothes had been taken, and this would have to do.

She glanced at her reflection in the polished silver mirror.

Her cheeks were flushed, her hands twisting nervously into the hem of her skirt.

She told herself to bear it for now. There would be time enough to regain her freedom.

But until then, she’d wear this tight dress and hold her head high, no matter how uncomfortable it made her feel.

Her breasts almost spilled out of the top, no matter how much she loosened the ties down the front. She tried every trick she knew about dresses, but nothing worked.

The amount of cleavage exposed made her feel very vulnerable. She hoped that she would merely be trapped in the room and no one would see, but that hope was soon shattered.

An hour later, the heavy door opened with a loud click, and she tensed. Her gaze flicked up as two maids entered, each bearing silver platters and covered bowls. The aroma hit her first, rich and hearty.

Her eyes followed them as they laid out the fare on the small table near the fireplace—roasted venison with root vegetables, a loaf of oatbread still warm from the oven, a crock of creamy cullen skink, and a trencher filled with sweet honeyed neeps.

Then, they set down a pitcher of water and two decanters, one filled with wine and the other with whiskey.

One of the maids uncorked a dark bottle and poured two goblets—one with red wine and the other with sharp-smelling uisge-beatha, a whisky that burned going down but warmed the bones.

Neither maid spoke as they bowed and scurried out of the room. But soon after, Kian strode into the chamber.

Once more, Abigail found herself alone with her captor. He took his place at the table without a word, sitting with the lazy confidence of a man who owned everything he surveyed.

His good eye flicked toward her in challenge.

“Come here,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

Abigail didn’t move. Her hands clenched at her sides as she met his gaze, resistance burning in her chest.

Let him eat like a king—she’d choke on the food before she played the obedient guest.

“I said come here, and ye will obey me, lass,” he commanded, his voice low and firm.

Abigail did not move, lifting her chin stubbornly. “Ye cannae force me to eat if I dinnae wish it.”

He narrowed his eye at her, the firelight accentuating the sharp angles of his face. “I’ll nae have ye starvin’ under me roof. Ye’re a guest—ye’ll eat.”

“A guest?” she scoffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Funny way of treatin’ a guest, bindin’ her hands and tossin’ her like a sack of potatoes. Ye can take yer venison and stuff it in yer pie hole.”

“Feisty wee thing, are ye nae? Most women would be cryin’ in a corner by now.”

“Aye, well, I’m nae most women,” she shot back, her eyes flashing. “And ye’d do well to remember that, Laird or nae.”

He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow raised as he studied her. “Oh, I remember. Every word out of yer mouth makes it harder to forget.”

She flushed but stood her ground. “If ye think starvin’ me will make me more agreeable, then ye’re sorely mistaken.”

“I’m nae starvin’ ye. I’m offerin’ ye good food, and ye’re the one refusin’ it.” Kian countered, smirking. “I want ye fed. Now, come eat, before I carry ye to the table meself.”

Abigail hesitated, glaring at him with all the fury she could muster. But then her stomach betrayed her with a low growl.

“I willnae. I dinnae want to give ye the satisfaction of thinkin’ ye can sup with me after what ye’ve done.”

Kian moved toward her with the confidence of a man who always got what he wanted, and she felt her heart stutter against her ribs.

She told herself it was fear—what else could it be?

But there was a strange heat pooling low in her belly, something unfamiliar that made her cheeks flush and her breath catch.

She should hate him—aye, she did hate him—but there was something about the way he moved, the way his dark gaze pinned her like prey.

Without a word, he scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing more than a sack of flour.

“Ye leave me nay choice, bunny,” he muttered, marching to the table and lowering her none-too-gently into the chair across from his.

Her skirts flared around her knees as she straightened, indignant and flustered all at once.

“Eat,” he said simply, his eye narrowed as he sat down.

“I willnae,” she huffed, jutting her chin.

But her protest died down when he scooped up a spoonful of stew and brought it to her lips.

When she refused to open her mouth, he gave her a look that made her heart thump. Against her better judgment, she let him feed her one bite. But then something happened: she found herself opening her mouth seductively.

She didn’t know how it happened, but once her lips parted, she felt the shift.

He slowly pushed the spoon into her mouth and pulled it out. She heard a low moan escape her mouth, and she realized that by not feeding herself, she had played into his hands.

Mortified, she chewed. Then, with blazing cheeks, she reached for the spoon and yanked it from his hand.

“I’ll do it meself,” she hissed.

“And deprive me of the pleasure?” He tutted.

She huffed in annoyance; she could feel his devious smirk as he knocked back a dram of whiskey.

They ate in silence, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the soft clinking of cutlery. He sat close beside her, close enough that she could sense the heat radiating from his skin.

He was a brute—rough, unyielding, arrogant. But he was also strong, composed, and strangely magnetic.

As she sipped from her goblet, her thoughts tangled. The eyepatch, the scar peeking from beneath it, the stubble on his jaw—it all should’ve repulsed her. And yet some traitorous part of her was drawn to all of it.

I loathe me body for responding. Stop!

Abigail stabbed a hunk of oatbread with her knife, her jaw tight. “This would taste better if I wasnae eatin’ it beside a brute.”

Kian didn’t even look up as he tore into his venison. “Ye speak boldly, for someone who would’ve gone hungry if nae for this brute.”

“I’d rather starve than dine with an abductor,” she snapped, tossing her hair over her shoulder with more force than needed. “I’m only eatin’ so I have enough strength to throttle ye when I get the chance.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound making butterflies flutter in her stomach.

“Ye’ve got claws, bunny. I like it.”

“Stop callin’ me that,” she hissed, her face heating against her will. “I’m nae a wee creature for ye to trap and torment.”

Kian leaned back in his chair, his black eye fixed on her like he was reading her thoughts. “Nay, ye’re more like a fox—snappin’ and snarlin’, but underneath it all, curious.”

She dropped her fork onto her plate. “Curious? About what? Ye?”

“Aye,” he said with a slow grin. “Ye’ve looked at me more than yer stew.”

“I was tryin’ to figure out how someone so large could have such a small mind.”

His growl rumbled through the chamber. “Keep insultin’ me, lass. It’s makin’ this the finest supper I’ve had in ages.”

Abigail looked away, suppressing the smile tugging at her lips. She hated that he made her feel anything other than rage.

And yet there it was, a flicker of warmth she had no business feeling.

“Ye ken me family will find me soon,” she warned.

“Good. That’s what I want,” he replied.

“Let me go.”

“Nay, I never give up what’s mine without a reward. And lass, ye are mine now.”

“I am nae yers, and I will never be yers!” she hissed.

“Oh, but ye are, and I will enjoy provin’ it to ye,” Kian said with a dark smile.

Then, he stood up, knocked back more whiskey, and left the room.

Abigail was left flustered. She grabbed the decanter of whiskey and downed it, hoping to numb the confusion in her mind.