Page 7 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER SEVEN

T he early morning air was crisp as Kian and Leighton rode along the winding path outside the castle. The sun peeked over the distant hills, casting golden light on the loch below.

Kian’s mind churned with plans and schemes, his jaw set as he glanced toward his man-at-arms. They moved in companionable silence until he finally broke it.

“I’ll send word to Abigail’s sister, Freya, today,” he began, his voice low and steady. “We need that alliance, and we need it fast.”

Leighton shifted uneasily in his saddle, his eyes narrowing. “Ye ken what ye’re askin’ for, Me Laird? Michael and Arthur arenae men to be trifled with. If ye push this, prepare yerself for war.”

Kian’s lips curled into a grim smile. “Aye, I ken. But I’m willin’ to take the risk.

Time’s runnin’ out, Leighton. Without an alliance, our folk will either starve or freeze.

This is the only way we can get the supplies we need.

” He paused, his eye scanning the distant loch.

“This land’s tough enough without us fightin’ amongst ourselves. ”

The horses slowed as they neared the loch’s edge, the still water stretching wide and deep, its surface gleaming like glass beneath the rising sun.

Mist curled low over it, soft and thick, giving the loch a mystical, almost haunting beauty.

Trees lined the shore, their reflections wavering with every gentle ripple.

The scent of wet earth filled the air, mingling with the faint cries of distant birds.

Kian dismounted with ease and stepped forward, the chill in the air nipping his skin.

“Let’s take a swim,” he said, pulling off his heavy cloak and letting it drop to the grass.

Leighton chuckled, shedding his own gear with practiced ease.

The two men waded into the chilly water.

Kian felt the cold seeping into his bones, refreshing and sharp. He needed this cold plunge to get rid of the heat he had felt in his body since his supper with Abigail.

There was something fierce about her—her stubborn tongue, the fire in her eyes that matched the heat he felt whenever she was near. Her full curves, the way she moved with strength and defiance, called to him like no other.

She was a thick woman, not a frail lass, and that only made him want her more. Yes, she challenged him at every turn, and that stubborn spirit stirred a hunger deep in his chest.

He’d be a fool to deny how badly he desired her.

He dove under the water in a bid to quell that heat. The cold slowed his thoughts, tamping down the desire and tension that had built.

The loch was deep and clear, the cold water flowing silently over smooth stones and tangled weeds. As he floated on his back, the sun warmed his face, and for a moment, the weight of his burdens eased.

The water held a quiet strength, a reminder that life continued beyond schemes and battles.

“Ye’re thinkin’ too much again, Me Laird,” Leighton remarked, his voice carrying across the still morning.

“Even warriors need moments like this,” Kian grunted.

After some time, they waded out of the loch, water dripping from their hair and skin, the chill giving way to a fresh warmth. Kian wrapped his cloak around himself, staring once more at the horizon, where land met sky.

“This alliance will change everything,” he muttered, his resolve hardening. “It’s the only chance we’ve got.”

Leighton glanced over at him, his brow furrowed. “Ye think the council could come up with a better plan, Me Laird? They’ve got the wisdom of years.”

Kian let out a short, bitter grunt and shook his head. “Councilmen? They’re only good for divvyin’ up what’s already there, nae for makin’ important decisions. Every idea they’ve had so far is about fillin’ their coffers, nae about easin’ the pain of our folks.”

Leighton sighed, nodding slowly. “Aye, it seems they’re more interested in their own pockets than the folks’ welfare.”

Kian’s gaze hardened. “We cannae rely on men like that. It’s on me to fix this. Let’s go back; there’s much to be done before the morrow.”

They pulled on their clothes. The cold had numbed Kian’s limbs, but the weight of responsibility burned hotter than ever.

Leighton mounted his horse first, urging it forward. Kian followed, gripping the reins of his horse tightly, his mind already racing with plans and possibilities.

The horses’ hooves thudded steadily against the soft earth as they rode back toward Castle McKenna, the looming silhouette of home growing nearer with every passing second.

Though silent, the two men shared a fierce determination—the kind forged in hardship and hardened by life in the Highlands.

Back in the castle, Kian strode into Abigail’s bedchamber.

He found Abigail curled up beneath the covers, her brown hair a tangled halo around her pale face.

Her eyes fluttered open at the noise, heavy and wary. But as soon as they met his, the flutter of a thousand wings erupted in his chest.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to push down the sudden heat that rose at the sight of her.

“Get up,” he barked.

Abigail blinked slowly, pulling the covers tighter around her. “What are ye doing in here? Ye cannae just barge in and order me around,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.

“I said, get up, lass. Dinnae make me force ye,” Kian growled. He stepped closer, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Reluctantly, Abigail slipped from beneath the covers, her thin chemise clinging to her skin as she stood up.

Kian’s eyes roamed over her, from the swell of her ample breasts to the curve of her hips and the shape of her thighs. Each inch of her ample figure drew his gaze like a magnet.

He swallowed hard, fighting the raw desire rising inside him. The warmth in his chest deepened, a fierce hunger that made his heart thud against his ribs.

“Put this on and come with me,” he ordered, tossing a simple but finely made dress to her from the wardrobe.

He forced himself to look away, his mind churning with forbidden thoughts.

Abigail’s eyes narrowed as she moved to dress quickly. She pulled the dress over her chemise and put on her boots.

Kian stood there, pushing down the fire roaring inside him, and led the way out of the room and into the cold stone corridor.

As they walked, his thoughts drifted back to her curves, to how her skin might feel beneath his hands. His fingers itched to explore the softness he had glimpsed for a brief moment. Yet he knew this was no time for distractions.

His duties weighed heavily on him, but the image of Abigail haunted every corner of his mind.

Abigail kept her eyes fixed on the cold floor, her jaw tight with defiance. The tension between them crackled, silent but fierce, like a storm waiting to break.

Kian led her through the winding corridors toward his study. Once there, he pushed open the oak door and ushered her inside.

“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to a sturdy wooden chair.

Abigail obeyed begrudgingly, lowering herself into the hard seat with a mixture of defiance and curiosity.

Kian strode over to a heavy shelf lined with worn tomes and pulled down a thick volume, before handing it to her.

“Read this,” he said gruffly.

He turned toward his desk, where piles of papers and reports awaited his attention.

A thick silence fell over the room, the only sound the scratch of his quill against parchment.

But the silence was broken after a mere half an hour.

“Why have ye taken me?” Abigail asked, her tone steady despite the uncertainty in her eyes.

Kian didn’t turn to face her. “It’s none of yer business, lass,” he replied curtly, his voice edged with impatience.

She met his silence with defiance. “It is. Ye took me, after all,” she pressed, her voice rising.

Kian’s gaze flicked up, piercing and cold as he glared at the audacious lass daring to question him. “Ye shouldnae be concerned with matters beyond yer knowledge,” he said sharply.

Abigail’s eyes flashed with fire. “If ye dinnae tell me, I’ll make yer life a living hell,” she spat.

Something in Kian stirred at her boldness. He rarely tolerated backtalk, yet this spitfire intrigued him—an exception he made for her alone. His lips twitched into a faint smile.

Abigail leaned forward, her glare unrelenting. “Ye dinnae want to tell me because ye have nay reason to take me but for yer own pleasure,” she accused bitterly.

Kian’s smile faded, replaced by a hard look. “I wish that were true, but it’s more than that,” he said slowly. “It’s nae about ye, but about yer sisters.”

She swallowed hard, the hard edge of defiance giving way to a flicker of sorrow in her eyes. It did not go unnoticed.

“Me sisters? Ye want me sisters? Why?” she asked.

It was as though the breath was knocked out of her. As though she had deflated. He had not seen her like this since he met her.

“All yer sisters have to do is persuade their husbands to sign a trade agreement with me clan,” Kian explained in a low voice. “It’s a simple matter of survival for us.”

Abigail gasped. “Ye’re a cad,” she hissed. “Michael and Arthur will never agree to such a thing.”

Kian’s jaw tightened, a sudden, irrational anger surging through him at her mention of other men’s names. He fought to keep his voice steady.

“We’ll see,” he said, the cold promise hanging in the air between them.

Abigail eyed him narrowly, suspicion mingling with fear.

“And what if they refuse?” she challenged, despite the tremor in her voice.

Kian stood up and stepped closer, towering over her, yet somehow the air between them crackled with tension.

“Then we make them understand the price they’ll pay if they dinnae,” he said quietly.

She straightened, refusing to show weakness. “And what of me? Ye’ll kill me? Am I just a pawn in yer game?” she demanded.

Kian’s gaze softened just a fraction, betraying the complexity beneath his harsh exterior.

“Ye are far more than a pawn, lass,” he admitted, “but ye’re also a means to an end.”

“I willnae be used,” she asserted, her tone fierce despite the doubt creeping in.

Kian nodded, respect mingling with resolve. “Nay one will use ye,” he promised. “But ye will help us all, whether ye like it or nae.”

The fire in Abigail’s eyes dimmed only slightly.

“Quiet now, lass. I have work I need to finish,” Kian muttered as he settled behind his desk, quill in hand and ledgers stacked before him.

She said nothing, but he saw her stiffen, square her shoulders, lift her chin slightly as she opened the book he’d given her. He dipped his quill in the inkpot and began scribbling down figures, trying to ignore her presence there, like a flame in the cold room.

But his mind wandered.

He shouldn’t have mentioned her sisters, not like that. The way she’d looked at him afterward, wounded and guarded, had tugged at his chest.

Does she think I desire Freya or Marissa? Does she think she is the lesser one, the afterthought?

His brow creased. That wasn’t it at all. If anything, Abigail was the one who made his blood heat up with each glance, the one who provoked his temper and something darker—something more dangerous.

He looked up again.

She sat there reading, her lips parted slightly in concentration. Her cheeks were flushed, likely from fury, and her eyes trailed steadily across the page.

The firelight danced across her face, casting a golden glow over her skin and catching in her warm brown hair. His eye wandered, tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, her ample breasts that seemed to spill out of her dress.

Desire crept in, low and hot in his gut.

He stood up abruptly and strode to the sideboard to pour himself a generous glass of whiskey. He downed it in one gulp, hoping the burn would scorch away the thoughts bouncing around in his head.

But it didn’t. It only made him thirst for something far more dangerous than fire and drink. And she was sitting right across the room.