Page 8 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)
CHAPTER EIGHT
“ E nter.” Kian didn’t even glance up from his desk when a knock sounded at the study door, sharp and loud.
The door creaked open, and in swept a tall woman with gleaming hair and a grace Abigail could never match. The stranger’s gown was made of fine wool dyed a deep green, and her every movement seemed deliberate, confident.
Abigail’s stomach twisted the moment she smiled at Kian. It wasn’t just a polite smile—it was warm, familiar, the kind that spoke of shared memories and private jokes.
The lass didn’t bow or curtsy, but went straight to Kian like she had every right to.
Abigail’s eyes narrowed; she couldn’t help herself.
Is she his mistress?
Abigail looked between them, noting how Kian didn’t bristle or bark the way he did with everyone else. His voice softened as he greeted the woman.
“Good day to ye, Helena.”
That simple greeting was all it took for jealousy to spark in Abigail’s chest. The feeling startled her.
He isnae yers, ye fool. Dinnae be a daft cow. Ye cannae be feelin’ things for the brute who kidnapped ye!
She tore her eyes away from Helena and Kian and focused back on the book he’d tossed her earlier. Anything to force her mind elsewhere.
The book had surprised her when she had first opened it an hour ago.
It was about Clan McKenna’s customs and traditions, filled with stories and ancient rites.
She skimmed a passage about the ancient Beltane fires and the role of lairds in overseeing the ceremony.
Another section detailed the old ways of securing alliances—with feasts, gifts, and in rare cases, marriage.
Her brow creased.
Why give this to me?
Slowly, she got lost in the words, the scent of old parchment and ink grounding her. She was engrossed in the lineage of lairds, the shifts in alliances, and the McKennas’ long-held reputation for ferocity and cunning.
The book painted a richer picture of the clan than she’d expected—less barbaric, more desperate for survival in a harsh land. But as she tried to focus on the words, voices murmured across from her.
It wasn’t until the book mentioned the rare tradition of a laird claiming a guest under the ‘Ancient Shelter Rite’ that her breath hitched.
Her fingers froze on the page.
Is that what Kian intends to do?
She didn’t dare look up. She didn’t want to see Helena’s hands on him or his dark eye fixed on anyone but her. So she kept reading. And yet the words started swimming before her, her thoughts a storm.
What if she wasn’t just a pawn? What if she were something else entirely?
“Ye cannae be serious, Kian! This could lead to war with the McEwans, the Reids, and every clan allied with them. Are ye prepared for that?” Helena’s eyes burned with defiance, her arms crossed tight over her chest.
Abigail looked up from the book at that moment.
Kian’s eye darkened. “Dinnae forget who ye’re speakin’ to, Helena. Ye may be me friend, but I’m still yer Laird,” he said icily. “Speak out of turn again, and ye’ll be waulkin’ wool with the women before the sun rises.”
Helena flushed, and her hand trembled slightly with fear, but she didn’t back down.
“I’ll always speak when the fate of our people is at risk. Yer pride may be blindin’ ye, Kian, but I see clear as day what this could bring.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to Abigail, and something unreadable passed over her face.
Abigail stiffened in her seat, her fingertips digging into the page she had paused on. The air crackled with tension.
Kian’s jaw clenched, and he slowly stepped forward, his voice low in warning. “If ye question me again in front of others, I’ll have nay choice but to make an example of ye.”
Abigail’s thoughts lingered not on the argument itself but on something far more peculiar.
Kian had called Helena his friend . Not his wife, nor his mistress. Not even his betrothed. The irrational relief that washed over her was foolish, she knew, but it came all the same.
Despite the way he’d taken her, tied her, and dragged her into his world like a beast claiming prey, there was something magnetic about him.
Abigail hated herself for feeling it, but she couldn’t deny the pull.
Kian was solid as a mountain, with broad shoulders, thick arms, and a powerful frame honed by years of labor or war.
She remembered how effortlessly he’d slung her over his shoulder, as if she were weightless, and something deep inside her had stirred.
Her eyes flicked to him now, watching as he poured himself another measure of whisky by the hearth. She didn’t mean to stare, but she couldn’t help herself. That eyepatch covering his left eye was a mystery she itched to solve.
What had happened? A battle? A betrayal? Or perhaps he’d kidnapped the wrong lass once before and paid dearly for it.
Still, she wondered what he looked like beneath the leather. Was his skin scarred? Was his left eye missing entirely? There was a dark thrill in imagining what secrets lay beneath that patch, and she found herself leaning forward slightly.
He turned then, just a fraction, and caught her looking. She tore her gaze away and flushed crimson, cursing herself inwardly.
What am I doing? Oglin’ the man who has taken me from family, dragged me halfway across the Highlands, and locked me in his home like a prize?
But her heart wouldn’t listen to reason. It beat faster, louder, every time he looked at her as his argument with Helena dragged on. And worse, a part of her hoped he’d come closer.
“I’m Helena,” the woman said suddenly, folding her hands in front of her green skirt.
Abigail looked up warily as Helena moved toward her, the earlier tension with Kian replaced with something cooler.
Helena approached her with an easy stride and offered a polite smile. “I figured since we’ll likely be seein’ each other often, we may as well talk like civilized women.”
Abigail closed the book and gave a cautious nod. “Abigail Lawson,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral, though her spine was rigid with distrust.
“I ken who ye are,” Helena assured. “Word travels fast through these halls.”
“Aye, I noticed,” Abigail said, her lips twitching despite herself. She glanced down at the leather-bound volume. “‘Tis a book about Clan McKenna’s customs. Dry read, but better than bein’ spoken down to by yer Laird.”
Helena chuckled and came to sit on the nearby chair, tucking her legs beneath her with graceful ease.
“Ye havenae read the part about the midsummer fire rituals yet, have ye?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “There’s a bit in there about bathing in the loch to cleanse the soul. And some say, to tempt fate—or lovers.”
Abigail blinked, unsure whether to laugh or be scandalized.
“Well then,” she muttered, trying to hide her blush. “I suppose I have that to look forward to.”
Helena leaned in, her voice lowering. “Ye’ll find the McKennas strange, aye. But nae all of us are brutes.” Her gaze flicked to the desk, where Kian still sat brooding, nursing his drink. “Though some of us are too proud for their own good.”
Abigail followed her gaze, her tone softer now. “He took me. Brought me here without so much as a reason. Why does he think me sisters would ever be willing to trust him?”
Helena sighed softly. “He’s a stubborn man, Abigail. And foolish. But nae without cause.”
She stood up slowly, brushing dust from her skirts.
Abigail’s heart was still in turmoil, but she couldn’t help but feel the oddest thing—that Helena’s presence had grounded her.
“Thank ye… for speakin’ to me like a person.”
Helena nodded. “Any lass ripped from her home deserves at least that.”
She headed to the door, but then paused and looked back at Abigail with a gentler expression.
“If ye ever need anything, Abigail—anything at all—just send for me.” Her tone was sincere, solid like iron and warm like fire.
Abigail gave a small nod, her lips curling into a genuine smile for the first time since she had arrived at the castle. “Thank ye, Helena. I’ll remember that.”
As the door clicked shut, she felt the silence settle thick in the room. She again started to read the book, though the words blurred together as her thoughts drifted.
That woman, Helena, possessed a rare mix of fierceness and kindness. It reminded her so much of Marissa.
Her older sister had always been brave, always carrying the burdens of others without complaint. Marissa would have admired Helena’s kindness.
Abigail swallowed down the ache bubbling up her throat at the thought of her sisters.
Are they searchin’ yet? Have they sounded the alarms?
She hoped Michael and Arthur were already scouring the Highlands, hot with fury and vengeance.
The air shifted, and she realized that she was still not alone. Kian had crossed the room, looming like a mountain she couldn’t scale. Her heart rate quickened, not just with fear but with something sharper, more treacherous.
She cursed herself for feeling that thrill.
She dared to glance up at him, meeting his good eye. He hadn’t said a word since Helena left, but his presence filled every corner of the room.
Her hands gripped the book tightly as she tried to focus, to will away the heat rising to her neck. But she could still feel the weight of his gaze pressing down on her like a storm about to break.
Abigail hated that she was drawn to it.
And worse, she wanted more.