Page 9 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander (The Highland’s Lawson Sisters #3)

CHAPTER NINE

A nother hour passed in heavy silence as Abigail sat curled up in the chair, her hands resting on the open book before her. The pages blurred once or twice from her shifting focus, her eyes rising every so often to the man sitting behind the desk.

Kian hadn’t said a word to her since Helena left, nor had he offered a reason for dragging her into his study. It was maddening—this brooding brute with too many secrets and too much silence.

She stole another glance. He sat hunched over his ledgers, his brow furrowed, one hand resting on the desk, the other scribbling with deliberate strokes.

There was something oddly satisfying about watching him work. Something solid. Focused. But when his head shifted ever so slightly in her direction, she turned her eyes back to the pages in front of her.

A moment passed, then another.

This time, she couldn’t resist the urge. She turned to look at him again—and met his eye. That black eye of his, sharp and unreadable, fixed on her with such intensity that it made her breath catch in her throat.

She tore her gaze away from him, heat rising to her cheeks.

Then, the game began.

She peeked at him again, only to find his eye fixed on her bosom. She realized that her tight dress left much exposed at the neckline, more than was fashionable. There was not much she could do about it.

Though she could turn in her chair, she didn’t want to do it. She found her excitement rising the longer he stared at her heaving breasts.

Each glance was like a spark. Each collision of their eyes sent a strange thrill through her.

She couldn’t explain the rising tension between them, this push and pull that didn’t need words. Her hands fidgeted in her lap as her body betrayed her.

She was growing warm.

She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, in her fingertips, in the space between them.

What in God’s name is wrong with me? He is a brute, a kidnapper, a scoundrel.

And yet she wanted him to look again. To look at her like she mattered. Like she was a beauty and not the plain girl she thought she was.

A sharp knock at the door broke the tension between them, yanking her out of their game.

Kian’s voice rang out, low and commanding. “Enter.”

The heavy wooden door creaked open, and Robert, one of his oldest guards, stepped inside, his face set with the seriousness of a man bearing grim news. He bowed slightly before speaking.

“We’ve received the latest shipment, Me Laird,” he began, producing a roll of parchment from under his coat. “Twenty barrels of whiskey, fifteen casks of salted fish, and ten sacks of grain are stored in the warehouse.”

He slid the parchment across the desk toward Kian, his eyes flicking nervously between him and Abigail.

Kian unrolled the parchment and scanned the figures, his brow creasing.

“It’s nae as much as I expected,” he muttered, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.

Robert shrugged, trying to appear calm despite the tension in the room. “That’s all we could get at the market, Me Laird. The prices have risen, and supplies are scarce.”

“Scarce or nae,” Kian snapped, slamming the roll down on the desk, “it’s nae enough to keep the clan fed through the winter.”

His dark eye flashed with irritation, and he ran a hand through his thick brown hair. He shook his head and waved Robert away.

“Ye may go. I’ll handle this meself.”

“Aye, of course.” Robert offered a quick bow and scurried out of the study, closing the door quietly behind him.

Abigail watched the guard’s retreat, noting the way he carefully avoided holding Kian’s gaze for too long.

The men who served him clearly feared him deeply. It wasn’t just the weight of his title—it was the cold steel in his stare and the power that seemed to roll off him in waves.

Abigail’s eyes then scanned the study as she noticed more details that she had not before.

The walls were lined with heavy oak bookshelves, sagging under the weight of ancient tomes and scrolls.

Rolled parchment rested in leather cases, and maps were tacked with pins marking distant lands and clan territories.

The large wooden desk stood at the center, its surface littered with ledgers, quills, and a small brass inkpot, all illuminated by the soft glow of a single candle flickering nearby.

She felt a curious mix of awe and apprehension, realizing this room was not only a place of plans and strategy but the heart of power within the castle. And in this room, Kian Wright reigned supreme, a laird not to be crossed or underestimated.

However, despite this comfort, this clan was experiencing scarcity.

Abigail was so lost in her thoughts, her eyes scanning the tapestries, that she didn’t hear the heavy footsteps behind her.

“Enjoyin’ the read, bunny?” Kian’s voice was low and teasing, close enough to make her start and flush a deep red.

She hadn’t realized how near he’d come, and his sudden proximity made her heart race faster than she cared to admit. She quickly looked away, hoping he wouldn’t notice her embarrassment.

“What do ye want from me, Kian? Why bring me to this blasted room?” she asked, her voice sharp but tinged with curiosity.

Kian’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Thought ye were cooped up in that stuffy chamber of yers for too long. But dinnae think I’m lettin’ ye wander the castle after yer little escape attempt.” His tone was firm, but beneath it was a trace of concern she couldn’t quite fathom.

“Well, ye’re right,” she muttered, closing the book with a snap. “The first chance I get, I’m out of this place. I’ll nae be chained to yer side like a daft bairn.”

Her words were bold, but there was a spark in her eyes that challenged him, daring him to respond.

Kian smirked, stepping closer, his shadow looming over her. “Dinnae think I’ll let ye slip away that easily, lass.”

Abigail lifted her chin defiantly. “And what if I did? What then, Kian? Would ye chase me to the ends of the earth?”

His eye darkened, a wicked smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I would. Ye’re more trouble than any lass I’ve ever met.”

Abigail’s breath hitched, but she held his gaze. “Trouble? That’s rich, comin’ from the Mad Laird.”

The tension between them crackled, their words sharp but laced with something unspoken—a dangerous attraction.

Kian folded his arms, grinning. “Ye’ve got spirit, I’ll give ye that. But ye’ll learn soon enough, bunny. This game ye’re playin’—it’s nae just for yer amusement.”

Abigail narrowed her eyes at him. “And what game is that, then?”

His voice dropped to a purr. “The one where I win.”

She scoffed but couldn’t deny the thrill coursing through her veins. “We’ll see who’ll win in the end.”

The air between them thickened, every glance and word weaving a tangled web neither dared to unravel just yet.

“Ye’re nae the first woman to think she can beat me,” he said.

Abigail thought of Helena. Did he mean her? She talked to him like no one else in the castle. Too comfortable to be merely a friend.

“Was that yer wife?” she blurted out.

Immediately, she wished she could take it back.

She felt foolish for asking such a bold question, but curiosity gnawed at her. She needed to know if Kian and Helena were more than just acquaintances.

She tried to look anywhere but at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice how vulnerable she felt.

Kian’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Why? Are ye jealous, bunny?” His voice was low and teasing, but there was a challenge in his eye.

Abigail bristled, squaring her shoulders. “Why would I be jealous?” she shot back.

“Ye tell me,” Kian said, his tone light. “Ye’re the one who hasnae stopped staring at me for the last hour.”

Abigail’s eyes widened, and she shook her head quickly. “Ye’re mad. I wasnae lookin’ at ye,” she scoffed, though her pounding heart betrayed the lie.

“Mad? Nay,” Kian said with a slow smile. He leaned into her personal space, making her breath hitch. “I ken what I saw, lass. Now, answer me. Are ye jealous?”

Abigail bit her lip. “I already told ye, I’m nae jealous. I’m just… curious,” she whispered.

“That’s nae what ye meant,” Kian growled, his eye glinting with amusement. “And ye ken it.”

Abigail crossed her arms, trying to maintain her composure but feeling her resolve waver.

“Ye’re just playin’ with me,” she accused, though the slight smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“Aye, maybe I am,” Kian admitted with a sly grin. “But it’s a game we’re both enjoyin’, nay?”

Abigail’s heart fluttered in a confusing mix of irritation and attraction.

“Ye’re impossible,” she muttered, but didn’t move away.

Kian’s voice softened ever so slightly. “I like seein’ ye flustered, bunny. It suits ye.”

Abigail’s eyes met his, a spark arcing between them. Despite herself, she felt drawn deeper into the dance of words and unspoken desire.

She lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to back down. “Ye think just because ye’re the Laird, ye can say whatever ye like, dinnae ye?”

Kian lowered his face to hers, closing the gap between them. “Aye, I’m the Laird, and I’ll say what I please. Ye will obey me, lass. Ye’d better get used to it,” he taunted, his voice low and confident.

Abigail’s heart flipped, but she was determined not to let him see how much his arrogance affected her.

“I’m nae likely to be intimidated by a madman with an eyepatch.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

She caught the flicker of surprise in his gaze. Yet, he only growled—a deep, rumbling sound that made her pulse quicken.

“Mad, am I?” he said with a crooked smile, cocking his head. “Maybe. But I’m the madman who’s set his sights on ye, bunny.”

Abigail’s breath hitched at the boldness of his claim, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. She looked away, inwardly scolding herself for getting flustered by his words.

“Ye’re daft,” she muttered, but she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

This dance between them grew sharper, more heated, and despite every attempt to resist, Abigail felt an unexpected thrill.

There was something intoxicating about his arrogance, the way he challenged her, as if daring her to stand her ground.

“Daft, am I?” Kian’s voice dropped an octave as he stepped even closer. “Ye like it, dinnae ye? That fire in yer eyes when ye argue back. Ye cannae hide it, lass. Ye think I cannae see yer… ample bosom heavin’? Beggin’ for me touch?”

Abigail swallowed hard, unable to deny the truth, though she refused to admit it aloud.

“Ye are filthy,” she whispered, her eyes locked onto his.

Kian’s smile widened, and she wondered if he was pleased by her choice of words, instead of offended.

“There’s nay reason to be jealous,” he said, his voice deep and thick, like smoke curling up from a chimney. “Though I ken it is because ye want me.”

Abigail’s eyes narrowed on him. “Dinnae forget, Laird McKenna, that I dinnae want ye. It is ye who want me. Ye are the dangerous beast that took me from me home.”

Kian’s face darkened. “Aye, I’m a beast—and ye’re about to see why I am so dangerous, lass.”

In one swift motion, he seized her by the waist. Before she could utter another word, his lips crashed onto hers, full of heat and power.

Abigail gasped against his mouth, stunned by the hunger in his kiss. Her fists curled against his chest, ready to shove him back. Instead, her fingers curled into his warm tunic as her knees buckled.

He tasted of lust and whisky, wild and free, and yet something inside her leaned into it. Her thoughts splintered, scattered like ash in the wind.

The kiss deepened, and her breath hitched as his hand slid up her back, pulling her closer until not a sliver of air remained between them. The heat of him engulfed her, his body hard like carved stone beneath her trembling fingers.

Her heart thudded furiously against her ribs, and her senses were spinning, caught between anger and something far more treacherous. Her lashes fluttered, and for a moment, she gave in to the rush, to the burn, to him .

Kian groaned low in his throat, pressing her harder against him. She felt it—the tight restraint, the storm he kept leashed beneath his skin.

He kissed her like he meant to claim her, as if she were already his. And her body—traitorous thing—was responding.