Page 35 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
“But nay reply has come,” Kian muttered darkly, his jaw tightening. “Nay letter. Nay rider. Nothin’.”
Gavin hesitated, shifting slightly. “They showed nay sign of ill will, Me Laird. They only said they’d pass the messages on.”
Kian waved a hand. “That’ll be all. Go.”
Gavin bowed again and slipped out quickly, leaving him alone in the flickering shadows.
His mind raced, trying to understand the silence of Abigail’s kin, wondering why they had not responded to his letters. He drank heavily in his study as he attempted to devise another plan, in case her sisters decided to abandon her.
Later that evening at supper, the Great Hall was colder than usual, lit only by a few oil lamps and the low-burning hearth. The long table held a modest spread—barley porridge, a few smoked fish, turnips, and oatcakes barely warmed.
The meager rations were a sharp contrast to feasts of the past, where roasted venison and fresh bread would line the table. Now, each person picked at their portion with grim acceptance, their eyes downcast, their bellies never full.
Kian sat at the head of the table, cloaked in shadow and silence, and drunk. His shoulders were tense beneath his black wool jacket, the weight of his clan’s suffering pressing hard against his ribs.
His appetite had long since vanished, replaced by guilt and burning frustration. His gaze swept across the room, searching for a distraction, for answers—until the doors opened.
Abigail entered, flanked by Isolde and a guard. She wore the same borrowed dress, her full curves straining against the seams, her chin jutted despite her evident discomfort.
Kian’s eyes locked onto her, and something surged through him—want, yes, but also a cold fury that she could look so proud when everything else was crumbling.
He stood up abruptly and strode toward her.
Without a word, he caught her arm—not harshly, but firmly enough to command—and dragged her to the corridor, away from the hushed murmurs behind them.
“Ye’ve got a lot of gall, walkin’ in here with yer head held high. Do ye ken how me clan suffers?” he growled.
Abigail ripped her arm free, glaring up at him. “Ye’re drunk, and I never asked to be brought here. But I have more right to hold me head high than a laird who steals women to trade like cattle.”
He stepped closer, towering over her. “Why hasnae yer family written back, eh? Do they nae care? Yer sisters, their fine husbands—why the silence? Have they abandoned ye?”
Abigail bared her teeth at him. “Me family is strong, Laird McKenna. They’re nae fools. They willnae bend to threats from a desperate man.”
“Desperate?” he scoffed, his voice a dark rasp. “Is that what ye think this is?”
“Ye said it yerself. Yer crops die, yer people go hungry, and ye think takin’ me will fix it?” She crossed her arms, her eyes blazing. “Ye think threatenin’ me kin will secure ye trade deals?”
Kian’s lip curled. “Nay, I thinkyewill. Whether ye mean to or nae.”
Abigail’s laugh was cold and cutting. “Ye think I’m some pawn ye can move around a board. But I’m nae yer wife, nor yer ally.”
“Aye, but ye could be,” he said suddenly.
She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Nothin’,” he uttered, turning away.
He had let the words slip through his drunken haze. He had no control.
He turned back and stepped even closer, the air between them thickening. “I’m doin’ what needs to be done, and pressuring yer family is the only way. Perhaps I need to be more aggressive with them.”
Abigail’s lips parted in stunned silence, before her expression hardened. “Ye’re mad. Ye’d have me whole family in chains to feed yer people. Ye are a brute.”
His nostrils flared. “I dinnae see it that way. But damn it, lass, yer pride may cost ye more than just yer life.”
“And yer arrogance will bring ruin,” she shot back, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “Ye dinnae even see it, do ye?”
Kian looked at her, truly looked at her, and something in him shifted.
