Page 15 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
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 yewillobey 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.
