Page 30 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
A knock at the door made her jolt, her heart pounding against her confined ribs.
“Who is it?” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
“It’s Isolde, Me Lady,” came the soft reply.
Abigail hesitated, then opened the door.
The maid stood before her, with her hands folded, but what made Abigail’s heart sink was the sight of the burly guard behind her, standing like a shadow.
“The Laird has requested yer presence in the Great Hall for breakfast,” Isolde announced with a small smile.
“I’d prefer to break me fast here,” Abigail said quickly, folding her arms.
“Aye, the Laird thought ye might say that.” Isolde winced. “Which is why the guard is here. Ye’re to join him, whether ye like it or nae.”
Abigail glanced from the maid to the guard, who made no move other than raise an expectant eyebrow.
“Of course he did,” she muttered.
With a heavy sigh, she stepped out into the corridor.
“Lead the way then, Isolde. Let’s nae keep the great and fearsome Laird McKenna waitin’ for his breakfast companion.”
Isolde dipped her head and began to walk, the guard falling into step behind them.
Abigail held her head high, determined not to let them see just how flustered she was, especially not when the thought of seeing Kian again stirred something deep within her.
The heavy doors of the Great Hall creaked open, and she followed Isolde inside, the silent guard still at her back like a shadow.
The air was warm with the scent of roasted meats and smoke, and the towering stone walls were draped with thick tapestries. Tall, arched windows let in the pale morning light, which spilled across the long wooden table that dominated the center of theroom. At the far end, a grand hearth blazed, casting golden beams over the carved chairs and flagstone floor.
Abigail’s footsteps echoed as she was guided toward the table, where Helena and Leighton sat conversing in hushed tones.
She offered a polite smile and a brief curtsy. “A fine mornin’ to ye both.”
“Welcome, lass,” Leighton said.
“A pleasure to see ye again, Abigail.” Helena smiled.
Before Abigail could sit, another woman approached the table and was greeted by Helena with a kiss on the cheek.
“This is Peyton,” Helena said. “Kian’s cousin.”
Abigail took in Peyton’s striking looks—golden hair, soft brown eyes, and a serene smile. She nodded. “It’s lovely to meet ye.”
“Aye, and ye as well,” Peyton replied, folding her hands in her lap with practiced grace.
The moment Abigail took her seat, the air shifted. She didn’t have to twist around to know thathehad entered—the hair on the back of her neck prickled.
Kian strode across the hall with quiet command, his long dark coat brushing the floor behind him, his black eye fixed on her like a brand. Her pulse quickened as he took the seat at the head of the table, saying nothing, though his presence said plenty.
Servants moved swiftly, placing plates and trays on the table. Steaming bowls of porridge sat beside platters of smoked haddock, oat bannocks, blood sausage, and fried eggs with roasted mushrooms. There were small jars of jam, freshly churned butter, and warm barley bread that filled the room with a mouthwatering scent.
Abigail kept her eyes on her plate, though she could feel Kian’s gaze burning a hole into her face. Her appetite withered beneath the heat in her chest, a confused storm of shame and… something else.
She couldn’t stop thinking of the kiss. The way her lips had melted under his, the fire that had rushed from her toes to her throat.
She nibbled on a bannock, trying to appear composed, but her mind was far from the table. The chatter around her continued—Peyton telling Helena about the next delivery to the lower village, Leighton grumbling about the state of the grain stores—but she was half-lost in thought.
