Page 48 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
“And in yer thoughts, clearly,” Leighton countered. “Ye could’ve left her under Helena’s watch, but ye followed. Ye stormed down there like a man possessed.”
Kian said nothing. His silence was admission enough.
“I ken ye’re tryin’ to do right by our people, Kian,” Leighton said after a beat. “But dinnae twist yerself in knots. Aye, this drought is cruel, but it willnae break our strength. We’ve survived worse.”
Kian exhaled slowly, the anger draining from his shoulders, replaced with weariness. “I hope ye’re right, Leighton. Because I feel the weight of every empty basket, every hungry mouth. And if I lose them…”
“Ye willnae,” Leighton declared. “Ye’ve got fire in yer blood, and the heart of a warrior. And maybe… maybe even the heart of a husband.”
Kian shot him a glare, but it lacked heat. “Dinnae start.”
Leighton chuckled. “I’m only sayin’ that there are worse things than a strong lass at yer side.”
Kian looked out over the orchard again, silent. The sky remained stubbornly clear, and the heat pressed down like judgment. Somewhere in the tree line, a crow cawed.
“We’ll ride back,” he said, eventually. “I need to speak with Paul again—see what can be done for the poorest families. Distribute more from the reserves, if there’s anything left.”
“Aye,” Leighton agreed, mounting his horse. “And I’ll see to the granaries meself.”
Kian took one last look at the withered trees before swinging himself up into the saddle. The wind barely stirred, dry and empty as his thoughts.
As they turned their horses toward the castle, he whispered low, almost to himself, “Come rain. Or come ruin.”
And with that, they took off.
The ride back from the orchard was silent, the horses’ hooves thudding dully against the dirt path that wound through the heart of the village.
Kian’s jaw was tight, his eye sharp as it swept across the cottages, the thin folks, the barefooted, hollow-cheeked children. The orchard’s ruin weighed heavily on him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of failure.
Leighton rode beside him, his face drawn, the air between them thick with unspoken worry.
Then came the shouting.
Kian jerked his head toward the commotion down one of the narrow alleys. A woman’s scream cut sharply through the stillness, followed by another cry—this one of a child. Without a word, Kian kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks, and it bolted toward the noise, Leighton right behind.
They rounded a corner to find a woman on the ground, clutching her shawl to her chest, and two others trying to shield sacks of grain and bundles of wool.
A bandit, whose face was half-hidden beneath a tattered hood, yanked the sack from the woman’s hands and turned to flee.
“Oi!” Kian’s voice boomed like thunder, full of warning. “Drop it, ye filthy bastard!”
The bandit froze for half a heartbeat, then bolted down the alley.
Kian was after him on his horse in a flash.
The world narrowed to that fleeing figure—nothing else mattered. With a burst of energy, Kian lunged from his saddle and tackled the man to the ground.
They went down hard. The thief scrambled, swinging wildly, but Kian was already on top of him, slamming his forearm into the man’s neck and pinning him to the ground.
The bandit thrashed, desperate, but Kian was an immovable mountain, a wall of muscles and fury.
He growled low and drove his fist into the thief’s jaw. The man yelped, his head snapping back, blood spraying from his lip. Another punch—harder this time—left the thief dazed and gasping.
“Ye picked the wrong day,” Kian snarled. “I should gut ye for what ye’ve done.”
The man whimpered, his arms trembling beneath Kian’s iron grip, his eyes wild with fear.
Leighton jogged up behind, his sword drawn, but Kian already had the bandit under control.
