Page 55 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
Kian didn’t answer. He turned back toward the window, his gaze falling on the rolling hills beyond the castle walls. His reflection in the glass was tight-lipped and shadowed.
Had the lass truly affected him so deeply? He had bedded women before, had enjoyed their company, but none had left him feeling raw and half-wild the way Abigail did.
He thought of the way she looked at him—furious, flushed, vulnerable. The way her lips had trembled beneath his.
She should hate him. He’d kidnapped her, used her as a pawn in a dangerous game. But still, something about her undid him.
He frowned.
He couldn’t afford to get closer, not when the time would come to let her go, to hand her back in exchange for food.
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Nay reply has come from the McEwans?” he asked abruptly.
Leighton, who had poured himself a cup of wine, paused mid-sip. “Nay, still nothin’. It’s been longer than expected.”
Kian’s expression darkened. “That’s unusual. Lady McEwan is fiercely protective of her sisters. I’d thought she’d storm through the gates by now.”
“Aye,” Leighton said, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Unless they’re plannin’ somethin’. Maybe marchin’ instead of writin’. It’s possible they’ll declare war.”
Kian shook his head. “Unlikely. That’d put Abigail in danger, and they ken it.” Still, he turned away from the window and crossed the room to the mantelpiece. He lifted his sword, testing its weight in his palm. “Prepare for it anyway. I’ll nae be caught unawares.”
Leighton nodded, some of the mirth fading from his eyes.
There was a long pause, the crackle of the fire the only sound.
“Any news from the scouts?” Kian asked.
Leighton sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Some. We’ve found a few pockets of land touched by rain, but the crops will barely feed half the village.”
Kian’s jaw clenched. “We cannae feed the people on hope. Send the scouts further, to lands untouched, places we’ve yet to settle. There must be fertile soil somewhere we’ve missed.”
“That’ll take time,” Leighton warned. “Months.”
“Then we start now,” Kian insisted, his voice hard. “This is why the alliance with Abigail’s kin matters so much. If we can secure an alliance, protection, our people will survive the winter. We cannae survive on strength alone.”
A heavy silence fell between them again.
Leighton knew better than to press further.
“I’ll send the scouts further,” he said finally.
“Good,” Kian muttered, turning to the desk and the maps that littered its surface. “And send word to the blacksmith. If war’s comin’, we’ll need our blades sharp and ready.”
“Aye, Me Laird.”
Leighton hesitated for a moment, then left the room quietly, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor.
Kian remained still for a long while, staring down at the parchment and ink. But his thoughts weren’t on strategy anymore. They were on Abigail. And the fact that, one way or another, he would have to choose between duty and the woman who now haunted his every waking hour.
He let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw, then narrowed his eye at the movement outside. There, just at the edge of the forest, walked two familiar figures—Abigail and Peyton, side by side.
“What are those two doin’ out there?” he growled.
He turned around abruptly and left the study, the echo of his boots sharp against the stone. His jaw clenched as he made his way down the stairs and out into the crisp morning air.
The edge of the forest was thick. He moved swiftly, his eye scanning the woods until he caught the flash of a blue shawl between the trees. Just as he opened his mouth to shout, a scream pierced the air.
