Page 57 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
He stormed through the corridors like a bull released from the pen. His boots thundered against the stone floor as he searched for Helena. When he found her speaking with one of the maids, he didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“The lass fell,” he said gruffly. “See to her.”
Helena’s eyes widened, before she grabbed her satchel and rushed off.
Kian didn’t wait to see her go. He turned and headed to the nearest hall, his hands clenched at his sides, his breath coming fast. His mood was black as pitch and only growing worse.
He ended up in the small storage room off the study, where he kept his private stash of whiskey. With shaking hands, he poured a heavy dram and tossed it back in one swallow. It burned down his throat, but it didn’t extinguish the fire in his chest. He poured another dram, then another, until the bottle was near empty.
The warmth dulled the edge of his rage, but it brought no peace. He slumped into the nearest chair, glaring at the hearth even though no fire burned.
His mind played the scene in the forest over and over—Abigail’s startled eyes, her flushed cheeks, the way she fit in his arms like she belonged there.
“Damn me,” he muttered.
Eventually, his head lolled back, and sleep took him like a hammer.
The whiskey did its work, and he slept hard, his fingers twitching with dreams he’d never speak aloud.
When morning came with a throb in his skull and the sour taste of regret, he dragged himself up and ran a hand down his face.
He stood up, his limbs heavy but his mind clearer. He knew where he had to go.
Abigail had every right to be angry—he’d handled her like a sack of grain, barking orders like she was one of his warriors. But she wasn’t. She was fire and softness and pride wrapped in stubborn flesh.
He went to her chambers and knocked once, then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. She sat near the window, wrapped in one of Helena’s spare shawls, her hairhanging loose over her shoulders. Her eyes snapped to him immediately, and he could feel the heat of her glare even from the doorway.
He stepped inside. “I’ve come to see how ye’re faring,” he said in a low voice.
Abigail stood up. “I am fine. But ye cannae keep manhandlin’ me and expect me to stay quiet about it. I need air—space to breathe, Kian.”
He clenched his jaw, then exhaled slowly. “Aye. Ye’ll get air, but nae in the forest. Come with me.”
She crossed her arms but didn’t protest as she followed him through the halls. He didn’t speak as they made their way out into the front courtyard. The sun was bright, but the wind ruffled the grass around them.
Kian gave a sharp whistle. One of the stablehands came running, and Kian took the reins of a large chestnut mare.
He walked the beast to Abigail and paused, his eye raking over her. “Up ye go.”
When she hesitated, he grunted and reached for her waist. She yelped, but before she could argue, he had her lifted in one smooth motion and deposited on the saddle.
His hands lingered for a moment on her hips, his fingers curling around her curves.
She looked down at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. “Ye really need to stop throwin’ me about like I weigh nothin’.”
His gaze met hers, heat simmering just beneath the surface. “Ye weigh nothin’, lass.”
He turned quickly, his jaw tight, and mounted behind her.
They cantered out of the bailey, the wind tossing Abigail’s hair. Kian kept his gaze ahead, trying not to think about the way her skirts fluttered or how good her body felt in his hands.
It was dangerous, his hunger. And worse still, it had nothing to do with alliances or plans.
He led them down the winding path past the lower fields, toward a quiet glen tucked between two hills. The trees thinned out here, the land softer and sun-drenched, the wind quieter. Wildflowers were scattered in the tall grass, and a small stream bubbled over stones.
He drew his horse to a halt and dismounted.
Abigail looked around, surprise softening her expression. “This is… beautiful.”
