Page 59 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
The woman dipped her head again, tears in her eyes.
Abigail’s throat tightened as she watched. The way he carried himself, receiving their gratitude without basking in it… it wasn’t what she had expected.
At the castle, the servants treated him like a beast to avoid. But here, among the villagers, he was entirely different.
A young lad approached with a bundle of sticks strapped to his back. “Me Laird, the roof of our cottage is sagging. Ma says if the wind blows wrong, we’ll be sleepin’ under stars.”
Kian reached down and ruffled his hair. “Tell yer da I’ll send a man to help fix it. Ye’ll nae sleep in the cold this winter.”
The lad grinned and took off running, shouting the news.
Abigail’s heart ached. She felt foolish now, remembering how she’d judged Kian based on the servants’ whispers.
Here was a man whose people loved him, not out of fear but loyalty. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.
He finally turned to her. “Come,” he said quietly. “There’s more to see.”
She followed him through the village.
Smoke and peat hung heavy in the air, but the villagers’ spirits seemed to have improved by Kian’s presence.
They bowed their heads as he passed, children darting between their legs to steal glances at him. Kian said little, offering only nods or a kind word now and then.
They stopped near a well where a group of women were drawing water. One of them—middle-aged, her sleeves rolled to her elbows—called out, “Me Laird, we’ll be havin’ that gathering ye promised? The one for sharin’ seeds?”
“Aye,” Kian answered, crossing his arms.
“Aye, Me Laird!” the women chorused, all smiles.
Abigail stood beside him, trying to come to terms with this side of him. She saw no cruelty here. No dark shadow of the brute she had painted in her mind. There was still a hardness about him, but perhaps that steel was forged in duty, not malice.
“They all care for ye,” she noted quietly. “These people.”
Kian grunted but didn’t answer.
“Back at the castle, the maids willnae even look ye in the eye,” she went on. “But here—here, they call ye ‘Laird McKenna’ like it means something.”
Kian stopped and glanced over his shoulder at her. “The castle’s a place of rules. This”—he nodded toward the village behind them—“this is the heart of it. What they think matters more.”
Abigail didn’t reply. Her chest felt tight, but not unpleasantly so. She turned her gaze toward the cottages to see the smoke curling up gently and hear the laughter of children on the wind.
Perhaps she had misjudged more than just the man. Perhaps she had misunderstood what it meant to lead, to carry weight on one’s shoulders that others never saw.
Kian was no monster.
And suddenly, that terrified her more than anything.
They continued on their ride and then slowed down as they reached the far edge of the village. Rolling fields spread out before them. Only, they weren’t rolling with green or gold. Instead, dry, cracked earth stretched in jagged lines, brittle as parchment beneath the wind.
Abigail stiffened, her brow creasing in confusion and alarm.
Kian slid down behind her, helping her dismount before turning to face the fields with a grimace. She slowly stepped forward, the hem of her gown brushing the brittle soil.
“What happened here?” she asked, her voice soft with disbelief. “This land looks… dead.”
Kian didn’t look at her as he answered. “The skies dried up, and the rain fled from us. Our crops withered before we could harvest. The heat and wind took what was left.” He gestured toward the empty fields. “And this village isnae the only one.”
Abigail wrapped her shawl tightly around her.
