Page 61 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
He offered his hand to help her back onto the horse. She took it, warm and rough in her own. As he swung up behind her, his hand lingered a moment longer on her waist.
She didn’t pull away.
The ride back to the castle was quiet, though Abigail was far from calm. She could feel his arm around her waist, steady and strong, but his silence weighed heavier than his hold.
Her thoughts churned, looping between what he had confessed and the way he looked at her, like he wanted her but didn’t dare tell her.
His words are true, I ken that much. But I dinnae ken what he thinks of me now. Am I still only a means to an end, or am I something more?
The steady rhythm of the horse beneath them did little to calm the storm inside her.
As they passed through the castle gates, Abigail kept her gaze ahead, trying not to lean into him. But it was impossible to ignore the heat of his body or the faint scent of leather that clung to him. It made her stomach twist in ways she didn’t understand.
He helped her down from the saddle.
“I’ll escort ye to yer rooms,” he rumbled.
For once, Abigail did not protest. She turned toward the front doors, happy that he was following her.
When they finally reached the corridor leading to her chambers, she half wished their walk would stretch on just a bit longer.
They stopped at her door.
“Rest well,” he said, his voice rough. He stood tall, his arms folded, like he was guarding something deep inside. “Ye’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
She hesitated at the threshold, her hand resting on the handle. “Ye should rest, too,” she replied softly. “Ye carry too much on yer shoulders. I see it.”
His gaze met hers, and for a moment, the air between them crackled.
Abigail’s breath caught as yearning rose in her chest. Part of her begged him to lean in—to kiss her again, to chase away the doubt and confusion that clouded her mind. But after a long moment, he blinked, turned on his heel, and walked away without another word.
Abigail let out a slow, trembling breath and stepped into her room. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it.
The silence in her chambers was deafening. And though she had longed for space from him, now that she had it, she only felt the ache of his absence.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Abigail walked slowly, the stone floor cold beneath her bare feet, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
The castle slept under a blanket of silence, broken only by the occasional creak of wood and the whisper of wind through the narrow slits in the late night. Shadows twisted along the walls, where dim torches sputtered, their flames flickering in protest against the damp. The corridors, so grand in daylight, now felt cavernous and lonely.
She passed empty rooms with doors left ajar, each one darker than the last, until a faint light caught her eye. It spilled into the hallway from a chamber ahead, a warm glow that seemed oddly alive in the stillness.
“Who could be awake at this hour?” she whispered to herself.
Curiosity tugged at her feet, and she crept forward until she reached the door. Inside, Kian sat by the hearth, a book in hislap, the firelight dancing across the hard lines of his face and the leather patch over his left eye.
“Why are ye awake?” he asked, without lifting his head.
She stepped inside, flustered.
“I couldnae sleep,” she admitted.
“Why is that, lass?” he asked, finally looking up at her.
“I was thinkin’ about how I was almost trampled by that horse.” Her voice faltered under the weight of his stare—dark, unreadable, piercing.
Kian closed the book and leaned back slightly.
