Page 70 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
“Over there,” Peyton said, this time more firmly. “Through the trees. There’s a clearing in that direction.”
Kian kicked the mare into a gallop, the world blurring around him, his heart leaping into his throat.
The trees parted suddenly, and he yanked on the reins. He slid off the saddle before the horse had fully stopped.
In the middle of the clearing, Abigail stood surrounded by four armed bandits, her hands tied in front of her, her skirts dirt-smudged and torn.
Her eyes found him instantly, and her voice cracked as she cried out, “Kian!”
The sight of her face, the tears streaking down her cheeks, nearly brought him to his knees. But he didn’t falter.
He drew his sword in one fluid motion, the steel catching the last of the sunlight.
“Let her go,” he barked, his voice low and deadly. “Or I’ll gut the lot of ye where ye stand.”
One of the men, a tall brute with a scar across his brow, stepped forward with a sneer. “We’ve been paid a handsome sum for the lass. What will ye give us to hand her back?”
His companions chuckled darkly behind him, their blades gleaming.
“I’ll give ye a shallow grave and nay name on a stone,” Kian snapped. “That’s what I’ll give ye.”
His boots crunched forward, step by deliberate step, and he angled himself to shield Abigail with his body.
The second man raised an eyebrow. “Ye talk big, lad, but there are four of us and one of ye. Ye think that steel will save her before we slice her throat?”
“Ye touch her, and I’ll make sure ye bleed out slowly,” Kian snarled. “I’ll chop off yer hands, then yer tongue, and then I’ll let the wolves have what’s left.”
Fury pulsed in his blood, hot and wild, but his hand was steady on the hilt of his sword.
“Ye’re mad,” the third bandit muttered, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to another.
“Aye,” Kian said coldly, “mad for her. Mad enough to burn this whole damn forest if I have to.”
He let the words hang in the air like smoke.
The scarred man laughed low. “She’s worth all of that, is she nae? Pretty little thing—but we’ve seen finer.”
He reached out and grabbed Abigail’s arm roughly, pulling her closer.
Kian’s sword was at his throat in a blink. “Let. Her. Go.”
Abigail gasped as the blade kissed the bandit’s skin.
The man froze. The others pointed their weapons, but no one moved. Kian’s stance was pure threat, rage simmering beneath his skin like a fuse ready to snap.
“I’ll ask once more,” he bit out. “Ye can walk away with yer lives if ye let her go now. But if one of ye so much as breathes wrong, I’ll make sure yer maithers willnae recognize what’s left of ye.”
One of the younger bandits—barely a lad—lowered his weapon. “He means it,” he muttered. “I’m nae dyin’ for this. I was promised gold, nae a grave.”
“Coward,” the scarred man spat. But he also hesitated, his grip on Abigail wavering slightly.
Kian’s eye locked onto his, dark and full of fire.
“Three seconds,” he warned. “One… two…”
“Kian!” Abigail screamed when she saw Peyton pull something shiny from beneath her skirts.
Peyton had used the distraction to inch closer to him, but the warning came too late.
