Page 79 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
The candlelight flickered, shadows dancing across the walls as if echoing the turmoil in her heart.
I cannae lose ye, and now me sister is our only salvation. But will she come? Will she forgive ye?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The night dragged on, endless and cruel, pressing down on her like a stormy sky. She sat by Kian, her eyes fixed on his chest, watching it rise and fall. Every creak of the timber overhead made her flinch, thinking perhaps it was Leighton returning—or worse, not returning at all.
Since Kian had abducted her, her world had tilted on its axis. At first, she had raged and cursed him for his boldness, his arrogance. She had plotted her escape, had even come close to striking him. But somehow, over the days that followed, she had gotten to know the man behind the eyepatch.
She had seen the way he spoke with his men, not as a tyrant but as a brother. She had seen him give bread to the starving villagers. And when danger crept close, he had thrown himself in its path to shield her without a second thought.
It was in those moments, those fleeting heartbeats of kindness and courage, that her heart had betrayed her.
The door creaked open, and Helena entered bearing a tray. The scent of stew wafted in first, rich and earthy, followed by the soft tang of cheese and warm bread. She gently set the tray on the table, her face contorted with worry.
“Ye must eat, lass,” she urged softly. “Or else ye’ll make yerself sick. Ye’ve been through a lot. Dragged to the woods, knocked unconscious. Yer body has taken a beating.”
Abigail barely turned her head. “I havenae the stomach for it.”
Helena folded her arms, frowning. “Fastin’ willnae keep him alive, Abigail. Ye need yer strength if ye mean to stay by his side.”
Abigail’s eyes welled with tears, but she blinked them back fast. “I cannae stop wonderin’ what Freya would do when Leighton shows up with that letter. She might slam the door in his face. Worse, what if she thinks it’s a trap? What if she doesnae believe him?”
Helena moved closer and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What’s done is done. It’s out of our hands now. Worryin’ willnae change a thing.”
Abigail stood up and walked to the narrow window, her movements stiff. Outside, the sky was a deep indigo, the stars fading slowly.
“The sun will rise in two hours,” she whispered. “The poison’s been in his blood for too long. It might be too late.”
Helena stepped up to her. “If only I kenned what kind of poison it was… I might be able to make an antidote.”
Abigail froze, her breath catching in her throat. Realization struck like a thunderclap. She spun around, her eyes wide.
“Of course!” she gasped. “That’s the answer, Helena. Stay with him. Dinnae leave his side!”
“Abigail!” Helena called after her. “Where are ye goin’?”
But Abigail was already at the door, the hem of her skirt catching on a nail as she tore down the corridor. Her boots clicked loudly on the cold stone.
She flew past closed doors and unlit torches, her heart pounding like a war drum. Down the spiral staircase she rushed, deeper into the belly of the keep, where the air was damp and foul.
Blind with fury and desperation, she cursed herself.
How did I nae think of it sooner? There’s one person here who kens what kind of poison coated that blade. The one person who has everything to gain from Kian’s death. The one who had plunged the dagger into his side. Peyton.
The air in the dungeons reeked of rot and mildew. A lone torch flickered on the wall, casting long shadows down the corridor. The guard on duty stood up as she approached, startled by hersudden appearance. But one look at her face—wild, determined—was enough for him to fumble with his keys.
“Unlock it,” she commanded, her voice like flint.
“I am nae to let anyone inside,” he said.
“Ye willnae release the prisoner, only let me speak with her. She is the cursed wench who poisoned yer Laird. I must find out what she used. If he finds out that ye kept me from seekin’ the answer, ye ken he will make ye pay for it,” she said slowly, her eyes narrowed.
The guard hesitated only for a second before obeying.
The door to the long corridor of cells creaked open. Abigail gathered her courage and walked down to the end, where Peyton sat behind iron bars.
She was huddled on a bench, her dress torn, her hair a tangled mess, but her eyes still gleamed with defiance. She looked up as Abigail approached, her lips curling into a sneer.
