Page 94 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
“Love makes ye vulnerable, aye, but it makes ye dangerous, too,” Freya continued, her tone fierce. “When two hearts beat for each other, they dinnae make each other weak. They make each otherwhole.”
Abigail’s breath caught, her sister’s words piercing her doubts like sunlight through mist.
“Ye think I’d let me sister marry a man if I thought she’d weaken him?” Freya arched an eyebrow. “Nay. I’ve watched him look at ye, Abigail. He’d burn down the whole world if it threatened ye, and ye’d do the same for him. That nae only makes ye strong as man and wife, but as leaders of a clan.”
Abigail let out a slow breath and looked toward the flowers again, letting the words sink in. “I care for him so much that it hurts. And maybe that’s what scares me.”
Freya took her hand and squeezed it tightly. “That hurt is the proof that it matters.”
Amara nodded in agreement, a smile still on her lips. “Ye’ll nae be his weakness in marriage, Abigail. Ye’ll be his rock.”
Abigail looked between the two of them, the knot in her chest loosening just a little. “Then I’ll learn to stop fearing it… and start embracing it.”
The breeze picked up again, rustling the leaves around them.
Abigail closed her eyes for a moment. She imagined Kian’s voice, his hands, his steady presence, and the storm within her began to quiet. She opened her eyes, her mind clearer now.
Love willnae be his downfall. It will be his strength.
Later that day, she led her sister and the others to the nearest village. Behind her rode Michael, Cody, and Amara.
“Thank ye for riding with me, Sister.” She glanced sideways at Freya.
“I think it was needed,” Freya said.
Abigail slowed her mount as they reached the first thatch-roofed hut. A girl peeked from the doorway, her face hollow, her eyes wide with a silent plea. Smoke did not curl up from most chimneys.
“I wanted ye to see it with yer own eyes,” Abigail continued, turning in the saddle to face Michael. “Nae just stories exchanged among councilmen. These folks are on the edge of starvation.”
Michael’s jaw tightened as he took in the scene. “I didnae think it was this bad.” His gaze landed on an old man limping toward a well with an empty bucket. “Nay one should live like this.”
Freya dismounted beside her, watching as a woman doled out scraps of barley bread to her children.
“God above,” she whispered, her hands clenched. “They’re rationin’ food like men in a siege.”
Amara moved forward. “There’s barely a harvest to speak of. How long have they lived like this, Abigail?”
“Since late summer,” Abigail replied. “They didnae complain right away. Shame, pride—ye ken how it goes. There was hope of late summer rain to salvage whatever they could, but it never came.”
Michael’s hand curled into a fist as he watched another family carry water from a cracked well. He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. “What made ye bring us down here, lass? Kian’s still mendin’, and ye’ve had yer hands full.”
“Because someone had to,” Abigail answered firmly. “They’ve been forgotten. And I needed ye to see it with yer own eyes, nae through scrolls or ledgers.”
Michael nodded slowly, his eyes scanning the lean faces around them. “I see it. Terrible thing, it is.”
A barefoot girl tugged at Abigail’s skirt, offering her a wilted flower with both hands. Abigail knelt, accepting it with a gentle smile. “Thank ye, sweet one.”
The girl beamed before scampering off to her home.
Abigail rose and turned back to Michael, the weight of her resolve settling in her chest. “They need more than bread and seed. They need hope—something that will last till the next planting season and harvest.”
Freya looked around the square, her voice trembling. “They’ve been sufferin’ in silence. But now we ken, and we cannae look away.”
“Nay,” Abigail agreed. “We cannae.”
“Lead us to the fields, then,” Michael said.
“This way.” Abigail mounted her horse, and the others followed her to the outskirts of the village.
