Page 100 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
“Enjoy yer happiness while ye can, lass.”
Abigail gasped and jumped out of bed. There, standing in the doorway like a ghost risen from the grave, was Peyton. Her hair was loose and wild, and in her hand gleamed the unmistakable curve of a blade.
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat.
“Peyton?” she whispered. “How did ye get out of the dungeons?”
Peyton stepped inside, the tip of her blade dragging lightly across the floor. “Och, it was far easier than ye’d think. I said prayers with the guard every day. Pretended I was still a woman of God.”
Her voice was sweet, but her eyes were icy.
“He believed me. Held me hand like a fool. I told him how Kian wronged me… how he wrongfully took me da’s life.”
Abigail’s mouth went dry, her eyes darting to the table by the window, where a pitcher sat. Her mind scrambled to make a plan—any plan. She rose slowly, keeping her hands in front of her.
Peyton took a step closer, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her sword. “Kian killed him, aye, but nae before me da took his eye. That wound still bleeds in me dreams. And yet it wasnae enough.”
“I… I see,” Abigail said gently, inching toward the pitcher. “Ye’ve suffered. I can feel it in yer words.”
Peyton sneered. “Dinnae pretend to understand me. Ye love him. Ye sleep in comfort while I rot.”
“Ye have me wrong,” Abigail insisted. “I’m nae his ally. I’ve been a prisoner since the moment I arrived.” She forced a soft, bitter laugh. “I ken what it means to be trapped.”
Peyton tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Then why smile in the corridor? Why sing, if yer heart’s chained?”
“Because I’ve learned to hide me fear behind a smile. It’s what keeps the men from thinkin’ I’m weak.” Abigail’s voice cracked slightly. “I’ve pretended for so long, I can barely tell what’s real anymore.”
The words weren’t all lies.
Peyton paused. “Ye say that, but he touches ye like ye belong to him.”
“I didnae ask for his touch,” Abigail said quickly. “But when a man like Kian claims something, do ye think a woman like me can refuse?”
Peyton studied her, the sword no less deadly in her grip, but her eyes flickered with doubt, or maybe curiosity. “Then ye dinnae love him?”
Abigail shook her head slowly. “I dinnae ken what love is anymore. Me life’s been lies and locked doors.” She let her shoulders sag. “I thought maybe… maybe ye could tell me the truth. What happened between yer da and Kian?”
Peyton took a few steps forward, lowering her blade ever so slightly. “Me da was a cruel man, aye, but he was still me da. Kian killed him like a beast and gave him nay chance to plead for his life. And I swore right then and there that I’d end Kian Wright.”
Abigail’s heart thundered beneath her ribs, but her voice remained steady as she moved a step closer to the table. The pitcher sat just out of her reach, glinting in the soft light from the hearth. She kept her eyes on Peyton, watching the woman’s trembling fingers tighten around the hilt of her sword. There was madness in her eyes, but also pain—raw, deep, and festering.
“Ye must be tired, lass,” she soothed. “Let me pour ye a drink, aye? There’s nay need to raise swords tonight. Ye’re right. I have questions about Kian. Perhaps we can speak, woman to woman.”
Peyton’s brow creased. She took a cautious step forward, though her grip did not loosen on her sword.
“Ye lie well, Abigail. But I’ve heard tales of yer loyalty to him. How ye ride at his side like some Highland queen. Do ye truly expect me to believe ye care for what I’ve lost?”
Abigail shook her head slowly, her voice trembling now with just enough emotion to seem honest. “I didnae ken the truth till recently. I didnae ken what Kian did to yer faither. And I still dinnae ken everythin’, Peyton, but I ken this—revenge has eaten away at ye, same as confusion’s been eatin’ at me.”
Peyton hesitated, her lips twitching. “I prayed with that guard every night. I fed him lies like honey, and he lapped them up like a starved hound. I told him that justice required me freedom, and he believed me.”
“That says more about yer pain than yer wickedness,” Abigail said gently, now just a pace away from the pitcher. “Ye lost yer da. I cannae imagine that grief, Peyton. But takin’ Kian’s life willnae bring him back. It’ll only curse ye worse than before.”
Peyton’s jaw clenched, her sword lowering just slightly as uncertainty flashed across her face.
“I thought I’d come here screamin’, drivin’ steel through flesh. But I see ye standin’ there, soft-eyed and calm as water, and I wonder if I’m mad. Or if the world is.”
Abigail dared another step, her hand brushing the handle of the pitcher now. “Maybe it’s both. But madness doesnae need to win. Sit down, Peyton. Talk with me. If justice is to be served, we must first understand each other.”
