Page 34 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
She wasn’t meek. She wasn’t soft-spoken. She was maddening and defiant and utterly impossible, and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything.
He shook the thoughts out of his head and gritted his teeth.
“If word gets out that the lass is more than a hostage,” Leighton said quietly now, “ye’ll lose leverage with her sisters.”
“I ken that,” Kian snapped. “Which is why I willnae hear talk like this. Keep yer mouth shut.”
Leighton raised his hands in surrender.
They reached the doors to the council chamber, where two guards stood to attention. Kian nodded once, and they opened the doors.
“I’m in control,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
As they stepped inside, the room fell into silence.
A long table spanned the length of the chamber, surrounded by men of varying ages and status, including Paul. Scrolls were unrolled, inkpots filled, and frowns etched on every brow.
Kian took his seat at the head of the table. He was Laird McKenna—leader, warrior, and protector. For now, that had to matter more than the girl with fire in her soul and a kiss that still haunted him.
He pushed it all aside to start the meeting, listening to reports of tenant farmers having bad harvests—all things he had heard before. But a decision had to be made.
“From now on, we will ration the food. We will nay longer eat our fill at supper. Let that be the new plan,” he announced.
“Aye, Me Laird. I will go to the kitchens meself to deliver the message,” Paul said.
The meeting was then adjourned.
Kian looked at Leighton. “Follow me to the cellars.”
“Aye,” Leighton said, falling into step behind him.
They walked out of the room, turned and closed the door behind them. They continued down the corridor and took a right turn. Then Kian descended the narrow stairs, his boots thudding heavily against the damp stone steps. The air thickened with the scent of salt, old wood, and cured meats as they entered. Rows of shelves lined the walls, stacked with dried grains, smoked fish, wheels of hard cheese, and hanging bouquets of herbs. Barrels of oat, salt, and ale stood against the back wall, but they were not enough to see them through winter.
Leighton followed behind him, his face grim. “The barley’s nearly gone, and the root cellars in the village are nearly empty. It hasnae rained in a while, and the river’s sunk low. We cannae keep feedin’ everyone through the winter like this.”
Kian paced slowly between the barrels, running a hand over a dusty lid. The stores looked fuller from a distance, but up close, the truth was stark—too many half-empty containers, too many mouths to feed.
He exhaled hard, his jaw tightening. “If the McEwans or Reids dinnae come through soon, we’ll nae just be fightin’ enemies—we’ll be fightin’ our people.”
“Aye,” Leighton said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Desperate folk do foolish things.”
Kian turned to face him, his gaze dark. “This plan has to work.”
He left the chill of the cellars behind, striding through the halls with purpose. His mind was tangled in the worsening state of things.
When he reached his study, he threw open the heavy door and barked at a nearby guard, “Fetch the messenger. Now.”
The hearth crackled low in the corner as he paced the room, the scent of smoke clinging to the air. His desk sat covered in scrolls, maps, and ledgers.
The longer the Reids and McEwans remained silent, the more restless he grew. He poured a finger of whisky and downed it in one gulp, still pacing.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and a young man entered, out of breath and red-cheeked.
“Me Laird,” Gavin said with a bow. “Ye called for me?”
Kian turned around, his gaze sharp. “I did. Tell me, were the messages delivered?”
“Aye, Me Laird,” Gavin replied, standing straight. “I delivered both with me own hands. The guards at the gates received them.”
