Page 58 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
Kian reached up to help her down, but she dismounted on her own, smoothing down her skirts.
“I thought ye’d like this better than a prison,” he said, watching her closely.
She nodded, still looking around. “It is quiet.” Her tone had lost its bite, at least for the moment.
They stood there, neither moving nor speaking, until the breeze shifted and stirred her hair again.
Kian couldn’t look away from her—from the way the sun kissed her face, the way her lashes lowered when she glanced at the stream. He crossed his arms and tore his gaze away.
“I didnae mean to snap when the horse came at ye,” he said suddenly. “But when I saw it…”
“I understand,” she murmured. “I was scared, too.”
He nodded once, but didn’t say more.
The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with things he could not say, things too dangerous to speak yet.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Abigail sat stiffly in the saddle, the coarse wool of Kian’s plaid brushing her back as he rode behind her. His arm rested firmly across her waist, holding the reins with one hand and steadying her with the other.
The warmth of his body seeped into her, and every time the horse shifted, she felt it—strong, immovable, and far too solid for her peace of mind. Her breath hitched, but she said nothing.
They were riding toward the village—one of the ones hardest hit by the famine, or so Kian had said. The journey had been quiet, save for the clip-clop of hooves and the occasional murmured instruction.
Kian didn’t talk much, but his presence spoke volumes, especially when his thumb brushed her side every time he adjusted the reins. She wasn’t sure if he noticed, but her stomach tightened each time.
As they crested a hill, she saw the village nestled below; it was small and quiet, the roofs old and sagging, smoke curling up from a few chimneys. Chickens scattered as they approached, and a dog barked somewhere in the distance.
The place looked sad, weary, as though it had survived something terrible and was still holding on. Abigail swallowed thickly, feeling unease twist in her gut.
They passed a crooked wooden sign that marked the village border, and almost at once, heads began to turn. A boy dropped a pail of water, his eyes wide, and an older man shouted something unintelligible before hobbling toward them.
“The Laird’s here!” the cry rang out, high-pitched and thrilled.
Abigail flinched as people poured through cracked doors and leaned over fences, their eyes wide and their faces hopeful. She couldn’t believe the sudden flood of warm greetings.
“Laird McKenna!” the villagers cried, their voices full of something she hadn’t expected—gratitude.
Kian didn’t smile, didn’t speak right away, just inclined his head as the villagers closed in on them. They didn’t shrink from him, didn’t avoid his gaze the way the servants did.
A pair of small children, barefoot and covered in dust, ran forward. Each clutched a wildflower, tiny and bruised, but they offered them with reverence.
“For ye, Me Laird,” they said in trembling voices.
Kian accepted the flowers with a curt nod and tucked them into his saddlebag.
Abigail blinked, caught off guard by the gesture.
The children beamed up at him, clearly expecting nothing in return. She watched Kian’s jaw flex, and though his expression stayed grim, there was a softness in the way he nodded again before turning his gaze back to the crowd.
Something inside her shifted.
Then, a woman stepped forward, her belly swollen with child, her hands red and raw from hard labor.
She curtsied, breathing heavily, and offered a smile. “Laird McKenna, bless ye. If it hadnae been for the grain ye sent, we’d all have starved.”
Kian looked at her for a moment, then nodded once. “It was me duty. A laird does what’s right for his people,” he said gruffly.
