Page 72 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
Her. Abigail. She was the weakness Peyton spoke of, the chink in his armor. And now, he might die for it, because he cared for her. Because he’d come for her.
Her heart twisted in her chest, thudding like a drum of guilt and longing as she watched Kian square off against the bandits.
One charged, his blade raised high, but Kian pivoted quickly despite his wound. The man’s weapon sliced through the air.
With a roar, Kian brought his sword down on the man’s shoulder, sending him to the ground.
“Get him, ye cowards!” Peyton shouted.
“Leave him alone, Peyton!” Abigail begged.
Peyton narrowed her eyes at her.
It was what Abigail wanted—to lure her to her side—because she did not want her to stab Kian again.
Peyton marched toward her, but Abigail’s eyes were fixed on the fight.
Another bandit came at Kian from behind, but he turned in time, slashing low and fast.
His injury slowed him. Abigail could see it in his stance, in the way his knees buckled ever so slightly when he shifted. Yet he moved determinedly, every swing of his sword swift and precise.
“Och, ye will die!” one of the bandits shouted.
He swung his dirk, but Kian blocked it, catching the man’s wrist and twisting it until the weapon clattered to the ground. Hedrove his elbow into the man’s throat, then kicked him back with a snarl.
Abigail looked at Peyton, who now stood nearby, tearing a strip of fabric from the hem of her skirt. Then, she wrapped it around Abigail’s mouth and tied it.
“There, that will shut ye up,” she hissed.
A third man charged at Kian while he was just turning around, hitting his injured side. Abigail gasped when he stumbled, his body curling inward. But he didn’t fall. He spun with brute force and drove his sword into the man’s chest. Blood spurted into the air before the bandit collapsed with a gurgling cry.
The last one hesitated, looking at the fallen bodies of his comrades.
“Do it, ye coward!” Peyton barked.
The man gritted his teeth and swung wildly at Kian’s head.
Kian ducked, then surged up with a powerful thrust of his blade straight through the man’s gut. The bandit choked, his eyes wide, and fell to his knees before toppling over.
Silence fell over the clearing, punctuated by Kian’s ragged breathing. He staggered, pressing a hand to his side, where blood flowed freely. Peyton stood unmoved, her lips curled in disgust.
Abigail could see her clearly now, the glint of satisfaction in her eyes.
“Kian,” she tried to moan through the gag.
He lifted his gaze to her, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his sword.
Peyton clicked her tongue. “Touching, truly. Look at ye, bleedin’ like a gutted pig and still makin’ eyes at her.”
“Ye’ve lost, Peyton,” Kian growled, steadying himself. “Even if I fall, ye’ll never have the lairdship. Ye’ll never lead the clan.”
“Because of her?” Peyton scoffed, pointing a finger at Abigail. “She’s cost ye everything.”
Abigail’s heart clenched as Peyton’s harsh gaze landed on her. Her hands shook, useless and cold, but her eyes locked onto Kian’s, and something fierce burned there—an unspoken vow, defiance even in pain.
“I’d lose it all over again for her,” Kian declared, his voice full of conviction. “Because ye dinnae understand what it means to care for anyone but yerself, Peyton. That’s why ye’ll always lose.”
Peyton sneered, but her eyes flickered. Just for a breath, doubt crept in. Abigail saw it.
