Page 108 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
She did not know how long she had walked before her ankle turned sharply on a hidden stone. She cried out as her body pitched forward. She hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of her. Mud smeared across her palms and knees.
She sat up slowly, pain splintering across her ankle like fire. Gritting her teeth, she tried to stand up, but her foot gave way beneath her. A sob escaped before she could catch it.
She was alone, injured, far from the castle, which was now hidden behind the ridges.
She dragged herself forward a few paces, wincing.
“Kian.” The name tumbled past her lips before she could stop it. “Kian…”
Her voice cracked, and for a moment, she hated herself for calling out his name. Her heart ached so deeply that she could hardly breathe. Her fingers curled into the grass as tears pricked her eyes.
“Please,” she whispered. “Dinnae marry her. Dinnae leave me.”
But the wind carried her words away, and no one answered.
Her limbs trembled with exhaustion and cold. The tea had long since worn off, and she hadn’t eaten. Her cloak no longer warmed her.
She crawled beneath a gorse bush and curled into herself, trying to stay awake.
She thought of Kian’s arms around her, his voice low and rough, saying her name like it meant something. She had given him everything—her trust, her heart, her soul.
And now he would marry another.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Abigail?” Kian stepped into his bedchamber.
The room was empty. He frowned, glancing around as if she might emerge from the shadows.
He supposed she’d gone off with her sisters, or perhaps needed space after the tension that lingered between them. He couldn’t blame her, not after the day they’d had.
The riders were rested and fed, and the messenger was treated with as much courtesy as Kian could offer. But it was a treacherous game; one misstep could cost more than bruised pride.
He turned and made his way toward the healer’s chambers.
Helena stood near the window, tying bundles of herbs in practiced motions. She looked up as he entered, her eyebrows rising as she took in the weariness on his features.
“Ye look like death walked over ye, Me Laird,” she said dryly.
“I feel nay worse than usual,” Kian replied, lowering himself onto the bench near the hearth. “Is Abigail here?”
Helena shook her head and crossed the room to him, reaching for the bandages on his side. “Nay. She left nae long ago. We had tea.” She muttered under her breath, tugging at the linen. “Now, hold still. This will sting.”
He hissed as she removed the bandages and inspected the angry wound beneath.
“What happened?” she demanded. “It looks worse than before. What foolish thing did ye do?”
“Only dealt with Peyton,” Kian grunted. “There was a bit of strain, maybe.”
“A bit?” Helena shot him a sharp look. “The stitches tore, ye great ox.”
“Can ye fix it?” he asked.
“Aye, I can fix it. The question is, will ye let it heal properly after I do?” she scoffed, already threading a needle. “Ye ken ye shouldnae be strainin’ yerself.”
“A laird cannae wait for his wounds to heal,” Kian muttered.
Helena heaved a long-suffering sigh and pressed the needle into his skin with swift efficiency.
