Page 111 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
“Ye’re safe now, bunny,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her damp hair.
“Ye’re bleeding,” she gasped, looking at his side.
“Bleeding?” Marissa echoed. “What’s happened?”
“Och, nothing but a stitch pulled again,” Kian said.
The ride back was silent but for the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the howl of the wind.
Kian cradled Abigail tightly, feeling her shiver despite the warmth of his body. His mind raced with what might have happened had they arrived a moment later.
He didn’t loosen his hold until they passed through the castle gates.
Inside his chamber, he barked at the maids, “A bath, hot as hellfire. Set it by the hearth now.”
The maids scurried to carry out his order, and another brought a decanter of whiskey.
He poured a measure and held it to Abigail’s lips. “Drink this, bunny. Warm yerself from the inside out.”
She sipped, her teeth chattering, her eyes never leaving his.
Finally, when the tub steamed before the hearth and they were left alone, Kian removed her damp layers with care, his fingers moving gently, reverently.
When she stood before him in only her shift, she shuddered.
“I dinnae want ye to see me,” she said.
“I willnae touch ye till our wedding night,” he assured. “I promise.”
“It’s nae that,” she sighed. “I’m nae thin like the other women and?—”
“Shh,” he soothed. “Ye are perfect for me. Yer body is beautiful, and it’s a shame ye cannae see what I see.”
She took a deep breath and lifted her hands in the air, and he pulled the shift over her head. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld her, the firelight painting her skin in gold.
He averted his gaze and guided her into the steaming water.
“There, lass,” he murmured. “Let the warmth chase out the cold.”
She sank down with a sigh, her body relaxing at last.
Kian knelt beside the tub, his hand resting on the rim. Though every inch of him ached to touch her, to claim her, he did not move. His care demanded more than hunger; it demanded honor.
“I’ll wait, bunny,” he said softly. “For as long as it takes. But I’ll be yers, and ye’ll be mine.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“It’s a beautiful day, is it nae?” Abigail noted.
On her wedding day, she noticed that even the morning light that spilled through the tall windows of her bedchamber warmed the pale stone walls.
“Indeed, it is,” Freya said as she brushed her sister’s hair.
Abigail sat in her shift, her heart thudding like a drum, as her sisters fussed over her.
Marissa laid out her wedding gown. “Ye will look like a Highland queen.”
The gown was made of soft wool, cinched at the waist, and flowing into a full skirt that swept the floor. Tiny pearls lined the neckline, delicate as dew on heather.
