Page 14 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
Sighing, she walked to the bed and sat on the edge, her skirts bunching around her. Her hands rested in her lap as she stared down at the floor. The silence in the room pressed in on her, and her thoughts wandered—unbidden—back to her sisters.
They would be frantic by now. Marissa, most of all, poor thing. Abigail’s gut twisted as she imagined her sister blaming herself. Marissa had arranged for the carriage, after all.
“Well, at least this isnae a first in me family,” Abigail murmured with a weak smile.
Between the wild chaos that had once ensnared Freya and even older tales of near-disaster, it seemed that danger always followed the women of her family.
Still, Michael had trained them on what to do if ever one of them was taken. He had plans, scouts, and signals. Surely, even now, word was spreading across the Highlands.
Help would come.
She clung to that. But even so, she remembered the sick worry she’d felt when Freya had gone missing, and now she was putting her sisters through the same torment.
A knock at the door startled her out of her thoughts. Before she could rise, the lock turned, and the heavy door creaked open.
Abigail braced herself, expecting the brute himself. Instead, in came a line of maids bearing buckets and a tub.
The young woman at the head bobbed a small curtsy. “Me Lady. I’m Isolde. The Laird bade me to draw ye a hot bath.”
Abigail blinked. “A bath?”
“Aye.” Isolde smiled softly, nodding to the others as they emptied steaming water into the tub near the hearth. “And bring ye clean dresses and a chemise.”
She laid a bundle on the bed with care.
“Well… thank ye, Isolde. I am in need of a bath, as ye can see,” Abigail admitted, brushing mud from her skirts with a grimace.
Her legs ached, her hair was stiff with dust and wind, and the idea of soaking in hot water almost overshadowed her plans of escape.
She had half a mind to try something. Perhaps the bath was a distraction, a lapse in security. But when she glanced over, she saw the silhouette of a guard just outside the door, standing like a statue.
Any plans of escape dissolved like mist.
She bit her tongue and cursed Kian under her breath.
Once the water had been poured and the maids had finished their quiet preparations, Isolde bobbed a final curtsy. “When ye’re done, Me Lady, leave the linens in the basket. The Laird said ye were to be comfortable.”
“Comfortable in captivity. What a strange kindness,” Abigail muttered under her breath. But then she gave the maid a tight nod. “Thank ye.”
The door closed softly behind them, and the click of the lock sounded again.
Alone once more, Abigail stood still for a long moment, torn between fury and fatigue. The warmth of the room was calling to her, steam rising from the tub in curling wisps. The scent of lavender tinged the air.
“I suppose there’s nay harm in washin’ off the worst of the road,” she whispered, and began to strip out of her travel-worn mud-caked clothes.
The warmth of the bath wrapped around her like a cloak the moment she sank in. Her breath hitched at the heat, then released in a sigh as her muscles relaxed. The ache in her shoulders dulled.
Her fingers trailed through the water, and for the first time since she was taken, her thoughts slowed.
It was a strange feeling, being imprisoned in such luxury. She’d been prepared for harsh stone and calloused hands, not hot water and lavender-scented soap. And yet she didn’t trust it for a second.
Her captor might offer comfort, but that didn’t make him less dangerous.
Kian Wright was known across the Highlands. She’d heard the whispers, the stories passed from clan to clan. Ruthless. Merciless. Mad. The one who had slaughtered his uncle and taken the title by force.
Abigail clenched her jaw, splashing water over her arms. She would not be lulled into a false sense of security. No matter how kind the maids were, no matter how warm the water, this was still a cage—one with silk-lined bars.
Still, she couldn’t help the curiosity that stirred in her chest.
