Page 20 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
He shouldn’t have mentioned her sisters, not like that. The way she’d looked at him afterward, wounded and guarded, had tugged at his chest.
Does she think I desire Freya or Marissa? Does she think she is the lesser one, the afterthought?
His brow creased. That wasn’t it at all. If anything, Abigail was the one who made his blood heat up with each glance, the onewho provoked his temper and something darker—something more dangerous.
He looked up again.
She sat there reading, her lips parted slightly in concentration. Her cheeks were flushed, likely from fury, and her eyes trailed steadily across the page.
The firelight danced across her face, casting a golden glow over her skin and catching in her warm brown hair. His eye wandered, tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, her ample breasts that seemed to spill out of her dress.
Desire crept in, low and hot in his gut.
He stood up abruptly and strode to the sideboard to pour himself a generous glass of whiskey. He downed it in one gulp, hoping the burn would scorch away the thoughts bouncing around in his head.
But it didn’t. It only made him thirst for something far more dangerous than fire and drink. And she was sitting right across the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Enter.” Kian didn’t even glance up from his desk when a knock sounded at the study door, sharp and loud.
The door creaked open, and in swept a tall woman with gleaming hair and a grace Abigail could never match. The stranger’s gown was made of fine wool dyed a deep green, and her every movement seemed deliberate, confident.
Abigail’s stomach twisted the moment she smiled at Kian. It wasn’t just a polite smile—it was warm, familiar, the kind that spoke of shared memories and private jokes.
The lass didn’t bow or curtsy, but went straight to Kian like she had every right to.
Abigail’s eyes narrowed; she couldn’t help herself.
Is she his mistress?
Abigail looked between them, noting how Kian didn’t bristle or bark the way he did with everyone else. His voice softened as he greeted the woman.
“Good day to ye, Helena.”
That simple greeting was all it took for jealousy to spark in Abigail’s chest. The feeling startled her.
He isnae yers, ye fool. Dinnae be a daft cow. Ye cannae be feelin’ things for the brute who kidnapped ye!
She tore her eyes away from Helena and Kian and focused back on the book he’d tossed her earlier. Anything to force her mind elsewhere.
The book had surprised her when she had first opened it an hour ago. It was about Clan McKenna’s customs and traditions, filled with stories and ancient rites. She skimmed a passage about the ancient Beltane fires and the role of lairds in overseeing the ceremony. Another section detailed the old ways of securing alliances—with feasts, gifts, and in rare cases, marriage.
Her brow creased.
Why give this to me?
Slowly, she got lost in the words, the scent of old parchment and ink grounding her. She was engrossed in the lineage of lairds,the shifts in alliances, and the McKennas’ long-held reputation for ferocity and cunning.
The book painted a richer picture of the clan than she’d expected—less barbaric, more desperate for survival in a harsh land. But as she tried to focus on the words, voices murmured across from her.
It wasn’t until the book mentioned the rare tradition of a laird claiming a guest under the ‘Ancient Shelter Rite’ that her breath hitched.
Her fingers froze on the page.
Is that what Kian intends to do?
She didn’t dare look up. She didn’t want to see Helena’s hands on him or his dark eye fixed on anyone but her. So she kept reading. And yet the words started swimming before her, her thoughts a storm.
