Page 28 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
“That isnae for ye to worry about,” Kian replied curtly.
Peyton held her ground, though her hands were clasped tightly before her. “I thought perhaps I might be of service. In God’s name.”
“Yer services arenae needed,” Kian bit out.
He turned away from her before she could respond and walked toward the gates, his loud booted steps a clear end to the conversation.
Later that day, the hooves of his stallion thudded against the dirt as he rode into the village, Leighton close behind. Smoke curled up from a few low chimneys, but the air felt thin, like thehunger that clung to the bones of the people who watched from doorways.
Thatched roofs sagged under age and neglect, and bare patches marred the once-rich earth.
Kian clenched his jaw as he dismounted, scanning the weary faces that bowed in his presence.
A lanky farmer approached, his tunic stained with soil and sweat, a cap pressed to his chest.
“Laird McKenna,” he greeted with a slight bow. “I ken ye came to collect taxes, but I have nothin’ left to offer ye but prayers and me word that I’ve done all I could.”
Kian stepped forward, his eye narrowing as he took in the man’s calloused hands and sunken cheeks.
“I have three wee bairns and a sick wife. The blight took half me crop, then the rain never came. We tried, but the land turned stubborn as a mule.”
Kian turned his gaze to the thin line of turnips behind the man’s cottage and the few chickens pecking at dry dust. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I can see ye’ve done what ye could, Ian.”
“We’re nae beggars,” Ian added, his voice firm with pride. “If I had the coin, I’d give it gladly.”
Kian looked around again. He remembered a time when this land was full of color, when the villagers waved instead of hiding behind doors.
“Nay taxes will be collected today,” he declared finally. “We’ll find a way to make it work. Ye’ll nae be punished for the drought.”
Ian’s mouth fell open, and tears welled up in his tired eyes. “Truly, Me Laird? Ye mean that?”
Kian nodded once firmly. “Aye. I’ll nae make me people starve just to fill the coffers. Feed yer bairns. We’ll speak of taxes when the fields are green again.”
Ian reached out, hesitated, then dropped to one knee. “Thank ye, Me Laird. The McKenna name will be blessed in this house from this day on.”
Leighton stepped beside Kian, quiet but watchful.
Kian gave the man a brief nod, then turned and mounted his horse, his heart heavy.
“What good is a full vault if it’s built on graves?”
Leighton looked sideways at him. “Spoken like a true laird.”
Kian didn’t answer. The faces of the villagers haunted him as they rode toward the tavern.
The tavern fell silent the moment he stepped through the low wooden door. The smell of peat, spilled ale, and roasted onions hung thick in the air.
Villagers lowered their eyes, their heads dipped in reverence or fear—it was hard to tell the difference these days. Kian’s boots thudded against the stone floor as he crossed the room, Leighton following close behind.
They sat at a worn table near the hearth, where the fire crackled half-heartedly. A moment later, the tavern keeper, a squat, balding man with nervous hands, approached with a tray.
“Me Laird,” he murmured, setting down a wooden plate of soft cheese and crusty bread, along with two pewter cups and a jug of dark wine.
Kian gave a slight nod, and the man scurried off without another word.
“Still cannae tell if they hate us or fear us,” Leighton muttered, tearing off a piece of bread.
“Does it matter?” Kian poured wine into both cups. “As long as they listen.”
