Page 37 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
Abigail hesitated, pressing her lips together. She wasn’t ready to voice the truth, not even to herself.
“Never mind. I suppose I’m just tired of feelin’ like a pawn on someone else’s board.”
Helena reached over and touched her hand gently. “Ye’re nae a pawn, Abigail. Ye’ve got fire in ye. I can see it.”
Abigail gave her a grateful look but said nothing, the ache in her chest too raw for words.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was soft, comfortable, like a balm on a bruise. Helena didn’t pry, nor did she offer more false reassurances.
After a moment, she straightened. “Would ye like to go on a walk with me later? The gardens havenae bloomed, but the air does wonders.”
Abigail considered it, then nodded. “Aye, I’d like that.”
Helena smiled and stood up. “I’ll come back for ye after midday, then. I have some tinctures to make before then. Try nae to let this castle swallow ye whole in the meantime.”
As the healer left the room, Abigail picked up her book again. But this time, she didn’t open it. Her gaze remained on the door, her thoughts spinning.
Why did it hurt so much to hear that Kian meant to use her? Why did it matter, when she’d known it from the beginning?
The answer was simple, though she refused to speak it aloud.
Because a part of her—a foolish, stubborn part—wished she mattered to him more than her bloodline.
I already ken why I was taken, so why do I feel hurt that he doesnae care for me?
The hours slipped by slowly as she sat by the hearth, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Her thoughts drifted to home—to Freya’s laughter, Marissa’s gentle teasing. A lump formed in her throat as the silence of the castle pressed around her like a second skin.
A knock pulled her out of her thoughts.
“Come in,” she called, her voice quieter than she had intended.
The door creaked open, and Helena stepped back in, her braid swinging over her shoulder and a smile tugging at her lips.
“Ye still up for a walk, Abigail? The air is cool, and I ken it’ll do ye good.”
Abigail stood up, brushing her hands down her skirts. “Am I even allowed?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “So far, I’ve only been to the Laird’s study and the Great Hall. I dinnae think I have the permission to roam.”
Helena scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Och, who cares? If anyone questions it, they can come speak to me. I’ve got enough spine for both of us.”
Abigail smiled despite herself. “Well, if we’re defyin’ orders, I suppose I had better prepare.”
“Aye, wear somethin’ warm, though,” Helena advised, looking her over. “The wind bites worse than a jealous lass. Best take a shawl.”
Abigail faltered. “This is all I’ve got. I was never given anything warmer.”
Helena’s face fell, her eyebrows drawing together. “That’s unacceptable,” she huffed. “Come with me, lass. We’ll get ye sorted out.”
She turned on her heel, and Abigail followed, surprised by the fire in the woman’s strides.
They moved through the corridor, passing a few servants who bowed their heads as Helena walked by, clearly used to her presence. Abigail kept her head down, still feeling more like a prisoner than a guest.
Helena opened the door to her chambers and beckoned Abigail in. The room smelled of herbs and firewood, lined with shelves laden with jars and neatly folded cloth. Over a nearby chair hung a few thick shawls, woven in deep greens and soft greys.
“Here,” Helena said, picking out two. “This one’s made of wool, and this one’s lined with rabbit fur. Take both. Ye’ll nae freeze under me watch.”
Abigail’s hands trembled slightly as she accepted them. “Thank ye, Helena. Truly.”
Helena waved her off. “Think nothin’ of it. The Laird should’ve seen to it himself. But since he didnae, I’ll do it for him.”
