Page 40 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
Leighton chuckled softly behind him. “Ye enjoy tossin’ lads around more than eatin’ yer supper.”
Kian smirked and stepped back. “Aye, because I dinnae trust anyone else to knock sense into them.” He turned to another group of men standing nearby, sharpening blades and watching. “Jorah, Fergus, ye’re next.”
The two warriors stepped onto the field, both larger and more experienced than Rory.
Kian handed off the wooden sword and picked up his blade, heavier and worn from use.
“Let’s make this quick,” he said. “I have reports waiting.”
They came at him together, coordinated strikes meant to overwhelm. Kian grinned as a thrill surged through his limbs. He blocked Jorah’s blade and twisted, knocking Fergus’s off course, then drove his shoulder into Jorah’s chest, sending him down.
“Ye’re movin’ slower than usual,” Leighton called out from the side, laughing. “Is the lass distractin’ ye that much?”
Kian growled under his breath but said nothing. He ducked beneath a wide swing and countered with a precise blow to Fergus’s thigh. The older warrior winced but held steady, and they danced for several more minutes before Kian finally drove both men back, ending the spar.
The onlookers erupted in applause and hoots.
Kian stepped back, breathing hard but satisfied. He rolled his shoulders and passed his sword to a waiting squire.
“That’s enough for now,” he said. “Get back to yer drills.”
Leighton approached him again, his face damp with sweat even though he hadn’t fought. “Ye’re beastly when ye’re angry.”
“I’m nae angry,” Kian muttered. “Just focused.”
“Focused,” Leighton echoed with a raised eyebrow. “Or maybe tryin’ to forget the kiss ye shared with the lass?”
Kian shot him a glare. “Mind yer tongue.”
Leighton held up his hands in surrender. “I’m only sayin’—it’s written all over yer face. Ye’ve been boilin’ like stew since that day.”
Kian said nothing. He turned away from the men and walked toward the far end of the yard, where the mist from the loch carried in cool relief. His boots thudded against the earth, his mind spinning faster than a carriage wheel.
The memory of Abigail’s lips returned with a vengeance. The heat of her against him, the sound of her breathing—damn it all. He clenched his fists and exhaled, trying to push the thoughts away.
She is a means to an end, nothin’ more.
And yet the fire in her eyes had taken root in his mind. Every time she defied him, he wanted to crush that defiance with his mouth. Every time she looked away, he burned to make her look at him again.
“Ye need to clear yer head,” Leighton said beside him, his voice quieter now. “Ye’re fightin’ better than ever, but ye’ll be of nay use if ye lose yerself to it.”
Kian glanced toward the castle walls. “I’ll clear me head when I receive word from the Reids or the McEwans.”
He spotted Paul making his way toward him.
The old man walked with a cane, but there was an urgency in his steps that made Kian’s hackles rise. His face was grim, and the roll of parchment in his hand already told Kian that he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear.
Kian wiped his brow with the back of his hand and met the man halfway.
“Paul,” he said curtly. “Ye have somethin’ to report?”
“Aye, Me Laird,” Paul answered, trying to catch his breath. “I’ve just come from the eastern fields, near the orchard run by the MacArdens.”
Kian frowned, already uneasy. “What of it? The orchard’s always been a fertile land.”
Paul held out the parchment. “Nae this season. The trees bear near to nothin’. The men say the fruit’s stunted, if it even shows at all.”
Kian snatched it and unrolled it. His jaw clenched as he read the scribbled numbers, far lower than he’d hoped. “They blame the dry spell?”
