Page 41 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
“Aye,” Paul replied. “It’s been weeks since the last downpour. The soil’s hard as rock.”
Kian stared out at the fields beyond the castle walls, his mood darkening. The hills that once bloomed green now looked tired, thirsty, and withered under the sun.
“We have too many mouths to feed this winter,” he muttered. “And too low stores as it stands.”
Paul nodded slowly. “The rationing ye ordered can only go so far.”
Kian’s grip on the parchment tightened until the edges crumpled. “How am I to keep the people content, let alone obedient, when their bellies are empty?” he sighed. “I cannae handle a famine and unrest at once.”
Paul gave him a sympathetic look. “The folks will listen if they ken ye care for them, Me Laird. Even if ye cannae perform miracles, they’ll trust in yer plan. But if word spreads of weakness?—”
Kian shook his head, cutting him off. “Nay. I’ll nae have our enemies sniffin’ out our troubles like wolves to blood. Keep this between us for now.”
“Aye, Me Laird.” Paul gave a respectful bow and turned to go, his cane tapping against the ground with each slow step.
Leighton approached. “What did the old man say?”
Kian passed him the roll of parchment with a snarl. “Keep it to yerself. Nay one can ken but us. The orchards are dry. The harvest will be half what we need, if that.”
Leighton read quickly, his face darkening. “Christ above. This, on top of waitin’ for word from the Reids and the McEwans?”
Kian nodded. “Aye. It’s all stackin’ up like tinder. One spark, and the whole of it will burn.”
He turned away from the fields and headed back to the castle, his steps heavy. His mind raced with unwelcome thoughts—hunger, unrest, betrayal. And still, beneath it all, the image of a lass with flushed cheeks and fire in her gaze flickered like a ghost.
Abigail.
He ground his teeth. “I’ve nay time to be thinkin’ of her,” he mumbled under his breath. “Nae when everythin’ else is fallin’ apart.”
He strode down the path with his jaw set, still brooding over Paul’s grim report. The sun glared down from a cloudless sky, the air dry as old parchment.
As he rounded a bend, he spotted two figures in the meadow just beyond the stables. Helena’s braid caught the light, and beside her stood Abigail.
His stomach tightened.
“What in the devil are they doin’ out there?” he hissed.
He didn’t recall giving Abigail leave to wander the grounds, and certainly not outside the castle walls. The lass had tried to flee once already, and while Helena was clever, she had a rebellious streak that made him uneasy.
His boots struck the ground harder as he stormed toward the path leading to the stables, his temper simmering just beneath his skin.
She was supposed to be under watch.
“Bloody hell, Helena,” he growled.
As he approached the fence, he caught sight of Abigail lagging behind Helena, who was deep in conversation with a maid at the far edge of the meadow, showing her which flowers to pick.
Abigail stood with her back to him, her hands clasped before her, bent toward the wildflowers swaying in the breeze. A gentle smile played on her lips.
Then, he heard it—the sharp, frantic neigh of a horse.
His head snapped to the left, and he saw a dark stallion barreling through the open paddock gate, its nostrils flared and eyes wild. One of the half-tamed beasts they’d been breaking over the last few weeks. It charged at full speed down the slope, straight for Abigail.
Helena’s voice rang out, shrill and desperate. “Abigail, move!”
Abigail jerked her head around, confusion written all over her face as she stiffened in shock. The beast’s hooves pounded against the earth, kicking up dust.
Kian’s vision turned red, instinct shoving everything to the side. “Christ Almighty!”
