Page 47 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
Eventually, he threw the furs aside and sat on the edge of the mattress, his hands curled into fists on his knees. His heart thudded slowly and heavily, a beat that mocked him for being weak enough to care.
What madness has taken hold of me that one kiss could undo me so?
The night was unbearable, filled with restless tossing and turning. When the sky lightened with the gray haze of morning, he was already dressed, boots on, and waiting in the bailey for Leighton.
“Good mornin’ to ye.” Leighton smiled.
“It is anything but. Let us start our journey, as it will be a black day,” Kian groaned.
He knew that his mood was due to a lack of sleep and the matter at hand, but Leighton took it in stride, which Kian was grateful for as they saddled their horses.
By the time they mounted their horses and rode past the village, the sun had begun to climb, pale and unhelpful in the dry, cloudless sky. Dust shot up behind them, clinging to the hems of their cloaks.
There had been no rain in weeks. The land cried out for water, and the Lord remained silent despite their pleas.
The orchards lay in brittle rows just over the southern ridge. What had once been a lush grove humming with bees was now a cracked and thirsty graveyard.
“This is a dire sight, indeed,” Kian remarked.
“Aye, I have never seen it like this,” Leighton said.
Branches drooped, and leaves curled in on themselves. Fruit that should have swelled into rich color was shriveled or absent altogether. The air smelled of dust and desperation.
Kian dismounted with a grim face, his gaze sweeping across the sun-scorched fields.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “It’s worse than I thought.”
Leighton let out a long breath. “Aye. Paul tried to prepare ye, but words never convey the full picture.”
Kian stepped up to one of the trees and ran his fingers along a branch. It broke clean in his hand with the lightest pressure.
“They’ll starve come winter if this continues on.”
“They will,” Leighton agreed, his voice tight. “And nae just here. The tenants near the moors have been sayin’ the wells are drying, too.”
Kian clenched his jaw, then turned his back to the tree and looked out toward the hills. “This land has fed our people for generations. Now, it gives us nothin’ but dust.”
“That’s nae yer fault, Kian,” Leighton said, walking up to him. “Ye dinnae command the skies. Ye can lead men, swing a sword, broker peace, but ye cannae summon rain.”
“Still,” Kian muttered, “I’m the Laird. These aremepeople, and I promised them safety, stability. What use is a laird who cannae even feed his clan?”
Leighton sighed and crossed his arms. “Ye’ve done what any good laird would. Ye sent a request for help. Ye’ve rationed food, even gone without, and delayed collecting taxes from the poor.”
Kian scoffed. “That’s naught but duty. And it doesnae fill empty bellies.”
They walked together down a row of trees, each more pathetic than the last. Bees buzzed faintly—fewer than usual—and birds were absent altogether.
Kian picked up a fallen apple, soft and brown at the core. He tossed it away with a growl.
“If the McEwans or the Reids dinnae answer me soon, it’ll be too late,” he said. “I need their trade. I need access to their stores and their waters. And if it takes keepin’ Abigail here to secure that alliance, so be it.”
Leighton eyed him. “That lass… she’s more than just leverage to ye, is she nae?”
Kian didn’t answer. His eye stayed fixed on the withered trees, but something in his throat tightened.
Leighton went on anyway. “I saw the look on yer face when she nearly got trampled. That wasnae just concern for an asset.”
“She’s under me protection,” Kian said gruffly.
