Page 74 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
With trembling fingers, she pressed it hard against his wound and wrapped it around his waist, tying it tight.
“Stay with me,” she whispered brokenly. “Please, just stay.”
Her breath hitched, but the panic that had clawed at her chest moments ago slowly dulled into a strange calm.
There was no time to fall apart. She tore her gaze away from him and turned to Peyton, who lay unconscious.
With shaking fingers, she grabbed the ropes that had once bound her wrists and knelt beside Peyton.
“Ye’re nae takin’ him from me,” she whispered fiercely, knotting the ropes tight around the woman’s hands and ankles and tying her to a fallen log.
Peyton groaned faintly but did not stir.
Abigail tightened the last knot with a final tug, her jaw clenched. Then, she stumbled to her feet and rushed to Kian’s horse, whispering soothing words.
“Come now, we dinnae have time,” she muttered, guiding the beast toward Kian.
With a grunt, she bent to lift him, but he was still too heavy.
“Please,” she choked out, more tears spilling over, “dinnae leave me now.”
After several failed attempts, she couldn’t heave him up to get him in the saddle. He groaned faintly, but his head lolled forward.
“Kian… ye have to hold on,” she pleaded, brushing bloodied hair from his brow.
His face was pale, the faint rise and fall of his chest barely visible, and her heart felt as though it would break in two. She pressed her lips to his forehead, then forced herself to rise.
“I’ll return with help, I promise. But ye must hold on. Ye must fight.”
She hoisted herself into the saddle with effort and steered the horse toward the dense woods. Her skirt tangled around her legs, the blood on her hands sticky, but she gritted her teeth and spurred the beast forward. Behind her, the trees closed in, Kian lying alone on the ground.
Tears blurred her vision as the wind lashed her face.
“Ye cannae die,” she whispered hoarsely. “I’ll nae let ye.”
The thought of losing him—her fierce, infuriating, selfless Laird—knocked the breath from her chest.
“He cannae leave me,” she cried, her voice breaking. “I’d rather die than live without him.”
The trees thinned, the familiar outline of the castle walls rising in the distance like salvation. Abigail urged the horse faster, the thudding hooves pounding in rhythm with her heartbeat.
She flew through the gates and into the courtyard, her voice already rising.
“Help! Ring the bell!” she screamed, her eyes wild. “The Laird’s been injured! Hurry!”
The bell rang out seconds later, loud and jarring, and guards poured into the courtyard.
Helena burst through the main doors, Leighton hot on her heels, their expressions stunned at the sight of Abigail’s blood-stained gown.
“Abigail!” she shouted, rushing forward. “Are ye hurt? Where’s the wound?”
Abigail shook her head, choking back a sob. “It’s nae mine. It’s Kian’s. He’s in the woods—Peyton ambushed us with bandits. He’s hurt badly, Helena. He needs ye.”
“I’ll get me bag,” Helena said, spinning around and vanishing back into the keep.
Leighton gripped Abigail’s arm. “Where is he?”
“North of the stream, just past the big elm where the old fence ends,” she sobbed. “He’s lyin’ there, bleedin’.”
