Page 98 of A Bride for the Icy Highlander
Michael nodded back. “He risked war, risked himself, risked even Abigail’s wrath…” He gave a crooked smile at that. “… to give this clan a chance. And though I came here ready for battle, I cannae fault a man who stands up for his people.”
He glanced at Abigail before turning back to the councilmen. “So I offer this—we sit and talk. Trade terms, fair and honest. And I’ll send word to Laird Reid meself. Let all three clans see each other through the winter.”
A beat passed. Then, Kian slowly stepped forward, the pain in his side flaring. He lifted his hand and extended it toward Michael.
“Ye honor me, Laird McEwan,” he said, voice hoarse but firm. “This talk is welcomed with gratitude. I believe we’ll come to an agreement that benefits us all.”
Michael took his hand and shook it firmly. The tension in the room dissipated with the gesture.
Paul rose, his long robes brushing the stone floor. “We are grateful, indeed,” he said, nodding once. “And relieved, I dare say. A wise decision, Laird McEwan.”
The murmurs that followed from the rest of the councilmen were no longer tinged with doubt. Some even smiled. Relief swept over them like the first thaw of spring.
Kian let out a breath and glanced at Abigail, whose gaze met his like a steady flame. His reckless plan had worked, after all. Not because of brute strength or cunning, but because she had stood by him. Because she had believed in him when others had not.
And now, with the trade agreement in motion, his people would survive winter.
He, too, would survive. With her.
He stepped forward, the ache in his side sharp but bearable, and extended his hand toward Abigail. She hesitated for only a moment before placing hers in it, her fingers warm and steady.
He gave her hand a squeeze, brief but full of meaning. His gaze, still dark with pain and exertion, softened as it met hers.
“Thank ye, lass,” he said, his voice rough. “Ye’ve done more for this clan than any of these gray-haired bastards ever did.”
Abigail narrowed her eyes at him and swatted at his hand. “Aye, and ye’ll be nay good if ye drop dead in the council chamber, ye stubborn oaf.”
He chuckled, the sound catching painfully in his throat. “Helena will take out her anger on me, nay doubt,” he muttered, pressinghis other hand to his side. “But a laird’s duties never end; I’ll nae sit idle while winter creeps in.”
Abigail rolled her eyes and looped her arm through his. “Well then, Laird Stubborn, ye’re coming with me. To the healer’s chambers, so Helena can see to ye properly.”
They exited the council chamber slowly, Kian leaning slightly on her. His steps were heavy, but his pride was lighter than it had been in days.
The councilmen’s murmurs had shifted from doubt to respect; he had seen it in their eyes. And he owed it all to the woman at his side.
“I’ll nae sit among tinctures and poultices like some feeble bairn,” he grumbled as they rounded a corner. “Me bedchamber will do fine.”
Abigail scoffed beside him. “Och, men. Always convinced that their pillows have healing powers. Ye’ll be lucky if Helena doesnae wallop ye with one when she hears ye refused to go back to her rooms.”
They stepped into the next hall just as Isolde emerged from the shadows with a pile of linens in her arms.
Abigail gave her a firm nod. “Isolde, send Helena to the Laird’s bedchamber,” she ordered. “Tell her he refuses to go anywhere else, so she’ll have to deal with his foolishness there.”
Isolde bobbed a curtsy and hurried off without question, her slippers nearly silent on the stone floor.
Kian let out a long, uneven breath. The pain in his side was sharp, but it no longer incapacitated him. With Abigail’s arm still looped through his, he felt steadier than he had in days.
They made it to his bedchamber, the door creaking softly as she pushed it open.
Abigail eased him onto the edge of the bed, her hand never leaving his arm. Kian watched her, basking in her strength, her fire, the quiet way she steadied him without asking.
“Ye’re a stubborn woman,” he noted, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“And ye’re a fool,” she replied, lifting an eyebrow. “But if I let fools die of their own pride, there’ll be nay men left in Scotland.”
He laughed, but the motion pulled the stitches and made him wince. Abigail’s eyes narrowed in concern, and her hand went to his side as if she could take the pain away.
“Dinnae make me regret this,” she muttered.
