Chapter 2
The village sat low and quiet beneath a grey sky, smoke drifting lazily from chimneys as if nothing in the world had occurred.
Frederick Milligan knew better. These were his lands, after all, his people.
He stood at the center of the narrow lane, boots planted in damp earth, gloved hands clasped behind his back.
He wore no fine cloak, no embroidered plaid that would shout his rank from the rooftops.
A simple dark mantle rested over broad shoulders.
His sword hung at his side, not as ornament but as fact.
Even so, the villagers had recognized him.
Whispers followed wherever he stepped.
“Me Laird.”
“I didnae expect –”
“Why would he come himself?”
Frederick ignored the murmurs. If one of his people vanished, he would come himself. That was not gallantry. It was obligation.
Beside him, Lennox Cochrane adjusted his weight with the easy confidence of a seasoned warrior. Taller by a fraction and perpetually on the verge of a grin, Lennox seemed almost amused by the tension hanging over the village.
Frederick was not.
“Three days?” Frederick asked the middle-aged farmer standing before him.
“Aye, me Laird,” the man replied, cap twisting between rough hands. “Went out to fetch water before dusk. Never came back.”
“No signs of struggle?”
“Nay.”
“Nay footprints beyond the usual?”
“Nay.”
Frederick’s jaw tightened slightly. “Any strangers passing through before or after?”
The farmer hesitated, eyes darting toward nearby cottages. “A few riders. Couldnae say who they were. They didnae linger.”
Frederick absorbed that in silence. Riders who did not linger could be anything. Traders. Mercenaries. Scouts.
Or worse.
Last year, Clan O’Douglas had tested the borders.
Nothing overt. Just pressure. Just probing.
A few stolen sheep. A dispute over grazing land that had nearly turned bloody before cooler heads prevailed.
Frederick had met Archer Gallagher face to face over that matter.
Respect had grown between them, but respect did not erase caution.
Other clans watched for weakness.
A missing lass could be coincidence, or it could be a message.
“Thank ye,” Frederick said finally. “If ye recall any detail, send word to the castle at once.”
The farmer bowed his head, relief plain.
As the man retreated, Lennox exhaled dramatically. “Well,” he muttered, leaning closer, “if I were a betting man, I would wager she ran off with a lad her parents disapproved of.”
Frederick did not look at him. “This is nae a tavern tale.”
“Precisely why it likely is one,” Lennox replied lightly. “Young blood. Stubborn hearts. A dramatic exit into the sunset.”
Frederick’s gaze swept the tree line beyond the cottages. “Let us hope ye’re right.”
Because if she had simply fled with a lover, he could return to the castle with a lecture prepared and nothing more.
If she had nae… He pushed the thought aside.
He had spent the last year repairing the damage his father left behind. Debts settled. Trade routes secured. Borders reinforced. He had negotiated alliances carefully, spoken firmly, and shown strength without posturing. His people needed stability. They needed certainty.
He would not allow fear to creep back into their homes.
Lennox made a quick study of him. “Ye ken, if ye pursued finding a wife with the same ferocity ye pursue missing villagers, Lady Caitlin would be the happiest woman in the Highlands.”
Frederick turned his head slowly.
Lennox grinned outright. “I am merely observing.”
“Me mother’s concerns are her own.”
“Aye, but she shares them loudly,” Lennox said. “I believe her exact words last week were, ‘If Frederick can reorganize half the clan’s finances, he can surely organize a courtship.’”
Frederick shot him a look sharp enough to skin a deer.
Lennox only laughed. “Ye can glare all ye like, me Laird. It doesnae change the truth. Even the O’Douglas has taken a bride, ye ken.”
Frederick faced forward again, expression hardening. “He took the MacFarlane girl.
Marriage was not a romantic pursuit. It was alliance. Stability. Strategy. He had seen what poor decisions could cost a clan. He would not gamble on sentiment.
And yet, a memory surfaced anyway.
Bonnie green eyes. Freckles scattered across pale skin. Hair like flame in firelight. A laugh that had startled him into forgetting, for a single reckless night, the weight of inheritance.
He balled his hands into fists.
That had been weakness. A lapse allowed under grief. Never again.
Still, those eyes returned unbidden whenever Lennox or his mother spoke of wives and heirs.
They moved through the village slowly, stopping at each cottage. The story did not change. A missing lass. No struggle. No scream heard. No sign left behind.
Frederick knelt once near the well at the edge of the lane, examining the ground himself. The soil was disturbed by many feet. Nothing distinct. Nothing useful.
Lennox crouched beside him. “If this was done deliberately, it was done clean.”
Frederick rose without answering.
“Where next?” Lennox asked.
A woman standing near her doorway cleared her throat hesitantly. She had been watching them for some time.
“Me Laird,” she said nervously, wringing her apron. “If ye’re seeking answers… there’s one place left.”
Frederick met her gaze steadily. “Speak plainly.”
“At the edge of the village,” she continued, lowering her voice as though the wind might carry her words, “where the Spáewife lives.”
Murmurs rose among those within earshot.
Some crossed themselves. Others nodded as if it were obvious.
“The healer?” Lennox asked, a hint of amusement returning.
“She sees things,” another villager added quickly. “Kens things.”
“She brings trouble,” someone muttered darkly.
Frederick observed the mixture of fear and reverence on their faces. Superstition often filled gaps where facts did not.
“And ye believe she has a hand in this?” he asked calmly.
The first woman swallowed. “Nay… but she might ken more than the rest of us.”
Lennox leaned closer again. “Or she might throw salt at us and predict our doom.”
Frederick ignored him.
If the Spáewife held information, whether by intuition or rumor, he would hear it.
“Where?” he asked.
A hand pointed toward the tree line at the far edge of the village. A narrow path disappeared into brush and shadow.
Frederick nodded once. “We will speak to her.”
As he turned toward the path, a quiet unease settled beneath his ribs. A tension that coiled in his chest.
He dismissed it as anticipation.
After all, this was merely another duty to fulfill.
And yet, as he stepped toward the cottage at the edge of the village, he had the distinct sense that whatever waited there would not be simple.
The path toward the Spáewife’s cottage narrowed as it left the main lane, splitting into a small clearing where two worn tracks crossed.
Children occupied the crossroads as if it were their own kingdom.
A stick sword clashed against another. A shriek of laughter rang out. One small figure darted past with a ribbon of stolen cloth trailing like a banner of war.
Frederick slowed without meaning to.
Children were always loud. Uncontained. Unaware of borders and alliances, and the cost of poor decisions. He had once been that careless. Before inheritance had settled on his shoulders like armor he could not remove.
Lennox strode ahead and clapped his hands once. “Ho there. Which of ye brave warriors can tell us where the Spáewife keeps her den?”
The children froze, then stared openly.
Recognition dawned on a few of the older ones. Whispers fluttered.
“Me Laird,” one breathed.
Frederick inclined his head slightly but did not speak.
A freckled lass pointed down the left track. “Past the birch trees. Last cottage before the river bend.”
“Much obliged,” Lennox said with exaggerated courtesy.
Frederick’s attention, however, had snagged on a different detail.
Near the edge of the clearing stood a smaller child, watching in silence rather than joining the noise. Dark hair fell unevenly about a stubborn jaw, and through it ran a narrow streak of white, bright against the black like a blade of moonlight.
Frederick’s breath stilled.
He had seen that mark every morning of his life in polished steel and river water.
The child’s chin lifted slightly under his scrutiny, defiant rather than shy.
Odd, Frederick thought distantly.
Before he could examine the resemblance further, Lennox returned to his side.
“If the Spáewife truly sees the future,” Lennox muttered, “perhaps she will inform us whether she’s a witch or merely a dramatic old woman with too much salt.”
Frederick’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Mind yer tongue.”
“Oh, come now,” Lennox continued lightly. “These villages always have one. A crone muttering curses. Blaming crops on spirits. Frightening half the children into behaving.”
A sharp thud interrupted him.
Lennox jerked forward slightly, looking down.
The dark-haired child stood there, foot still planted firmly against Lennox’s boot.
“Daenae call Granny Erin names,” the child snapped, voice clear and fierce. “She isnae a witch.”
Lennox blinked, then looked scandalized. “Did that wee warrior just kick me?”
“Aye,” the child replied without hesitation.
Frederick felt laughter surge unexpectedly in his chest, absurd and sudden. He pressed his lips together to keep it contained.
Bold and reckless.
The child turned then, glare shifting upward to meet Frederick’s gaze.
And the world narrowed.
Green.
Not merely green. Bright. Sharp. Alive with challenge.
For a heartbeat, the clearing vanished. The years between collapsed like rotten wood.
He had seen those eyes once before across a tavern hearth, framed by freckles and firelight. Eyes that had looked at him without fear. Eyes that had followed him up narrow stairs. Eyes that had haunted him at inconvenient hours ever since.
The resemblance struck him harder than the white streak of hair.
A strange, gnawing sensation unfurled low in his gut. Recognition without context. Instinct without proof.
He crouched slowly so they were eye to eye.
Up close, he saw the stubborn set of the small mouth. Dirt smudged across one cheek. A faint nick along the chin, likely from climbing where climbing had not been permitted.
“What is yer name?” he asked evenly.
The child hesitated only a fraction. “Jamie.”
The name settled heavily between them.
“Jamie,” Frederick repeated.
The suspicion in those green eyes sharpened.
“Where is yer mother?” he asked.
The question came out more direct than intended.
“Why?” Jamie challenged at once.
There it was again. That defiance.
Frederick almost smiled. “Because I am asking.”
“That isnae an answer.”
Lennox barked a laugh behind him. “Careful, me Laird. Ye’ve found yerself a rebel.”
Frederick did not look away from the child. He admired the bravery. Few adults met his gaze so steadily.
Impatience flickered beneath his composure. There were matters to attend. A missing lass. Rumors of strangers. He did not have time to indulge a child’s stubbornness.
“I need to speak with her,” he said more firmly.
Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “About what?”
Frederick opened his mouth to respond.
A voice cut through the clearing like a blade.
“Jamie!”
The sound carried panic.
Frederick rose in one fluid motion and turned.
She stood at the edge of the path, breathless, cloak half slipping from one shoulder. Ginger hair escaped its braid in loose strands, catching the light like flame against the grey afternoon. Freckles dusted pale skin. Familiar green eyes widened when they found him.
For a suspended heartbeat, neither moved.
Seven years vanished.
He remembered the weight of her beneath his hands. The warmth of her curled against him at dawn. The empty bed when he woke.
His chest twisted in a way that had nothing to do with duty.
Found ye.