Chapter 5
The moment they stepped outside Erin’s cottage, Frederick inclined his head slightly. “Goodnight,” he said, already turning as if to leave.
Iona Pearson caught his wrist before he could take two steps.
“Ye’re nae going anywhere like that,” she said, tugging him back toward the door.
His brows rose. “I have had worse injuries.”
“And I have seen worse stubbornness,” she shot back. “Inside.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she had already pushed the door open and ushered him through.
The cottage was dim, lit only by embers in the hearth and a single candle burning low on the table. Erin’s snores rattled faintly from the corner where the old healer slept, bundled in blankets as though the world could not touch her.
Jamie lingered near the doorway, watching Frederick with wide, thoughtful eyes.
“Off to bed,” Iona murmured, brushing a stray curl from the child’s brow. “It is late.”
Jamie hesitated. “He is bleeding?”
“I ken,” she replied gently. “And I will fix it.”
The child studied Frederick another heartbeat before nodding and disappearing behind the curtain into the back room.
Silence settled.
Frederick fidgeted slightly, as if unsure whether to remain standing or sit. He was too large for the small space, shoulders nearly brushing the low beams overhead.
“Iona,” he began, “ye daenae have to –”
“I do,” she interrupted, already moving toward the table to gather cloth, water, and a small jar of herbs Erin kept within reach. “Sit.”
He obeyed with surprising ease, lowering himself onto the bench.
“I have lived with a healer for two years,” she said briskly. “Some things have rubbed off.”
“Oh aye?” he murmured. “Should I be concerned for me life or limb?”
“Only if ye keep talking,” she replied, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
She reached for the torn edge of his tunic, fingers brushing warm skin slick with drying blood. He inhaled sharply at the contact, more from the unexpected intimacy than the pain.
“Shirt,” she said.
He hesitated only a moment before pulling it over his head. The movement drew a low hiss from him as the fabric dragged against the cut along his side.
She tried very hard not to stare.
Seven years had carved him from marble. Broader shoulders. New scars crossing his chest and ribs like faint pale lines of history. The firelight traced muscle and shadow, reminding her far too vividly of another night when she had learned every contour by touch rather than sight.
Focus, she told herself.
She dipped a cloth into the bowl and began to clean the wound, movements careful but firm.
“Ye are lucky,” she murmured. “It is shallow.”
“So ye say.”
Her fingers steadied his arm as she worked. She could feel his gaze resting on her face, heavy and unblinking.
“What is it?” she asked without looking up.
“Nothin’,” he said.
“Then stop staring.”
“I am making sure ye ken what ye’re doing.”
She snorted softly. “If I didnae, ye would probably already be dead.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
The tension between them tightened rather than easing. Each brush of her fingers against his skin sent small sparks up her arms. She refused to acknowledge it, focusing instead on binding the cut with practiced movements she had learned from watching Erin.
When she finished, she sat back slightly, exhaling. “There.”
Only then did she allow herself to truly look at him.
Her gaze lingered before she could stop it, tracing the lines of his chest, the rise and fall of breath beneath skin warm from battle and proximity. Memory flickered, unwanted and vivid.
A particular scar caught her attention. It curved near his ribs, jagged and pale.
Her brow furrowed, and she reached out without thinking. Her fingertips brushed the scar gently.
He watched her hand, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “Three years after we met,” he said quietly.
She stiffened, withdrawing slightly. “I daenae ken what ye’re talking about.”
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.
She almost smiled despite herself.
“Ye ken that ye lie quite poorly,” he said.
“I ken that ye think too highly of yerself,” she retorted, though her voice lacked real heat.
For a moment, they simply looked at one another.
The small room felt suddenly too warm. Too close. The faint sound of Erin’s snores only made the silence between them more intimate.
“Ye dragged me inside to heal me,” he said at last. “I thought ye intended to run.”
“I might still,” she replied lightly.
He leaned forward slightly, close enough that she felt the heat of him. “Would ye?”
Her breath caught.
“Iona,” he said softly, her name low and familiar in a way that made her pulse skip.
She forced herself to stand, stepping away to rinse her hands in the bowl. The cool water steadied her.
“Ye should rest,” she said, not turning. “Tomorrow will be long.”
“And ye?” he asked.
“I always endure long days.”
She heard him rise behind her. The shift of air told her he had stepped closer again.
For a fleeting heartbeat, she remembered another night. Another room. The way his presence had filled the space until there had been nothing else.
She turned back toward him, lifting her chin.
“If ye bleed through that bandage,” she warned, “I will tell Erin ye were a poor patient.”
He smiled faintly. “A threat?”
“A promise.”
Their gazes held, the banter settling into a quieter but heavier rhythm. Not yet spoken nor acted upon.
Outside, the night pressed close to the cottage walls, and for the first time since the fight, Iona felt a different kind of danger stirring between them.
The space between them tightened until it felt almost fragile.
Iona Pearson did not step back.
Frederick stood close enough that she could see the faint rise and fall of his breath, could feel the warmth coming from him despite the cool air creeping beneath the cottage door. The candlelight carved sharp lines along his jaw and caught in the white streak at his temple.
For one reckless heartbeat, she wondered if he would kiss her.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth before she could stop herself.
And after what seemed like hours passed in but a few heartbeats, he did not move.
Instead, his voice came low and steady. “Did ye run away because of me?”
The question struck harder than any touch.
She blinked, the heat between them still afire.
“Nay,” she said quietly. “Ye were nae the reason.”
His brows drew together.
“Just the trigger,” she added.
He stilled. “Explain.”
She shook her head, turning slightly away from him, as if the movement might steady her thoughts. The events of the night crashed back into her mind in jagged flashes. Blood on leaves. Steel flashing under moonlight. Jamie standing too still behind her.
“I made a mistake,” she said instead, voice softer than she intended. “I thought… if I kept moving, if I kept ahead of whatever was chasing me, it would be enough.”
“And do ye think it was? Enough?” he asked.
“Nay,” she admitted.
The word tasted bitter.
She leaned her hands against the edge of the table, staring down at the faint scratches carved into the wood over years of use. “I put me child in danger tonight,” she continued. “Because I didnae think things through. Because I assumed I kent better than anyone else.”
He watched her carefully, the intensity of his gaze almost tangible.
“What are ye running from, Iona?” he asked.
She let out a breath that trembled at the edges. “Something that doesnae and willnae stop.”
His silence told her he would not accept that as a full answer.
She turned back to him, lifting her chin. “Ye said ye would take us to yer castle.”
“Aye.”
“We will come,” she said.
Relief flickered briefly in his expression before settling back into that controlled calm he wore like armor.
“But I have one condition.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I expected as much.”
“Erin comes with us.”
He blinked, surprised.
“She took us in when no one else would,” Iona continued. “I willnae leave her behind, especially now. Those men… they kent where to look. If I am the reason danger comes here, then she comes with me. I have to ken that she is safe too.”
Frederick’s eyes followed her movements for a long moment, weighing the request. She could almost see the calculations moving behind his eyes, the laird measuring risks and benefits.
At last he nodded once. “She is welcome at the castle.”
The tension that had coiled in her chest eased just slightly.
“Thank ye,” she said.
He inclined his head. “I will return in the morning. Be ready.”
The words were purely practical. It was as if the charged moment between them moments ago had never existed. He stepped toward the door, reaching for his cloak.
Iona watched him in nearly stunned silence, a strange frustration rising beneath her ribs. A moment ago, the air had felt alive, heavy with memory and possibility. Now he moved like a stranger again, all duty and distance.
“Frederick,” she said before she could stop herself.
He paused, looking back over his shoulder.
She hesitated. The words she almost spoke tangled and fell away.
“Ye should rest,” she said instead. “Ye lost more blood than ye ken.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “I will survive.”
“That is the point,” she replied softly.
He opened the door, the cool night air slipping inside around him.
“Iona,” he said, her name quieter this time. “Ye are safer with me than without.”
She did not answer.
Because part of her wanted to believe him.
And another part, the part that had survived seven years on the run, whispered that safety was an illusion that vanished the moment she trusted it.
He stepped outside.
The door closed behind him with a soft thud.
Iona stood there longer than she intended, staring at the wood as if she could still feel the heat of him lingering in the room.
Only when the silence grew heavy did she release a slow breath she had not realized she was holding.
Frustration flickered through her.
At him. At herself. At the way her pulse had leapt when he stood too close. At the way she had almost leaned into it. She dragged a hand down her face and turned back toward the hearth.
Tomorrow, everything would change again.
And though she had agreed to go to his castle, though she had watched him fight like a storm to protect them, a quiet certainty remained buried deep inside her chest.
She had never truly been safe these past seven years, and she doubted that she ever would be.