Chapter 3
Worry. Relief. Fear.
They crashed through Iona all at once so violently she thought her knees might give way.
Jamie stood a mere arm’s length from her, alive, stubborn chin lifted, eyes bright with defiance. The sight made her lungs expand painfully. For the last hour, she had imagined riverbanks and strangers’ hands and empty woods. Now here was the child, entirely whole, entirely unrepentant.
And standing beside Jamie was the man who had visited her in her dreams for the last seven years.
He looked larger in daylight. Broader. Harder. The faint white streak in his black hair more pronounced. Authority rested on him like a second skin. The men in the village had stepped aside when he passed, but she had never seen him in the village before this moment. Not once.
Her stomach twisted.
The man beside him broke the silence first. “Are ye the healer?” he asked, eyes flicking over her with open curiosity.
Iona forced her voice steady. “Nay.”
She did not look at Frederick as she stepped forward and took Jamie firmly by the shoulder. “What did I tell ye about wandering?” she hissed under her breath. “We are going home. Now.”
Jamie leaned forward as if to argue.
“Now,” she repeated sharply.
The man beside Frederick lifted a hand. “We only wished to ask –”
“That willnae be necessary,” Frederick cut in calmly.
His voice had changed since the tavern. It carried command now. Weight. The easy authority of a man accustomed to obedience.
The other man glanced at him, surprised, but fell silent.
Frederick’s gaze remained fixed on Iona. “We will escort ye home.”
“We daenae require an escort,” she replied quickly.
“A lass in this village is missing,” he said evenly. “Until we ken more, I willnae have anyone walking alone.”
It was phrased as concern for the village.
It sounded like an order.
“I am nae alone,” she insisted, pulling Jamie closer to her. “Together, we are quite capable.”
His brow lifted slightly. “That wasnae a request.”
Heat flared beneath her skin. She wanted to refuse him, but Jamie’s small hand tightened in her skirts.
She swallowed the protest. “Very well,” she said stiffly.
They walked.
The path back to the cottage felt longer than it ever had. Iona kept Jamie close at her side, aware of Frederick’s presence just behind them.
She felt his gaze brush over Jamie more than once.
Her heart pounded each time.
Does he see it? Does he ken?
She had imagined this meeting a thousand ways in the dark. None of them had included him standing mere steps away, examining the child who carried his mark in hair and eyes.
Will he be angry? She wondered. Will he demand answers? Will he claim what he thinks is his?
The thought made bile rise in her throat.
Jamie was hers.
Seven years of scraped knees and whispered stories. Of hunger endured and nights without sleep. Of running when footsteps sounded too close. Of laughter in borrowed cottages and small hands clutching hers in storms.
He cannot take that from me.
Frederick’s boots crunched softly on gravel. He said nothing.
That silence unsettled her more than questions would have.
Before she realized it, the familiar shape of Erin’s cottage came into view. The small garden patch at the front was alive with late herbs. Erin herself stood bent over the beds, gathering sprigs of thyme into a basket. At the sound of footsteps, she straightened and turned to them.
Erin’s gaze flicked first to Jamie. Then to Iona. Then to Frederick.
Erin stilled.
Frederick spoke before Iona could. “Lennox,” he said without looking away from her, “this is the healer. Go ahead and ask her what ye must.”
The other man nodded and moved ahead of them toward the garden.
Frederick stepped closer to Iona.
“Iona Pearson,” he said.
Her name on his lips still felt like a touch.
He still remembers.
Memory surged unbidden. The way he had said her name was low and rough against her throat. The way morning light had caught in his hair while she slipped from his arms.
Her body betrayed her with a faint tremor.
Jamie coughed dramatically, clearly disapproving of the proximity. “We daenae need help.”
Iona forced a calm smile. “There is nay need to worry,” she said gently, squeezing a small shoulder. “They are only asking questions.”
Jamie’s suspicion did not fully fade, but at Erin’s brisk voice instructing which herbs to sort, the child moved reluctantly toward the garden.
Erin shot Iona a look in sharp assessment.
Iona held her gaze a fraction too long.
Then Frederick gestured toward the cottage door. “Inside.”
Her pulse spiked.
They stepped into the small main room together. The air still carried the faint scent of salt and herbs from earlier rites.
Iona’s anxiety coiled tighter with every step.
What will he say? What does he suspect? Does he remember that night as clearly as I do? She had barely formed the thought when his voice cut through the quiet.
“Are ye married?” he asked bluntly.
The question left his mouth before he weighed it, before he softened it into something polite. He watched the way Iona Pearson stiffened, green eyes flashing with equal parts shock and defiance.
“Nay,” she answered at once.
The word landed between them like a spark striking dry tinder.
“Then ye will come to me castle with me,” he said, as if the matter were already settled.
Her lips parted. For a heartbeat, she simply stared at him, freckles stark against suddenly pale skin. “Why?” she demanded.
Because I need ye where I can see ye. Because the sight of that child feels too much like fate tightening its grip. Because losing ye again means I failed… again. And I especially cannae have that..
He thought quickly, but said nothing of the sort.
“I protect what is mine,” he replied instead, voice low and certain.
She scoffed, a sharp sound that scraped across his patience. Fear flickered beneath her bravado. He saw it in the way her shoulders drew tight, in the way she glanced toward the door where the child’s voice drifted faintly from the garden.
“There is nothing here that belongs to ye,” she shot back.
His brows drew together. Ice settling in his chest.
He stepped forward.
She stepped back.
The dance repeated until her shoulders brushed the wall and she had nowhere left to retreat. The scent of herbs lingered in the small room, mingling with the warmth of her skin and the faint memory of rain and firelight.
He stopped a breath away.
“Is that so?” he murmured.
Her chin lifted. “Aye.”
“Are ye truly going to pretend the child isnae mine?”
Her eyes flickered beyond his shoulder and then back to his gaze, but she said nothing.
He took another step, slow, deliberate.
“Are ye going to pretend ye daenae ken me? That I daenae ken ye?”
Silence.
He closed the distance further, lowering his voice until it brushed against her ear like a secret. “Are ye going to pretend we havenae shared a bed?”
Her breath caught.
The memory surged vivid and uninvited. The tavern fire. Her laugh. The way she had clung to him as if the world beyond the walls could not reach her.
“That I havenae claimed every part of yer body,” he whispered, the words meant more to provoke than confess. “And ye, mine?”
She shivered, though whether from anger or remembrance he could not tell. “I daenae remember what ye speak of,” she said, voice tight.
A delicious lie.
He knew it from the way her voice softened just so at the edges, and felt it in the heat rising between them.
A slow smirk curved his mouth before he could stop it. He leaned closer and brushed his teeth lightly against her earlobe.
“Liar,” he murmured.
Her reaction was immediate.
She lunged forward and bit him at the neck.
Not gentle. Not playful. A sharp, startled claim that made him jerk back with a quiet hiss.
For a heartbeat he simply stared at her.
Then he laughed under his breath, surprised despite himself. “Still feisty,” he said.
Her chest rose and fell quickly. Defiance burned bright in her eyes.
He leaned closer again, their breaths mingling. “I am nae leaving this village without ye,” he told her quietly. “Without both of ye.”
“We daenae need saving,” she whispered.
“This isnae about saving,” he replied. “It is about safety.”
He held her gaze, letting her see the unyielding resolve there. Laird McIntosh, the man, would not be known to make idle promises. Not anymore.
“There are strangers asking questions,” he continued. “A lass has vanished. I willnae gamble with the lives of those under me protection.”
“I am nae under yer protection,” she argued.
He let that pass.
“I will be staying at the village’s inn tonight,” he said instead. “Tomorrow morning I will return to McIntosh Castle. Ye and Jamie will come to the castle with me.”
She hesitated, her eyes shifting wildly from side to side as if her brain was catching up with a new piece of information. He saw it in her features trying to mask a battle raging just below the surface. Pride against fear. Independence against the instinct to shield the child at any cost.
“And if I refuse?” she asked quietly.
His expression hardened, though he kept his voice calm. “I would rather ye came willingly.”
A long silence followed.
Finally, she exhaled slowly. “As yer prisoner?” she asked defiantly, and he almost enjoyed the sound of that more than when she lied.
“Nay, nae as me prisoner, lass.”
“Tell me that me mind isnae playing tricks on me in this moment. Tell me this is real. Tell me who ye are… truly.” Her words were clipped, and he knew that his answer should be one that resolved all of her questions at once.
“I am Frederick Milligan. Laird of McIntosh. Ye and yer child will be safe with me. I give ye me word, Iona Pearson.”
Her features paled and then blushed. Relief flickered through her, brief and unwelcome. And she tried and failed to force it down.
“Very well. We will go with ye tomorrow.”
He grinned and angled his head slightly in acceptance. “Very good,” he said simply.
He stepped back then, giving her space at last. The distance felt strange after the charged closeness. He straightened his cloak, settling once more into the role he knew best.
Yet as he turned toward the door, those green eyes lingered in his thoughts, sharper than any memory he had tried to bury.
Outside, Lennox’s laughter drifted faintly through the open window, mingled with the rustle of herbs and the child’s stubborn voice arguing about trivial matters.
Frederick paused at the threshold and glanced back once.
Iona stood where he had left her, shoulders tense, gaze guarded. And whatever secrets she carried, whatever fear haunted her steps, he would uncover it. Not for curiosity. Not for desire.
For protection. Her protection.
And this time, he would not lose sight of her again.