To Defy A Laird (The Runaways’ Highland Haven #1)

Chapter 1

Libertas Dulcis Est

It was raining, of course. Heavily, too. Freya’s grip on the wet stone ledge of her windowsill slipped, the toes of her boots curling over the edge, and her heart jumped into her mouth. She steadied herself on the sides of the window, the icy stone biting at her fingers.

It was a long way to fall.

Her room was on the third floor, high above the stone courtyard below. If she fell now, she might as well be dead. Even if she survived.

Holding her breath and tightening her grip on the ledge, Freya stretched out towards the branches of the old oak tree. Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed to be stretching out for her, too.

“Be careful, Lady!” hissed the serving-girl, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot back inside Freya’s room. “If ye slip and break yer neck, I’ll be found out for sure!”

Freya resisted the urge to tell the girl that now was not the time for any of this— not now when she was stretched out between the window ledge and the tree, with rain sleeting down over her. If she did slip, there was no way the poor serving girl would be able to haul her back to safety.

The serving girl, Maggie, was young, barely seventeen, but she was the only person that Freya had dared ask for help. The only person who noticed that anything was wrong at all. Or, at least, the only person who cared.

It was no good. Freya was going to have to jump for the tree. She didn’t give herself time to think about the practicality of what she was doing.

Are ye going to jump? Or are ye going to stay here and marry that man?

She shuddered. That was no choice at all.

Gritting her teeth, she launched herself forward, arms outstretched as if the tree might catch her.

She cannoned through thin branches, feeling the sharp stinging of errant twigs cutting the exposed skin on her face and neck in a dozen tiny places, but she landed chest-down on a thick branch.

Freya’s vision blurred, and she very nearly rolled off again, saving herself with a yelp at the last moment.

Recovering herself, Freya regained her balance, and inched around to face back into the castle.

It was strange to look back into her old room, only a few feet away but seeming much, much further away now.

I’m free. For now, at least.

Her room was a large one, well-furnished and well-lit.

Freya happened to know that it was a far, far nicer room than the tiny space that Maggie slept in every night.

No furs for Maggie, no fireplace of her own, no fine gowns or jewelry.

There was one key difference, though. Maggie could leave her room whenever she wanted.

She could leave Keep Grahame whenever she wanted, and Laird Grahame wouldn’t care at all.

Stop it. Don’t think about him now.

“Ye should come with me, Mags,” Freya said, stretching out a hand. “Ye have already helped me so much, and I can’t bear the thought of ye being found out. Come with me.”

Maggie hesitated, but only for a second. She shook her head. “I can’t. My parents are old and sick. They need me, and they need my wage. Ye should hurry, Lady.”

“Why did ye do it, Mags? Why did ye help me? Nobody else in this cursed Keep would.”

Maggie chewed her lip, glancing away. It was clear that she was uncomfortable in Freya’s large, warm bedroom, and would rather be below stairs with the rest of the servants.

“My Ma reads her Bible a lot,” Maggie said at last. “She told me that we’re meant to treat others the way we want to be treated. That it’s a law, and an important one. I think that if I was in yer situation, Lady, I’d want someone to help me.”

Freya swallowed, and gave a brief nod. “Very well. Thank ye, Maggie. I won’t forget this.”

“Just be safe, aye? Get yourself gone from here.”

With that, Maggie glanced furtively around, and pulled the curtain across the window, shutting off the light.

As they’d planned, she would start blowing out the candles and dampening the fire so that anyone passing by outside would assume that Lady Freya, daughter to Laird McInnes and a very important guest, had simply gone to bed at her usual time.

The rain started to fall harder than ever.

She was running out of time. Gritting her teeth, Freya began to climb.

She had a small satchel on her shoulders, the only supplies Maggie had been able to gather for her.

They wouldn’t last her long, but it was better than nothing.

Her dark green wool dress was simple and plain enough not to attract attention, and she wore a threadbare old cloak over the top.

With any luck, people would assume she was simply a peasant girl, nobody significant at all.

If the door Maggie had described to her was open, she would be able to slip through the walls of the Keep and into the forest beyond, and concentrate on putting miles between her and Laird Grahame.

With any luck, her husband-to-be wouldn’t notice that she was gone until the morning.

The rain was still falling, turning to icy sleet now.

Pulling the hood of her cloak up over her head—Maggie had advised her to cover up her distinctive red hair as often as possible—Freya gritted her teeth and plowed on.

McInnes lands were further south, inching towards the lowlands, where the weather was a little warmer.

Of course, Freya had never thought that it was warmer, not until she travelled up to the proper Highlands of Scotland and discovered what real cold was.

How long have I been walking? An hour? Two? More?

She tilted her head back, trying to find the moon to judge how many hours were left of darkness. It was no good, the sky was too cloudy. Sighing, she put her head down and trudged on.

A maid would come in to wake her at dawn, like she had every other morning. The woman was a sour-faced matron, in the pay of Laird Grahame, and had made it clear that she didn’t like Freya one bit. She’d muttered a lot about red-headed people being cursed, just loud enough for Freya to hear.

The maid would discover that Freya was gone, and the alarm would be raised immediately. The Keep would be searched, Freya’s father contacted, and then the search would extend to the grounds around the castle.

But I’ll be safe, she told herself. He doesn’t know which way I’ve gone. He won’t find me. Surely, he won’t find me.

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the surge of fear.

Laird Grahame was a clever man, and she would be a fool to underestimate him.

Any man who’d kept control of a Highland clan for as long as he had—thirty years and counting—was a force to be reckoned with.

The man was forty-nine years old, strong for his age, and had already been married twice.

Freya was meant to be the third bride.

Not if I can help it.

She increased her pace, stumbling through the woods.

With no moon to guide her way, the going was slow.

She tripped over tree roots and ran straight into bushes, thorny branches catching at her skirts.

She was doubly grateful now for Maggie, who’d insisted on getting good, sturdy boots as well as practical clothes for Freya to wear.

Even so, the rain and cold were seeping through the material, chilling Freya’s skin.

She was shivering harder and harder as the minutes went by.

I need to find somewhere to rest, she thought, tiredly. She must have covered at least a few miles by now.

Sighing, Freya increased her pace—that would keep her warm, at least—and began to look around for lights, for movement, for anything that might indicate there was a dwelling or shelter nearby.

I don’t want to be seen, though. I don’t want anybody to remember me. And they certainly will remember me; a strange, wet woman wandering through the forest in the middle of the night.

It would be safer, too, if she could stay hidden.

Freya knew she was pretty, pretty enough to secure Laird Grahame’s interest at least. He used to call her his little pixie, and tweaked her turned-up nose while she swallowed her revulsion.

He didn’t like her freckles, though, and had tried to convince her to wear a white paste to hide them.

Looks aside, though, Freya knew that women faced more singular threats when they were travelling, especially when they were travelling alone.

She was just starting to believe that perhaps she would die out there in the woods, of cold and damp and exposure, and while that meant she’d never have to marry Laird Grahame, it also meant that she’d be dead.

And then, quite abruptly, Freya stumbled out of a tangle of thickets and into a wooden wall.

No, not a wall—a building.

Tentatively, squinting up into the rain, she edged around the building, taking it in.

It was a barn, and she could hear animals shifting inside.

There appeared to be no dwelling nearby, but then, the forest was very thick in this part of the woods.

Trees and undergrowth were cleared away in a wide circle in front of the barn.

Freya gratefully lifted the heavy bolt keeping the barn door shut, more than ready to sink into a hay bale and sleep.

At that moment, the wind started up, jerking the door out of her hands. It swung back against the barn wall with an echoing crash, and the animals inside shifted nervously. Cursing to herself, Freya grabbed at the door to stop it from banging again, and held her breath.

Silence. Nobody seemed to be coming. No guard dogs barked, and there were no distant shouts of alarm. She breathed out slowly, and let herself in.

It was deliciously warm inside the barn, so warm that she didn’t even care about the strong animal smell. She passed by large, shifting shapes in the dark—horses or cows, no doubt, or perhaps sheep—and headed straight to the hayloft.

Freya had never slept on straw before, but she was so tired and cold that surely…

The door flew open with a crash, and Freya leapt back with a panicked yelp.