Chapter 1 #2
“Who’s there?” demanded an angry male voice, lifting a guttering lantern.
She couldn’t make out much of him, only that he was tall and strong-looking. It was too late to hide, of course.
“Ye, lass,” he snarled, striding forward. “Ye think to rob me, eh?”
A dog wound around his legs, a lanky, waist-high thing with shaggy gray fur and a long snout. It eyed her curiously, sticking close to its master. The man didn’t come too close, he only stood menacingly in the doorway.
She held up a placating hand, backing away. Her hood fell back from her head, and the lamplight no doubt illuminated her red-gold hair. It felt like a beacon.
“Nay, I’m not robbing ye, sir. I-I’m a traveler, and I was caught unawares by the weather. I just wanted somewhere dry to sleep for a few hours.”
The man was silent for a moment, then took a few careful steps forward.
Freya forced herself to stand her ground, and not to back away.
She squinted against the lamplight, but could not make out much of his features, beyond the fact that he was tall and strong, and likely only a few years older than her.
“Who are ye, then?” he said at last.
She swallowed. “I’m a maid. I ran away from… a bad situation. I’d just like to get home.”
That seemed to be a plausible explanation, at least in her head.
The man lowered the lantern a little, and she got a glimpse of untidy dark curls and narrowed, suspicious eyes.
“Give me yer hand,” he demanded, striding forward.
Before she could reply, he snatched it up himself, and Freya’s heart stopped.
He just… held her hand in his, thumb swiping over her knuckles.
She could hardly breathe. His hand was large, warm, and strong and callused from hard work, and she had no idea why her heart was thumping.
She half expected him to do something terrible, like shove her backwards or crush his hand in hers.
Instead, he only dropped her hand with a grunt, and stepped back.
“Ye are a liar. Ye aren’t a maid, not with hands like that. Ye are not even an ordinary housewife. I’d reckon ye have never done laundry in yer life.”
Her face burned. “Well, I… Well, ye are a stranger to me. A strange man, nonetheless! Why should I tell ye the truth? Ye have no right to hear it.”
He gave a short laugh. “Ye are in my barn, lassie.”
Her cheeks burned.
This is it, then. He’s going to throw me out into the rain, and to be fair, I deserve it. I won’t tell him, though. It might make the difference between my freedom and getting caught.
Then the dog came padding forward, sniffing cautiously. It came right up to Freya, sniffing at her skirts. Almost without thinking, Freya put her hand down to touch the dog’s rough, warm head. It blinked up at her, then glanced at the man, and plonked itself down beside Freya.
The man stared, the lantern lowering further. Freya had a sense that something important had happened, although she couldn’t quite work out what.
“Very well,” he muttered, after a long pause. “Ye can stay here for a few hours, that’s all. I want ye gone by dawn, got it? And if ye steal so much as a handful of straw from me…”
“I won’t, I won’t!” Freya assured him, knees nearly buckling with relief.
He grunted. “Argentum, come.”
The dog left her side at once and loped after the man. Still muttering to himself, the man went stamping out of the barn, the dog at his side. He took the lantern with him, and slammed the door behind him. Freya was plunged into darkness.
Still shaking, she climbed up the ladder to the hayloft by feel. She was asleep almost before she plunged into the straw.
“Hey! Get up!”
Freya jerked awake, panic flooding through her.
They found me. They found me. I’ll have to marry him, marry him or die…
She paused, blinking around herself. The memories trickled back—she was in a hayloft owned by a very unfriendly man.
The straw which had seemed so comfortable the night before had thinned out during the night so that she woke up sleeping on bare floorboards with mountains of straw hovering around her.
It felt as though hundreds of sharp straw pieces had worked their way through her clothes to prick her skin.
She hardly dared imagine what her hair looked like.
She crawled to the edge of the loft and looked down.
The man was standing down there, a tray in his hands.
Porridge, milk, and a hunk of bread, by the looks of it.
Her stomach growled. The dog—Argentum—sat beside him, and idly thumped his tail on the ground at the sight of her.
The man was wearing a loose white shirt, strained over his chest, the sleeves rolled up around his forearms.
“I thought I said ye should leave by dawn,” the man remarked, although there was no real bite in his voice. “The morning’s half gone.”
“I’ll be down in a moment,” she responded, and ducked back out of sight.
I wish I had a mirror.
Freya did not consider herself vain, or overly concerned with her looks, but still.
She combed out her hair as best she could, winding it back into a braid.
She patted her cheeks to bring some color into her pale skin, and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.
Then there was nothing else to do but climb down.
The man looked a little more impatient than before, sighing and tapping his booted foot on the ground as she climbed down.
“Take yer time, lass, it’s not as if I have anything better to do than bring ye yer breakfast,” he muttered once.
Freya thought it best not to respond. She reached the bottom of the ladder, and he thrust the tray at her, then stood back, brawny arms folded, while she ate.
He watched her carefully, and Freya had the chance to look him over properly.
He wasn’t quite the monstrous, looming figure she’d seen last night, but he was much taller than she was, and strong and brawny like farmers generally were.
He had sharp features, including a rather long and pointed nose that elongated his features.
His eyes were an unusual shade of gray-blue, she noticed, half-hidden under heavy black brows.
She wasn’t sure whether he was scowling at her, or if that was just the natural resting expression of his face.
What was most surprising, which she hadn’t noticed at all last night, were his scars.
Silvery, raised lines dotted here and there.
Some were on his face, and others crisscrossed his exposed forearms. One long line ran irregularly over his left cheek, just below his eye, and down past his cheekbone and over his sharp, square jaw.
The line climbed down his neck and disappeared underneath his shirt.
She didn’t even want to imagine what injury had caused that scar.
It was odd to see such vivid scars on someone so young. He couldn’t be much older than five and twenty summers, and perhaps if he hadn’t been so surly and short with her, Freya might have found him good-looking. At least he hadn’t asked for her name, or displayed any interest in her.
She told herself that she was very glad about that. She’d had enough male attention from Laird Grahame to last a lifetime, and wanted no more. It didn’t matter how handsome a man was, or how tasty his porridge was.
“Ye have to go after that, ye know,” he interrupted. “Ye can’t stay here.”
She swallowed a mouthful of porridge, and nodded. “I know. I’m grateful for yer hospitality, sir. I was a wee bit unfriendly last night. There’s no excuse for it, but I was cold, wet, and tired, and I had no idea whether ye meant me harm or not. I am sorry, though.”
He grunted. “Look, it’s none of my business where ye are going, or where ye came from. Yer reasons are ye own. But if ye have nowhere to go, I would suggest ye go to the convent.”
“A convent?” Freya snorted. “No, thank ye. I’ve no desire to become a nun.”
“It’s not that sort of place. Well, it is, but…
Never mind. They take in women and children who need shelter.
It also serves as a hospital of sorts for the nearby town.
They’ll let ye take a few days or however long ye need to rest and recover, and plan where ye are going next.
They’re a decent lot. It’s the Priory of St. Deborah, no more than five miles from here. ”
Freya took her time in responding, scraping up the last of her porridge. In her experience, convents were not the most welcoming of places, but she did need somewhere to lie low for a while.
If she didn’t like the place, she could always flee again. She glanced up at the man.
“Can ye direct me there?”