Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“Goodness me, who could that be at this time of night?” Freya wondered, as the knock interrupted their peaceful moment by the fire.
She moved slowly, still shadowed by her previous encounter with MacTavish, her guard already up.
As she opened the door a sliver, the sight of the man before her —a tall, broad figure with sharp features etched by years of hard living—made her stiffen.
His dark eyes were intense, his jaw set with purpose, and his cloak, dusted with the chill of the night, suggested he’d ridden there.
There was a dark energy about him that made her pulse quicken and her cheeks flushed a poppy red.
But his scar… it almost made her gasp, although she had seen enough wounds and scars to last her a lifetime.
Summoning all of her composure, she swallowed heavily, refusing to acknowledge the burn mark on the man’s cheek, as her eyes stared into his.
Scarred or not, none of that mattered. To Freya, he was just another man who thought he could demand her time and attention.
“Nay,” she said curtly, and without waiting for a response, began to close the door.
His hand shot out, palm flat against the wood, stopping it from shutting entirely. Freya glared up at him, her temper flaring.
“I said, nay!” she snapped, gripping the door tighter. “I’m done with ye suitors!”
The man didn’t budge, his strength evident as he held the door firmly. “I’m nae here to court ye, lass,” he said, his voice low and edged with impatience. “I’m here because I need yer help. I need ye to come with me.”
Freya’s brows knit together, suspicion and frustration warring within her. “Do ye now?” she said coldly. “And what makes ye think I’ll just up and follow ye in the dead of night? I’ve nay time for men with demands and nay manners.”
“Listen to me,” he said sharply, leaning closer. “Me son is ill—dyin’, for all I ken—and I was told ye’re the only healer who can save him.”
His words stopped her for a moment, her chest tightening at the mention of a child.
But she wasn’t so easily swayed. Perhaps he was merely endeavoring to lure her in with this talk of a child, knowing she was a healer.
She had had more than enough confrontation for one day and she simply wished to be left alone.
“And ye think the way to ask for help is to bang on me door and bark orders?” she shot back, her voice rising. “I have responsibilities here. Sisters to care for. Other patients who are also ill. I’m nae some servant ye can summon with a knock.”
His jaw tightened, his frustration evident. “Do ye think I’d be here if I had any other choice? Do ye think I’d leave me boy’s side to beg for yer help unless it was desperate?”
“Desperation doesnae excuse aggression,” she snarled at him, ready to close the door, but his hand as well as the fact that they were discussing a child kept the door open.
Freya froze mid-step as the man’s voice cut through the tense silence, low and sharp as a blade.
“If ye willnae come willingly,” he said, his dark eyes boring into hers, “then I’ll drag ye to me castle by force. And I’ll keep ye there until me son is healed.”
Her grip on the door tightened, her jaw clenching as anger flared hot and bright. She turned back to face him, her green eyes blazing. Only a laird would be that aggressively self-confident to think that no repercussions would come of such an action.
“Ye’d what?”
His stance was unyielding, his towering frame casting a shadow over the threshold. “Ye heard me,” he growled. “I’ll do whatever it takes to save me boy. If that means takin’ ye against yer will, so be it.”
Freya’s breath hitched, a mix of fury and disbelief coursing through her. “Do ye have any idea how daft ye sound?” she snapped. “Threatenin’ a healer? And what happens if I decide nae to help once I’m at yer castle, hm? What then?”
He still didn’t back down. “Ye wouldnae allow a child to suffer, nae when ye ken that it’s a dear life to take care of.”
His words struck a nerve, though Freya wasn’t about to admit it. She crossed her arms, standing her ground even as his imposing presence loomed.
Imposin’ and utterly magnetic.
Her thoughts betrayed her, and she angrily banished them to the back of her mind.
I will never back down from an argument with a man, nae even if that man is as handsome as this brute.
“Aye, and I’m nae the kind to be bullied into anythin’, either. Do ye think this is how ye convince someone to help ye? By threatenin’ to haul them away like a sack of grain?”
They stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like a storm ready to break. Freya’s heart pounded as she searched his face, her healer’s instinct finally seeing what lay beneath his harsh words.
Desperation. Raw, unrelenting desperation.
She softened slightly, though her tone remained firm. “Ye wouldnae be actin’ this way unless ye were truly out of options. That tells me yer boy must be in a bad way.”
The man’s shoulders remained upright, there was not even the smallest crack in his armored demeanor. “He is,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve tried everythin’. There’s nay one else.”
Freya let out a slow breath, her anger ebbing as compassion took its place. “Fine,” she said, raising a hand to stop him before he could speak. “I’ll come. But on one condition.”
The man tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “What condition?”
“Me sisters come with me,” Freya said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m nae leavin’ them here alone, without anyone to look after them. If ye want me help, ye’ll take us all.”
He thought about it for a moment, then he acquiesced. “Agreed. Ye and yer sisters will be safe under me roof.”
Freya narrowed her eyes, not entirely convinced. “And I’ll hold ye to that. Ye harm them in any way, and I’ll be the one draggin’ ye somewhere, mark me words.”
A smirk crossed the man’s face, though it vanished as quickly as it came. “Fair enough. Be ready to leave first thing in the mornin’.”
Freya exhaled sharply, giving a curt nod. “We’ll be ready.”
Just as he turned to leave, Freya’s voice called after him, cutting through the cold, night air.
“Wait!”
He stopped in his tracks, his broad back rigid, the cloak draped over his shoulders shifting slightly in the breeze. He turned halfway, his dark eyes glinting in the faint moonlight as he looked at her, one brow raised in question.
“I daenae even ken yer name,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And if ye’re expectin’ me to pack up me sisters and followin’ after breadcrumbs, I’d like to ken where exactly we’ll be headin’.”
For a moment, his expression softened, though his intensity didn’t wane. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture that was almost gentlemanly despite the tension that had passed between them. That devilishly handsome smirk was there again.
It doesnae work on me. Ye can smirk all ye want.
“Michael Hughes,” he said, his voice lower now, with a hint of something gentler beneath the gruffness. “Laird of the McEwan clan. Me castle’s just past the hills north of here. Ye’ll know it when ye see it.”
Freya studied him, her lips pressed into a thin line, still trying to reconcile his earlier threats with the vulnerability she’d glimpsed.
“Well, Laird McEwan,” she said, emphasizing the title with a slight edge, “ye’d best remember this: ye daenae command me. We’re doin’ this me way, or nae at all.”
“If ye can heal me son in two weeks, ye can do things yer way. But if he’s still nae on the mend in two weeks, I’ll have ye kicked out of the territory. Understood?”
That caught her off guard. There was no smirk, only orders. She wasn’t used to that. However, she reminded herself that there was a child at question. If either of her two sisters were ill, she would have been equally protective of them.
“All right,” she said simply. “Two weeks.”
“Done,” he nodded. “If ye daenae arrive at the castle by tomorrow night, I will hunt ye down meself.”
She looked at him dead in the eyes. “I daenae play with the lives of the wee ones. We will be there. Good night.”
With those words, she closed the door, but she knew that another one was left wide open.