Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
He turned and strode toward his horse, his commanding presence undeniable even as he disappeared into the night. Freya stood in the doorway, the chill of the evening air forgotten as her thoughts raced.
Her earlier anger simmered beneath the surface, but there was something else there now. Something that made her heart beat faster, feeling a heat that erupted from her very depths.
“Goodness me, what an evenin’,” she muttered under her breath, closing the door and leaning against it. Her heart still beat faster than it should, and her mind replayed the way he’d looked at her, the way his voice had softened just enough to make her chest tighten.
Freya took a steadying breath, shaking off the lingering tension before turning toward the small hearth where her sisters sat.
Abigail had curled up on the threadbare rug, her head resting on Marissa’s lap, while Marissa absently stroked her hair, her face thoughtful as she scribbled something in her notebook.
They looked up as Freya stepped into the light, her expression guarded. They were wide awake now.
“What happened?” Marissa asked, setting the notebook aside. Her tone was calm, but her keen eyes scanned Freya’s face for answers.
Freya hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. She didn’t want to frighten them, especially Abigail, but there was no use in hiding the truth. With a sigh, she moved to sit on the edge of a worn chair near the fire, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“That was a man named Michael Hughes,” she began, her voice steady but soft. “He’s the laird of the McEwan clan. His son is very ill, and he came here tonight to ask for me help.”
“Ask?” Marissa repeated, one eyebrow arching in a way that reminded Freya of their mother. “Or demand?”
Freya gave a rueful smile. “A bit of both. He seems like… a stubborn man, but I think he’s desperate. He said I’m the only healer who can save his boy.”
Abigail sat up suddenly, her wide eyes fixed on Freya. “Ye’re nae leavin’, are ye?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Ye’re nae goin’ to leave us here alone?”
Freya’s chest tightened at the fear in her sister’s voice. She reached out, pulling Abigail into her lap and wrapping her arms around her. “Nay, sweet girl,” she murmured. “I’d never leave ye here by yerselves. That’s why I gave him a condition.”
Marissa frowned, leaning forward. “What condition?”
Freya glanced between them, her gaze firm but reassuring. “We’ll go together,” she said. “All three of us. He’s agreed to make sure ye’re both safe at his castle while I work. And once his son is well, we’ll come home.”
Abigail buried her face in Freya’s shoulder, her small frame trembling. “But what if somethin’ happens? What if he tries to keep ye there?”
Freya stroked her sister’s hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Naythin’ will happen,” she promised. “I’ll make sure of it. And if he so much as thinks about breakin’ his word, he’ll regret the day he knocked on this door.”
Marissa nodded slowly, though worry still lingered in her eyes. “It’s dangerous, Freya,” she said quietly. “What if the boy cannae be saved? What if the laird blames ye?”
Freya met her sister’s gaze, her resolve hardening. “I ken the risks,” she said. “But I cannae turn me back on a sick child. Ye ken that as well as I do.”
Marissa sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I ken. It’s just… I wish it dinnae have to be us, always havin’ everyone run to us to solve their problems.”
Freya’s heart ached at the truth in her sister’s words. “So do I,” she admitted. “But we’ll face this together, like we always do.”
Abigail looked up at her, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “Do ye promise we’ll come back home?”
Freya smiled, brushing a stray curl from her sister’s face. “I promise,” she said, her voice steady. “Nay matter what happens, we’ll come back home.”
For the rest of the evening, they stayed close by the fire, the sisters drawing strength from each other.
Freya listened to Marissa share her dreams of writing stories that would one day support them all, her determined voice a reminder of their shared resilience.
Abigail fell asleep with her head on Freya’s lap, her trust unwavering despite her fears.
The cottage was quiet now, save for the occasional pop of the embers, a fragile peace settling over the room.
But Freya’s thoughts refused to settle.
Her mind drifted back to Michael Hughes—the towering, brooding laird who had stormed into her life with all the subtlety of a thunderclap. She replayed their tense exchange, his sharp words and unrelenting gaze, but his bravado never left him.
He was infuriating, no doubt about it. High-handed, arrogant, and entirely too sure of his ability to command her. And yet… beneath all that bluster, there was something else. Something raw and painfully human. A father’s love for his son, unyielding and unashamed.
Freya sighed, leaning back against the chair as she stared into the fire. She couldn’t deny the flicker of curiosity he’d stirred in her—or the way her heart had raced when he’d looked at her, even in anger.
Freya shook her head, banishing the thought. She had enough to worry about without getting distracted by the likes of Michael Hughes. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, and she’d face them with her sisters by her side.
Michael rode through the iron gates of his castle grounds.
The weight of the gray stone walls, weathered by time and responsibility, pressed against his shoulders as much as the sky above.
He dismounted, his boots striking the cobblestones with a deliberate heaviness, and handed the reins to the stable boy waiting in silence.
Without hesitation, he turned to the healer, who sat astride her horse, her posture tense and uncertain.
He walked over to her and offered his hand.
The moment her warmth touched him, a current of heat streamed through him, awakening desire he thought was long aslumber.
He cleared his throat, banishing the thought of her naked skin against his fingers, but not before he noted the faint blush on her cheeks before she muttered her thanks.
His chest tightened at the sight, at that unfamiliar stirring that he hastily tamped down.
“This way,” he said gruffly, motioning toward the castle’s main entrance.
The sisters trailed after him, their footsteps echoing in the grand stone corridor. His pace was brisk, his focus fixed ahead, but he slowed just enough to point out key areas.
“Yer chambers are in the east wing,” he said, his deep voice carrying over the sound of their boots on the stone floor. “I’ve arranged for ye all to stay together, as ye requested. There’s an extra chamber nearby for ye, Freya, should ye need space to work or rest.”
He didn’t look at her, but he felt the weight of her gaze.
He half-expected a comment or another sharp remark after their heated argument the night before, but she said nothing.
When he finally stopped at a set of oak doors and pushed them open, he caught the subtle shift in her expression.
It was surprise mingled with relief, though she, too, knew how to mask it quickly.
Michael pushed them open to reveal a cozy chamber of interconnected rooms. The main chamber was modest but warm, with a hearth already burning and a simple table set for tea. Two smaller doors on the far side opened into separate sleeping quarters, one slightly larger than the other.
“This is perfect,” one of the girls said quietly with relief.
The other one darted past them, her initial shyness replaced by curiosity. She peeked into one of the smaller rooms before rushing to the other, her excited chatter filling the space.
“Freya, look! There’s even a window seat!”
Freya smiled, and it seemed that the the tension in her shoulders eased slightly. “Thank ye,” she said, turning to the laird. “This will do nicely. I appreciate the accommodations… and the extra chamber.”
He nodded once, his gaze steady but distant. “If there’s anythin’ else ye need, let me ken. Meals will be served in the great hall.”
“Mayhap we could have the meals brought up here?” she asked, expressing an obvious preference.
“Fine,” he said indifferently. “It is of nae concern of mine where ye eat, as long as ye tend to me lad.”
Before he could step away, footsteps sounded from the hall.
Michael turned just as Leighton entered the room without knocking.
The man’s wiry frame and sharp, hawk-like features carried an air of authority that bordered on arrogance—a trait Michael tolerated solely because Leighton was efficient… on occasion.
“Me laird,” Leighton said, bowing slightly before his sharp eyes flicked toward the girls. “I must speak with ye at once.”
Michael turned, his expression darkening. “What is it, Leighton?”
“It’s yer son,” Leighton replied, his tone grave. “His condition has worsened. The fever grows stronger, and his breathin’ has become labored.”
The words were a blow, though Michael kept control of his reaction, burying it beneath a stoic mask. He barely noticed Freya step forward until her voice cut through the tension.
“Take me to him,” she said firmly.
Leighton’s gaze snapped to her, his brow furrowing. “And who might ye be?” he asked, his tone dripping with disdain.
“She’s the one who can help,” Michael said before Freya could respond. His voice carried an edge of finality.
Freya ignored him entirely, her focus on the laird. “We daenae have time to waste. Show me to his room.”
Michael held her eyes for a brief moment, weighing her resolve. Something in her tone, some quiet conviction, pushed him to trust her, even if the part of him accustomed to guarding his family resisted.
Without a word, he turned and led the way with quickening steps.
He didn’t look back to see if she followed. Somehow, he already knew she would.