Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
“Me laird,” Ross began, inclining his head respectfully, the moment Michael entered his office. “I trust yer son’s condition hasnae worsened?”
The man had been waiting for a while, standing stiffly by the large oak desk, his face composed but his eyes carrying a flicker of unease.
Michael crossed his arms, his patience thin. “What do ye want, Ross? I daenae have time for pleasantries.”
Ross cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable but pressing forward nonetheless.
“It is precisely about yer time—and the resources of this clan—that I wished to speak. We’ve all seen how much effort and coin has been spent tryin’ to save young Cody, but…
” He hesitated, then forged on, his tone as smooth as he could manage.
“Perhaps it’s time to consider the future of the clan.
Ye are still a young man, me laird, and—if I may be frank—it would be prudent to think of a second heir. A new wife, perhaps—”
Michael’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening like a gathering storm. “Watch yer next words carefully, Ross,” he growled.
Ross raised his hands slightly, a gesture of false appeasement. “It is only a suggestion, me laird. The clan’s stability depends on—”
“Depends on what?” Michael interrupted calmly. He took a step forward, his imposing figure looming over the councilman. “Depends on me abandonin’ me son? On me treatin’ him like he’s already dead?”
“Me laird, I dinnae mean—”
“If ye dare suggest again,” Michael cut in coldly, “that I should cast aside me son, I will have ye hanged for treason. Do ye understand me?”
Ross paled, his composure faltering under the weight of Michael’s fury. “Of course, me laird. I meant nay disrespect.”
Michael took a deep, seething breath, his fists clenched at his sides. “Let me make one thing clear, Ross,” he said, his tone sharp as a blade. “For me son, I would burn this clan to the ground if that’s what it took to save him. I would march into war without hesitation. Do ye doubt me?”
I would never jeopardize me clansmen’s safety.
Ross shook his head quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Nay, me laird.”
“Good.” Michael’s glare lingered for a moment longer before he spun on his heel and strode out of the room.
The corridor felt too quiet as he made his way back to Cody’s chambers, but his anger refused to subside.
How dare Ross—or anyone—question me devotion to me son!? And to me clan as well?
The very idea of replacing Cody made his stomach churn with rage and disgust.
When he reached Cody’s door, he took a steadying breath, forcing the anger to the back of his mind. His son didn’t need his fury. Cody needed his strength, his presence.
Pushing the door open, Michael stepped inside, his gaze immediately falling on Freya, who sat by Cody’s bedside. Her focus was entirely on the boy, her hands moving with quiet efficiency as she adjusted the damp cloth on his forehead.
For a moment, he was caught off guard, his breath hitching in his throat.
She looked… radiant. The kind of beauty that wasn’t loud or demanding but quietly stole the air from the room.
Her auburn hair framed her face like a fiery halo, and her brown eyes, intent on her task, held a depth that unsettled him.
His eyes fell down to the soft mounds of her breasts, then down to her waist. Her curves flowed like the sea, and for a moment, he wanted to drown in them.
Michael frowned, shaking his head slightly to dispel the thought. This was neither the time nor the place for such distractions. His son lay pale and fragile on the bed, his condition far from stable. He was a laird, a father, not some green lad with a wandering mind.
Clearing his throat, Michael stepped fully into the room. “How is he?” he asked, his tone gruffer than he intended.
Freya looked up, her gaze meeting his briefly before she returned her focus to Cody. “His fever hasnae worsened, but he’s still nae out of danger. I’ve done what I can for now, but the herbs me sisters are gatherin’ will hopefully make a difference.”
Michael straightened, his jaw tightening as he pushed the fleeting thoughts of Freya’s beauty out of his mind. He needed to set boundaries, to reassert control over the situation—not allow himself to be distracted by the healer, no matter how tempting she was.
“Ye still have only two weeks,” he reminded abruptly, his voice firm.
Freya looked up at him, her expression unflinching. If his words affected her, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she nodded once, her tone calm as she replied, “I can count the days very well, me laird. I daenae need to be reminded of me duties.”
“It is me bairn,” he urged.
“In me eyes, all bairns are the same, worthy of the same attention and I will do everythin’ in me power to help me. That’s why ye brought me here. Now, I’ll need more details about his condition to treat him effectively.”
Her composure irritated him, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. Still, he nodded curtly. “What do ye need to ken?”
Freya sat up straighter, her hands resting in her lap. “How long has he been unconscious?”
“Two days,” Michael said, crossing his arms. “But he has been in the grip of this… illness for much longer, several weeks.”
Her brows furrowed in evident concern. “And the fever? Has it persisted the entire time?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “It started the mornin’ he collapsed and hasnae broken since.”
Freya frowned, her gaze narrowing thoughtfully as she tilted her head. “Has he exhibited any other symptoms before this? Fatigue, dizziness, anythin’ unusual?”
Michael hesitated, replaying the days before Cody’s collapse. “He’d been quieter than usual. Tired, but I thought he was just weary from his lessons. He complained of a headache the day before, and he refused his supper.”
“Did he eat or drink anythin’ unusual before the symptoms began?”
“Nay. His meals are prepared with care. He eats what the rest of the household does, naything out of the ordinary.”
Freya nodded slowly, her brows furrowed as she processed the information. “And his breathin’? Has it been consistent or labored at any point?”
Michael glanced at his son, recalling the moments he’d spent by his side. “It’s been steady but shallow since he fell unconscious.”
Freya’s lips pressed into a thin line as she absorbed the details.
Her calm, methodical demeanor should have reassured him, but instead, it frustrated him.
She didn’t seem fazed by the weight of what he was asking of her—or the consequences if she failed.
He couldn’t understand that. It seemed that there was nothing he could threaten her with.
Nothing but her sisters. As long as she had them with her, she needed nothing else. He could only admire that in her.
“What’s wrong with him?” Michael asked, his voice sharper than he intended.
“I daenae ken yet,” Freya admitted, her honesty cutting through the tension in the room. “The symptoms daenae point to just one illness. The fever suggests an infection, but the sudden collapse and prolonged unconsciousness are unusual. It’s possible he’s sufferin’ from more than one condition.”
Michael clenched his fists, his frustration mounting. “Then figure it out. Whatever it takes, I expect results.”
Freya met his gaze evenly. “I’ll do me best, me laird. But healin’ isnae always a matter of brute force. It requires time, patience, and careful observation. Yer son’s life isnae a wager to win or lose—it’s a delicate balance we must restore.”
Her words stung, and Michael scowled, turning his focus back to Cody. He didn’t need her lectures—he needed her results. Yet, despite his irritation, he couldn’t ignore the steadiness in her voice or the quiet confidence she carried.
“Two weeks,” he repeated, more to himself than to her.
With that, he stepped back, giving her the space to work, though his mind churned with unease. Freya might be his son’s best chance, but trusting her to succeed felt like walking a razor’s edge.
Silently, she continued to adjust the damp cloth on his son’s forehead, checking his pulse, and murmuring soft reassurances that Cody couldn’t even hear.
Every movement was deliberate, her attention unwavering, and for a fleeting moment, Michael felt a pang of gratitude for that motherly care that his son lacked so desperately.
“Ye daenae have to linger here, me laird,” Freya said suddenly, her voice quiet but steady. She glanced up at him, her auburn hair falling across one shoulder. “If there’s business to attend to, I can manage until me sisters return with the herbs.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “I’m nae leavin’,” he said firmly, pushing off the wall to stand closer to the bed.
Freya tilted her head, her brown eyes holding his for a beat longer than he liked. “He’s stable for now,” she continued, her tone gentle. “Yer presence willnae change that. Surely, there are matters in the castle that need yer attention.”
Michael exhaled sharply, his gaze falling to his son’s pale face. “I have moved me affairs here, so I can take care of both. Daenae worry about that, lass.”
Freya studied him quietly for a moment, then nodded. “I understand,” she said simply, her voice softening.
Her calm acknowledgment threw him off balance. For a moment, the room felt smaller, quieter, as if it was just the two of them standing in a shared understanding.
She offered a faint, reassuring smile and reached to adjust Cody’s blanket. “He’s a fortunate lad to have such a good faither.”
The sincerity in her voice was too much, cutting through his defenses. Michael’s spine straightened, and he quickly stepped back, his features hardening.
“Daenae waste time on sentiment,” he snapped, his tone harsher than he intended.
Freya blinked, taken aback but not rattled. She nodded once and returned her focus to Cody.
Michael turned away, pretending to inspect the room, though his jaw was clenched. He hated the pull he felt in her presence, the way her quiet strength unsettled him. This wasn’t the time for tenderness—or distraction. Cody was his only priority.
Still, as he glanced back at her briefly, her profile illuminated by the light filtering through the window, he felt that fleeting pang again. Michael shoved it aside, burying it under layers of gruff resolve. There was no room for anything else right now.
Ye must get better, me lad. Ye must…