Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“Twelve shillings for this here kettle?” a woman’s voice cried out. “Why, that is robbery, I say!”
“Nay, lass, this is a fine, iron kettle, finest in all the market!” the vendor responded immediately, although the woman didn’t sound convinced.
The market was alive with movement and sound.
Vendors called out from their stalls, boasting of fresh produce, finely woven fabrics, and handcrafted trinkets.
The scents of freshly baked bread and roasted meat mingled with the sharp tang of herbs and spices.
Children darted between the booths, their laughter blending with the murmur of haggling townsfolk.
Michael moved through the crowd, his presence commanding enough that people instinctively made way.
Freya walked beside him, her skirts brushing against the cobblestones.
He could see her eyes flitting over the stalls with a healer’s sharp intuition.
Two guards trailed them, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, ever watchful.
Michael glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, noting how she carried herself with a confidence he had rarely seen in a woman. There was a certain softness to her—her delicate features, the way her auburn hair glowed in the sunlight—but her words held a surprising edge.
“This is where ye usually get yer herbs?” he asked gruffly, breaking the silence.
Freya nodded, pausing to inspect a bundle of dried chamomile. “Aye. The traders here have what I need most of the time. When they daenae, I forage in the woods.” Her voice was gentle, but there was a fire beneath it, a quiet strength that caught him off guard.
She glanced up at him, her brown eyes sharp yet kind. “And if yer men were better prepared, me laird, I might nae have been called here at all.”
His jaw tightened. “If the healer I had wasnae a complete fool, ye wouldnae have been needed.”
“Then perhaps ye should’ve sought someone better before now,” she replied smoothly, her tone polite but pointed.
“I did,” he grunted. “All charlatans. I just hope ye arenae one of those.”
“I have good recommendations, me laird,” she smiled, refusing to bow down. “After all, isnae that why ye came to get me in the middle of the night?”
Before she could say anything to that, he stopped at a stall selling jars of salves and bottles of tinctures, watching as Freya picked through the wares. She moved with purpose, her hands deftly inspecting each item.
The vendor, an older woman with a kind smile, greeted Freya warmly. “Mistress Lawson! Good to see ye. What’ll it be today?”
Freya exchanged pleasantries, her voice softening slightly as she listed what she needed. Michael folded his arms, feeling out of place amid the pleasantries but unable to take his eyes off her.
“Ye’re nae what I expected,” he muttered, almost to himself, yet unable to take his eyes off of her. There was something about the way the sun caught flickers of light in her hair that mesmerized him.
Freya glanced at him, one brow arching. This seemed to make her even more enticing. “And what did ye expect, me laird?”
He hesitated, caught between honesty and maintaining his gruff exterior. As always, he chose the truth. “Someone… meeker.”
She laughed, a light, melodic sound that somehow grated on his nerves and intrigued him all the same. It seemed that everything she did both annoyed him and thrilled him, something he didn’t quite know what to do with.
“Then ye’ve sorely misjudged me. I may be gentle with me patients, but I daenae suffer fools lightly.”
Michael smirked despite himself, though he quickly buried it under his usual stern expression. “Aye, I’m startin’ to see that.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the guards shifting behind them, ever watchful. Michael’s gaze swept the bustling market, instinctively scanning for threats. He wouldn’t let Freya —or anyone under his care, he reminded himself—come to harm, no matter how frustrating she might be.
Freya finished her purchase and turned back to him, her arms full of carefully chosen herbs and tinctures. She met his gaze head-on, her fire evident even in the smallest movement.
“Shall we continue, me laird?” she asked, her tone polite but laced with challenge.
Michael nodded, gesturing for her to lead the way. As they walked through the market, he found himself wondering how someone so soft in appearance could be so unyielding—and why, despite himself, he respected her for it.
They continued to stride purposefully, making their way through the bustling market.
The guards trailed a few paces behind, a constant reminder of his station.
Freya kept pace with him, his arms laden with the herbs and tinctures she’d purchased, and though her movements were unhurried, her sharp eyes missed nothing.
“Are they here to keep us safe?” she asked, gesturing at the guards.
“Aye,” he replied barely audibly.
“Are we in danger?” she asked again, sounding more curious.
He had little desire to explain how a laird, and especially those around him, were in constant danger.
“They are here to make sure we are nae,” he explained instead.
“Do they protect ye like this in battles as well?” She was relentless with her questions and he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why.
“Nay,” he replied shortly. “In battles, it is every man for himself.”
“Me laird,” she began hesitantly, “ye’ve clearly seen yer share of battles. I imagine ye carry more scars than most.”
He glanced down at her this time. “Aye, I’ve had me share.”
Her gaze flicked to his face, and she hesitated before speaking again. “The burn on yer cheek... was that from a battle?”
Michael stiffened, the tension radiating through him like a drawn bowstring. His jaw tightened, and his steps slowed as he turned to face her. The fire in his blue eyes was colder now, edged with a simmering anger.
“It’s none of yer concern, lass,” he said, his voice gruff and unyielding.
Freya’s expression softened, and she quickly held up a hand in apology. “Forgive me, me laird. I dinnae mean to pry.”
For a moment, he considered leaving it at that. But something in her gaze—genuine curiosity tinged with an unspoken kindness—unlocked the door to a memory he rarely allowed himself to revisit. He sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck as he averted his eyes.
“I got it in the fire,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “The one that took me wife.”
Freya stopped in her tracks, the weight of his words obviously hitting her like a blow. “Oh, Michael,” she said softly, the use of his given name slipping out unbidden, then she hastily corrected herself. “Me laird, I’m so sorry for yer loss.”
His gaze snapped back to her, the brief vulnerability in his eyes replaced with steel. “Daenae be,” he said sharply. “Our marriage was one of convenience. She was... difficult, to say the least. A match made for politics, nae affection.”
Freya blinked. “But still—”
“She gave me me son,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “For that, I’ll always respect her. But daenae mistake that for somethin’ it wasnae. I’m sorry she died. Nay one deserves an end like that. But I dinnae love her.”
Her eyes searched his face almost as if she didn’t know what exactly to say. Not that he wanted her to say anything.
“Thank ye for sharin’ that with me,” he heard her words in a subdued tone. “That couldnae have been easy to say.”
Michael huffed, brushing off her words as if they were inconsequential. “It was a long time ago,” he muttered, resuming his brisk pace. “And we’ve a boy to save. That’s all that matters now.”
She didn’t say anything to that. The matter was brought to an end. He trailed a few steps behind her as she approached another vendor’s stall. Her voice, soft yet commanding, carried just enough for him to catch her words as she greeted the vendor with warmth.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Boyle,” she said, her tone friendly. “How’s yer brother farin’? Is the fever gone?”
The vendor, a stout man with weathered hands, looked up from arranging bundles of dried lavender and smiled broadly. “Ah, Mistress Lawson! Aye, he’s on the mend, thanks to ye. If nae for yer potion, I doubt he’d still be with us. Ye’ve the touch of an angel, that ye do.”
Freya laughed lightly, shaking her head. “I only did what I could. I’m glad to hear he’s better. Tell him to rest properly—none of this runnin’ about too soon, ye hear?”
Boyle chuckled, his face lighting up with gratitude. “Aye, aye. And if there’s ever a need, ye come to me. Nay charge for anythin’ at me stall, mind.”
Michael stood a few feet away, observing the interaction in silence. He saw the way the vendor beamed at her, his appreciation evident in every gesture. And Freya, for all her grace and modesty, dismissed the praise with humility, as if saving a life were nothing extraordinary.
She handed over a few coins anyway, refusing to take charity even when it was freely offered, and selected a small pouch of herbs from the stall. Her kindness wasn’t showy or ostentatious—it was woven into her very being, as natural as breathing.
Michael’s chest tightened. He wasn’t a man prone to sentiment, but watching her now, it was impossible to ignore the truth settling over him like a weight. He’d chosen well.
For his son, for Cody, there could be no better healer. She had not only the skill but the heart to see her work through. That kind of integrity was rare, and it stirred something in him that he couldn’t name—or didn’t want to.
When she turned back toward him, her eyes bright with determination and her hands full of fresh supplies, Michael gave a small nod.
“Got everythin’ ye need?” he asked without a change in his facial expressions.
“For now,” she replied, smiling faintly.
He fell into step beside her, his mind heavy with thoughts. She was here for Cody, and that was all that mattered. Yet, as they moved to the next stall, he couldn’t shake the image of her face—kind, resilient, and quietly luminous.
But before he could silently admire her for a few moments longer, a scream tore through the air around them.