Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
The scream froze Freya in her tracks. Her head snapped toward the sound, and her heart clenched at the sight. A young girl, no older than eight, lay crumpled on the dusty road. A man loomed over her, his horse snorting and stomping nervously behind him as he waved his arms in anger.
“Watch where ye’re runnin’, ye wee fool! Nearly broke me horse’s leg, ye did!” the man bellowed, his voice echoing through the stunned silence of the onlookers.
Freya dropped her basket and ran toward the girl without hesitation, barely aware of the laird’s storming past her toward the irate rider.
“What’s happened here?” Michael’s deep, commanding voice cut through the man’s tirade, silencing him mid-shout.
Freya dropped to her knees beside the girl, her healer’s instincts taking over. “It’s alright, lass,” she said softly, brushing the girl’s hair from her tear-streaked face. “I’m here to help.”
The girl whimpered, clutching her leg, where a gash ran jaggedly along her shin. Blood stained her skirts and pooled onto the ground. Freya moved quickly, her hands steady as she reached for the satchel slung over her shoulder.
“Let me see,” she murmured, gently prying the girl’s hands away. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, but it needed attention. “Ye’re goin’ to be just fine.”
Meanwhile, Michael squared off with the rider, his tone measured but firm. “Ye’ll lower yer voice, or I’ll lower it for ye,” he said, his eyes sharp as steel. “This is a child ye’ve injured. If ye’ve got grievances, ye’ll speak them to me, nae her.”
Freya was focused on the girl entirely, barely noticing the exchange. She retrieved a strip of clean cloth and doused it with a tincture, then pressed it gently to the wound. The girl winced, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks.
“I ken it stings, but it’ll stop the bleedin’,” Freya said soothingly. “Ye’re very brave, do ye ken that?”
The girl nodded weakly, her tiny hands clutching Freya’s arm for comfort.
A woman stepped forward, her face pale with concern. “How is she?”
“She’ll be alright,” Freya replied, tying the makeshift bandage securely around the girl’s leg. “The cut isnae deep, but she needs to rest and keep it clean. She is fortunate that the man was payin’ some attention to the road.”
The man overheard her, his face twisted in fury, and his loud voice exploded all around them.
“Blamin’ me, are ye? The brat ran right in front of me horse!” he shouted, jabbing a finger in the girl’s direction.
Freya rose to her full height, ignoring the dust on her skirts. Her voice was steady but sharp as steel.
“And as the rider, it’s yer responsibility to watch where ye’re goin’. A grown man like ye should ken better than to charge through a crowded market without care!”
The crowd murmured in agreement, but the man’s face darkened further. “Ye dare speak to me like that?” he growled, taking a menacing step toward her.
Freya didn’t flinch. She was too used to dealing with unruly men to let his bluster faze her. “I do,” she said firmly, standing her ground. “Ye struck a child with yer negligence, and instead of showin’ remorse, ye shout at her. Ye ought to be ashamed!”
The man’s hand shot out, his intent clear. Freya barely had time to react, but before his hand could reach her, a blur of motion swept past her.
Michael.
His hand caught the man’s wrist in an iron grip, yanking it back so forcefully the man staggered. In one swift motion, Michael drew his sword, the blade gleaming in the sunlight as he leveled it at the man’s throat.
“Touch her,” Michael growled, his voice low and deadly, “and it’ll be the last thing ye ever do.”
The man froze, his face draining of color as the tip of Michael’s blade pressed just enough to nick his skin.
Freya’s breath caught as she watched the laird—his towering frame, his controlled rage, and the sheer command he exuded. For a moment, she forgot everything else, captivated by the raw power radiating from him.
“Apologize,” Michael ordered, his voice cutting through the tension like the very blade he wielded.
The man stammered, his bravado utterly gone. “I’m—I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I dinnae mean—”
“Louder,” Michael barked, his tone brooking no argument.
“I’m sorry!” the man practically shouted, his knees trembling under Michael’s glare.
Satisfied, the laird lowered his sword, though his grip on the hilt remained firm. He turned to the nearest guard. “Take him to the dungeons. He can sit there and think about his recklessness.”
The guard saluted sharply, stepping forward to seize the man by the arm.
Freya released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her hand brushing against her chest as she tried to steady herself. “Ye dinnae have to do that,” she murmured, looking at Michael.
“Ye.”
That was the only thing he said, as his strong hand clamped around her wrist. The firmness of his grip startled her, thrilled her, burned her, and yet, she never wanted him to let go.
Before she could object, he was leading her away, his strides long and determined.
“What are ye doin’?” she hissed, trying to keep up as he navigated through the bustling market, trying to forget what his touch did to her. His guards lingered at a respectful distance, but their presence only added to her growing unease.
He didn’t stop until they reached a narrow alley between two stone buildings, shielded from prying eyes and ears. Releasing her hand, he turned to face her, his expression thunderous.
“What were ye thinkin’?” he demanded, his voice low but seething with anger.
Freya took a step back, lifting her chin defiantly. “I was thinkin’ someone needed to stand up for that girl,” she replied, her voice steady despite the rapid thrum of her heart.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, his frustration palpable. “Ye could’ve been hurt, Freya! That man could’ve—” He broke off, his hand tightening into a fist. “Ye daenae just step into a situation like that without thinkin’.”
Freya crossed her arms, matching his intensity with her own. “And what would ye have had me do? Stand by and watch as he berated a child he’d injured?”
“I had it under control,” Michael snapped, his eyes flashing, the eyes that she suddenly wanted to drown in and never come up for air.
“Ye dinnae even see him goin’ for me until it was too late!” Freya shot back, her voice rising. “I’m nae some helpless damsel, me laird. I can handle meself.”
His lips pressed into a thin line as he took a step closer, the proximity crackling with tension. He was close… dangerously close, and yet, she knew that she was safe there, with him.
“Ye’re in me town, me home, under me protection. I will nae let anyone lay a hand on ye,” he growled, his voice rough but tinged with something else—something that sent a shiver down her spine, like a titillating finger trailing an invisible line, aching to touch her more.
Freya’s breath caught. She wanted to argue, to push back against his overbearing demeanor, but the intensity in his gaze rooted her to the spot. The narrow alley seemed to shrink around them, and for a moment, the air between them felt too charged, too heavy to bear.
“Ye’re impossible,” she finally muttered, looking away in an attempt to gather her thoughts.
Michael stepped even closer, his voice softening but losing none of its edge. “And ye’re reckless.”
Freya’s head snapped back to meet his eyes, her frustration boiling over. “Reckless? Ye think carin’ about people is reckless?”
“Nae,” he said, his tone suddenly quieter, almost resigned. “But puttin’ yerself in harm’s way is.”
They stared at each other, the silence between them thick with unspoken words. His presence was overwhelming, magnetic, and she hated how easily it unsettled her.
“I’m nae afraid,” she said softly, though the words felt like a challenge.
“Ye should be,” he replied, his voice a low rumble.
Before she could respond, before she could push him away with words or fists, his hand shot out to grip her wrist, pulling her toward him. His touch was like fire, searing her skin through the fabric of her sleeve, and without any more warning, his lips were on hers.
It was raw, desperate—an explosion of heat that took her by complete surprise.
His mouth moved against hers with such urgency, such intensity, that it left no room for resistance.
She was angry, so angry, and yet her body betrayed her.
Every nerve in her body seemed to respond to the force of him, to the way his kiss deepened as if he’d been waiting for this moment, too.
For a split second, all of her thoughts—her anger, her frustration, her resolve—vanished. There was nothing but the press of his lips, the taste of him, and the sudden, overwhelming rush of attraction that left her breathless.
Her hands, initially stiff at her sides, found their way to his chest, pushing back for a moment, as if trying to break free from the kiss that seemed to consume her.
But she couldn’t pull away. His grip on her wrist tightened, pulling her in even closer, and she felt herself melting into him.
She could feel the heat radiating from him, the steady beat of his heart under her palm, and her mind screamed at her to stop, to push him away, but her body wouldn’t listen.
It was as if everything else faded away, leaving only the fire that burned between them.
“Laird McEwan!” The sound of the guards calling out to him broke the spell.
Michael pulled away abruptly, breaking the moment as if it had never happened.
She could feel the heat of him still lingering on her lips, her body still tingling from the intensity of his touch.
Her heart raced in her chest, and for a moment, she just stood there, caught in the remnants of the kiss, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
His eyes were dark, devouring her with a gaze that left her breathless, and she had to look away.
The heat from his touch, the fire that had ignited between them, seemed to cling to her skin like a second layer.
She could still feel the weight of his hand on her wrist, the grip that had been so possessive, so intense.
What had just happened?