Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It’s ridiculous, really. A grown woman, hesitatin’ like a bairn caught in mischief.
But Freya couldn’t help it. She stood before the heavy oak door, her hand hovering near the brass knocker. Her heart raced in her chest, not from fear exactly, but from the tension coiled in her ever since she’d resolved to speak with him.
The memory of their kiss lingered, unbidden and unwanted. She could still feel the heat of his lips on hers, the strength of his hands as they’d steadied her. And now, here she was, about to ask him for a favor while pretending that none of it had ever happened.
Ye’ve nay choice, Freya. This is for Marissa.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and knocked.
“Come in,” came the laird’s deep voice from within, calm but commanding.
Freya pushed the door open and stepped inside, the scent of leather and aged wood enveloping her.
Michael was seated behind his desk, quill in hand, his brow furrowed over some document.
Immediately, her mind conjured up images of his hands on her body, his lips on her own lips, igniting a fire inside of her she knew she would never be able to extinguish.
When he looked up and saw her, his expression flickered.
“Ah, Freya,” he said smoothly, setting the quill aside. “This is unexpected. What brings ye here?”
Freya swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.
She’d thought she was prepared for this, but standing before him now, all her composure seemed to slip away.
His dark eyes, steady and piercing, seemed to see far too much.
The firelight played over his face, accentuating the strong line of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble.
He looked so effortlessly powerful, so utterly handsome, it made her chest tighten.
She dropped her gaze, focusing on the edge of his desk instead of his face. “Yer Lairdship, I… I’ve come to ask a favor.”
He leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. The movement only emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the strength hinted at beneath his finely tailored clothes. Freya’s cheeks burned, and she hated herself for noticing.
“A favor, is it?” he said, his tone curiously mischievous. “Do go on, then.”
“It’s nae for me,” she began, clasping her hands in front of her to keep them from fidgeting. “It’s for Marissa. She’s written a book, a novel. And she—well, we—were hopin’ ye might be able to help her get it published.”
The laird’s brow lifted slightly. “A novel? That’s nae a small feat.”
“She’s worked so hard on it,” Freya said, her voice softening. “It means a great deal to her, but she kens it’ll be near impossible to find a publisher, bein’ a woman. She thought, perhaps, ye might… have connections.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze again, though the intensity of his eyes made her stomach flutter. He studied her for a moment, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Did he see the faint tremor in her hands? Could he sense the turmoil roiling beneath her calm facade?
“I’ll read it,” he said finally, his voice steady. “If it’s any good, I’ll see to it that it gets published.”
Relief washed over her, momentarily pushing aside her unease. “Thank ye,” she said earnestly, her heart full of gratitude.
“I will read it, but under one condition,” he suddenly added.
“A condition?” she echoed.
“Well, two, really,” he said with a smirk.
“Oh, two now?” she asked, pretending to be shocked. “That is very bold of ye, me laird.”
“What can I say? I am a bold man,” he pretended to shrug indifferently. He walked over to her then, closing the distance between them. “The first condition is that ye daenae call me me laird anymore. Michael is fine.”
She seemed taken off guard by it for a moment. Also by his proximity. “Michael,” she said, the name rolling down her tongue with ease she didn’t expect. She wanted to keep repeating it over and over again. “And the other?”
He inclined his head. “The other is that ye stay one more week… for Cody’s sake, of course.”
He was so close to her now that she could almost feel his hot breath spilling over her lips. This was how close they were when he kissed her. She was desperate for him to do it again, for her to drown in his arms and never come up for air.
But she pulled away in time, regaining composure. “A week it is then.”
“Aye,” he grinned, as if he had won. “I’ll expect to see the manuscript soon, then.”
Freya nodded, eager to leave before her fraying composure betrayed her further. She turned toward the door, but as her hand touched the latch, she paused. The weight of his gaze lingered on her back, or perhaps it was her imagination.
“Thank ye again,” she said without looking back, her voice quiet.
Then she stepped out into the corridor, her pulse racing. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
She’d done it. Marissa would be overjoyed. And yet, as Freya made her way to find her sister, her thoughts were tangled in the memory of Michael’s eyes, his voice, and the way he’d looked at her.
Freya found Marissa in the sitting room, bent over an embroidery hoop, though the stitches were uneven, and her movements distracted. The moment Freya stepped into the room, Marissa looked up, her dark eyes wide with anticipation.
“Well?” Marissa asked, setting the embroidery aside. “Did ye speak to him? What did he say?”
Freya smiled, though her nerves still fluttered in her chest. “Aye, I spoke to him. He’s agreed to help… on one condition.”
Marissa sprang to her feet, clasping her hands together. “What condition? Tell me!”
“He wants to read the book first,” Freya said gently. “If he likes it, he’ll make sure it’s published.”
Marissa let out a high-pitched squeal, her joy spilling over. “Oh, Freya, ye’ve nay idea what this means to me!” She darted forward and hugged her sister tightly.
Freya laughed softly, patting Marissa’s back. “I think I’ve some idea.”
Releasing Freya, Marissa spun toward the small desk in the corner, where the manuscript lay neatly stacked. She scooped it up with both hands, holding it as if it were a treasure.
“I’ll take it to him now,” she declared, her face flushed with excitement.
“Marissa, wait—” Freya began, but her sister was already halfway to the door.
“I’ll nae wait a moment longer!” Marissa called over her shoulder, her voice light with laughter.
Freya watched her go, her smile fading as the door swung shut behind her. Left alone in the quiet of the room, she let out a slow breath and sank into a nearby chair.
Her thoughts drifted to the laird. She couldn’t help but wonder how he would react to Marissa’s work. Would he see the brilliance her sister had poured into the pages? And beyond that, what would this new connection between him and her family bring?
The unease that had settled in her chest earlier returned, mingled with something she couldn’t quite name. Freya pressed a hand to her temple, trying to quiet her thoughts.
The laird had agreed to help, but at what cost?
“Enter,” Michael called, looking up from his writing table.
The door swung open, and in stepped Marissa, her face bright with excitement. She nearly skipped across the room, her eyes wide with hope.
“Me laird, I—” she began, her words tumbling out in a rush.
Michael raised a hand, his expression softening. “Take a breath, lass. What is it?”
She paused, catching her breath, and then, with a gleam in her eyes, she pulled the manuscript from her satchel. “Here it is! Me book. I’ve worked so hard on it, and I… I wanted to thank ye for helpin’ me.”
Michael could see the pride in her eyes, the sincerity behind her excitement as she handed him the manuscript.
Despite her enthusiasm, he noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she offered the book, a subtle reminder that she was still a young woman navigating a world that often didn’t appreciate her talents.
“Ye’ve done well, Marissa,” he said, taking the manuscript gently from her. His fingers brushed hers for a moment, and he gave her a reassuring look. “I’ll read through it and let ye ken what I think. If it’s as good as I hope it is, I’ll make sure it gets published.”
Her face lit up, her lips parting as if she wanted to say more, but she simply nodded eagerly. “Thank ye, me laird. Truly.”
Michael’s heart warmed a little. Though he was always more serious with the adults in his life, he found himself willing to indulge her excitement. She was just a child, after all, trying to make something of herself in a world that often didn’t give her a chance.
“Ye daenae need to thank me,” he said gently, his tone softer than usual. “I’ll do what I can for ye. Now, go on and enjoy the rest of yer day. I’ll see to this as soon as I can.”
Marissa’s smile stretched even wider, her eyes sparkling with hope. “I will, I will! Thank ye again!”
As she hurried from the room, practically floating on air, Michael glanced down at the manuscript in his hands, his mind already shifting to the words within.
But it wasn’t just the story he was interested in.
The look of gratitude on Marissa’s face had unsettled him in a way he wasn’t used to.
He wasn’t one to indulge in sentimentality, but there was something disarming about the way the young woman had trusted him with her dreams.
Michael leaned back in his chair, the thick manuscript resting on the desk before him.
The quiet of the study enveloped him, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth.
He hadn’t intended to start reading right away, but curiosity, as well as Marissa’s earnest hope, had compelled him to crack it open.
The first pages drew him in with surprising ease. Marissa had a way with words, her descriptions vivid and her characters full of life. But as he delved deeper, the story began to twist in ways that made his jaw tighten.
He read aloud, the words falling from his lips almost incredulously:
“He was a shadow upon her life, always watchin’, always waitin’. She could nae trust him, for she kent too well the monster that lay behind his eyes.”
Michael’s brow furrowed, the words striking an uneasy chord within him. He skimmed the next few lines, his gaze narrowing.
“She longed to escape him, even as she found herself drawn to the power he wielded, the unyieldin’ strength that both terrified and captivated her.”
He set the manuscript down for a moment, his fingers drumming against the desk.
The parallels were impossible to ignore.
The monster in Marissa’s story bore an unsettling resemblance to himself—the laird, a commanding figure who loomed large and unapproachable.
He seemed aloof in the beginning of the story, but as he delved deeper, the resemblance became more apparent.
And the woman… The woman reminded him far too much of Freya.
He picked up the manuscript again, flipping forward to another passage. His voice was lower now, rough with emotion he couldn’t quite contain.
“He thought himself untouchable, a man of stone. But she saw the cracks in his armor, the humanity he hid from the world. Yet she kent, even if she reached for him, she could never break through the darkness that consumed him.”
Michael’s hand tightened on the page, his knuckles whitening.
Is this how the girls see me? As a creature to be feared, someone cold and unfeelin’?
The idea stung more than he cared to admit. He thought back to her hesitation outside his study earlier that day, the way she’d avoided his eyes when she’d spoken. Had she been afraid of him, or merely wary of his power?
He pushed the manuscript away and stood abruptly, pacing the length of the study. His chest felt tight, the words from the page still echoing in his mind.
A monster.
He’d never cared much for what others thought of him. His role as laird demanded strength, demanded he be decisive and unyielding. But the thought that Freya—of all people—might see him that way stirred something raw and unfamiliar within him.
“She doesnae ken me,” he muttered under his breath, his brogue thickening with his frustration. “Nae really. Nae what I’ve sacrificed or why I am as I am.”
Yet, the nagging doubt remained. What if she did see him as the story described, a man consumed by his own darkness, incapable of anything beyond control and command?
Michael’s gaze drifted back to the manuscript, its pages waiting silently on the desk. He clenched his jaw, determined to read it to the end, to see if there was more to this tale that mirrored his life too closely for comfort.
Still, the question lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Was Marissa’s story merely fiction, or had Freya’s opinions of him bled into its pages?
For the first time in years, Michael felt the faintest pang of uncertainty—and he hated it.