Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Freya’s heart was still pounding as Michael sat down, his broad shoulders stiff with reluctance. His bleeding arm hung at his side, and though his expression remained impassive, the tension in his jaw betrayed the pain he must have been feeling.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand as she knelt beside him with the basin of water and a clean cloth. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for his arm. Being so close to him made her uneasy in more ways than she was willing to admit.
“Ye need to hold still,” she said softly. She glanced up at him, half expecting him to argue, but he merely nodded, his dark eyes fixed somewhere beyond her.
Her fingers brushed his skin as she began to clean the wound, and she felt a strange jolt at the contact. His arm was warm beneath her touch, the muscle solid and unyielding. She had tended to wounds before—had stitched and bandaged without a second thought—but this felt… different.
She wanted to kiss where it hurt. She wanted to make him feel better in more ways than one, to show him how much she wanted him. The intimacy of their proximity caught her off guard. Her fingers worked carefully, gently wiping away the blood, but her mind kept wandering.
His scent lingered around her, drawing her in, teasing her. She wondered how tight his muscles would be with her in his arms, while she traced the lines with the tips of her fingers. Her skin erupted into gooseflesh at the very thought.
How could a man so strong, so unyielding, seem so vulnerable in this moment?
Freya’s gaze lingered on his hand, large and calloused, resting on the arm of the chair. She wondered what it would feel like to have it grab her, hold her, possess her in every way a woman could be possessed by a man.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked. The arrow had left a deep gash, but thankfully it wasn’t as bad as she’d feared.
He shook his head, his eyes flicking to her briefly before looking away again. “I’ve had worse.”
She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his stubbornness. “Aye, I’m sure ye have,” she murmured, dipping the cloth into the water again. “Still, it doesnae mean ye should be careless.”
He didn’t respond. As she worked, Freya became acutely aware of how close they were.
She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and pine clinging to him.
It was distracting in a way that made her cheeks flush.
There was a heaviness in her stomach, an inexplicable heat pooling between her legs.
Her fingers hesitated for a moment as she pressed a clean cloth to the wound to staunch the bleeding. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she felt him flinch slightly, the muscle in his arm tightening under her touch.
“Almost done,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning within her.
When the wound was cleaned and wrapped, she finally allowed herself to sit back, her hands falling to her lap. Her fingers still tingled from where they had touched him, and her heart raced in a way that had nothing to do with fear or anger.
Freya glanced up at him, half expecting some gruff remark or dismissal, but he simply nodded, his gaze unreadable.
“Thank ye,” he said quietly, his voice rough but sincere. “Although it was unnecessary. It would have stopped bleedin’ on its own.”
Freya nodded quickly, unable to meet his eyes for long. She stood, gathering the bloodied cloths and the basin, her hands trembling again now that the moment had passed.
As she turned to leave, she couldn’t shake the way her heart had betrayed her with every touch. Her body didn’t want to belong to her any longer.
No. It wanted to belong to him.
Those were the thoughts that were still swarming inside her mind.
“What are ye doin’, Freya?” she whispered aloud, her voice trembling.
The quiet of the space pressed in around her as she closed the door to her chamber. He wasn’t even grateful that she tended to his wound. His gruff thank ye seemed to have been willed out of him as if someone tortured him for it.
She shouldn’t care. She couldn’t care. And yet…
Freya sank onto the edge of her bed, her hands twisting in her lap.
Her chest ached, a hollow, raw feeling she couldn’t seem to shake.
It wasn’t just the way he had refused to let her in, though that stung, too.
It was the way he made her feel, the way his presence filled a room and left her breathless, even when he wasn’t trying.
She pressed her hands to her face, as if she could block out the memory of his voice, his strength, the warmth of his skin under her touch as she tended to his wound. Every time she touched him, it felt like her entire body was on fire.
She wanted to be strong. She was strong. Yet the weight of it all, leaving her home, protecting her sisters, hiding her own fragile hopes, pressed down on her, until it felt like she might break.
“I cannae chase after a man,” she whispered to herself, the words shaky but resolute. “I cannae afford to.”
Her sisters needed her. Marissa and Abigail were still so young, so full of life and dreams. They didn’t have to know the struggles Freya carried, the sacrifices she had made to keep them safe.
They didn’t have to feel the gnawing loneliness that sometimes crept in during the quiet moments, when she let herself think about what might have been.
She wanted more. But wanting didn’t change anything.
Right then, a soft knock on the door startled her. She hastily wiped her face with her hands, brushing away the lingering tears.
“Come in,” she called, her voice rough but steady enough.
The door creaked open and Laila stepped in. “Freya?” Laila’s gaze immediately fell on her, and her brows knit together in concern. “Are ye all right? Ye’ve been cryin’.”
Freya’s stomach twisted at the observation. She turned her face away, her hands busying themselves with the folds of her skirt. “It’s naythin’, truly,” she said, forcing a small smile.
Laila stepped closer, her kind eyes searching Freya’s face. “Ye daenae look like it’s naythin’, if ye daenae mind me sayin’. Did somethin’ happen? Can I fetch somethin’ for ye?”
Freya hesitated, the urge to confide in someone flickering briefly before the weight of embarrassment smothered it. She couldn’t tell Laila the truth—not about the laird, not about her heartache. It was too raw, too foolish.
“It’s…” she started, then paused, her hands clenching tightly in her lap. “It’s just… earlier, when it all happened with Cody, I was afraid. For him. For all of us.” She forced the words out, hoping they would suffice. “I think it’s only just hittin’ me now.”
Laila’s expression softened further, and she nodded, as if understanding. “Aye, that was a frightful thin’ to happen,” she said gently. “But ye took good care of the laird.”
Freya felt a pang at the mention of Michael but pushed it aside. “I suppose the worry’s just caught up with me, wonderin’ what could have happened,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to her hands.
Laila knelt beside her, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “Ye’ve a good heart,” she said softly. “Ye care deeply for everyone around ye. It’s nay wonder ye’re feelin’ it now. But ye’ll be all right, aye? Ye’ve the strength for it.”
Freya’s throat tightened at the kindness in Laila’s voice. She didn’t deserve such words, not when her thoughts were so selfishly tangled. But she nodded, offering another faint smile. “Aye, I’ll be fine. Thank ye, Laila.”
Laila studied her for a moment longer, her gaze perceptive, as if she could sense the unspoken truth. But she didn’t press. Instead, she gave Freya’s arm a gentle squeeze and stood.
Freya let out a small sigh of relief as Laila didn’t press further. But then the maid hesitated by the door, her brow furrowed thoughtfully.
“Ye ken,” Laila said, turning back to her, “I was meanin’ to ask—there’s a bottle in the kitchen ye left the other day. A green one with a sprig of rosemary floatin’ in it. What’s it for? One of the cooks was wonderin’ if it’s for healin’, or somethin’ else.”
Freya blinked, momentarily thrown by the unexpected question, but then a soft laugh escaped her. It was a welcome distraction, and she clung to it gratefully. “Ah, that’s nae for the kitchen—thank goodness they dinnae try puttin’ it in the stew. It would’ve been far too sweet.”
Laila grinned, her curiosity piqued. “What’s it for, then?”
Freya settled back against the bedframe, her hands steadying as she gestured to explain. “That’s a simple tonic I make for ease of breathin’. It’s mostly for Cody, to help strengthen his lungs after all that’s happened.” Her voice grew steadier.
“It’s made with thyme, rosemary, and a touch of honey to make it palatable. The herbs help soothe the airways and clear out any lingerin’ congestion. The rosemary also has a bit of stimulant in it—good for circulation, keeps the blood movin’ proper.”
Laila tilted her head, fascinated. “And it actually works?”
Freya nodded, a small spark of pride lighting her features. “Aye, it does. It’s nae a miracle cure, mind ye, but it can ease the symptoms. I’ve used it on others in the village back home when the damp air brought on coughs and wheezes.”
“What about for nerves?” Laila asked, her voice tentative. “Do ye make somethin’ for that?”
Freya’s expression softened as she met Laila’s gaze.
“I do, aye. There’s a mixture I brew with chamomile, lavender, and a touch of valerian root.
It’s best as a tea, though it can be made into a tincture for quicker effect.
It calms the body and mind, good for restless nights or times of great worry. ”
The maid nodded, her face thoughtful. “That sounds lovely. I ken a few folk who could use it, truth be told.”
Freya smiled faintly. “If ye like, I can make some for ye to take back to them.”
“That’d be kind of ye,” Laila said, her tone warm with gratitude.
For a moment, the weight on Freya’s chest lifted. Talking about her work reminded her of her purpose, the thing she knew she could do well. It gave her a sense of control when everything else felt so uncertain.
As Laila turned to leave, Freya’s voice softened. “Thank ye, Laila. For… askin’ about the tonic. And for checkin’ on me.”
The maid smiled over her shoulder. “Ye’re welcome, Freya. It’s what I’m here for.”
When the door closed behind her, Freya let out a slow breath, the remnants of her earlier turmoil still lingering but dulled. She vowed to stop thinking about Michael and how close she’d been to something she desired, yet could not have.
She made her way to Cody’s chamber. She knocked softly on the door before pushing it open, peeking inside. Cody was seated on the floor, a small assortment of wooden toys scattered around him. He was engrossed in moving a carved horse across the floor, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Good mornin’, Cody,” Freya said gently as she stepped inside, her voice warm and light.
The boy looked up, startled at first, but his expression quickly softened when he saw her. “Mistress Freya!” he exclaimed, clutching the toy horse in his hands. “Are ye here to play?”
Freya smiled and knelt beside him, her skirts pooling around her. “Nae this time, lad. I just came to see how ye’re doin’. Are ye feelin’ all right?”
Cody tilted his head, his small face scrunching in confusion. “Aye, I feel fine. Why wouldnae I?”
Her heart clenched at his innocence. He didn’t truly understand what had happened, how close he’d come to danger. And perhaps that was for the best. It wasn’t her place to burden him with the truth—that was for Michael to decide, when the time was right.
“Ye’ve had a busy couple of days,” Freya said carefully, smoothing a hand over the boy’s dark hair. “I just wanted to make sure ye were well. Sometimes a body feels tired or achy after such excitement.”
Cody shook his head vigorously. “I’m nae tired! And me body’s fine now. Da said I could play if I dinnae run about too much.”
Freya chuckled softly, but the mere mention of the laird made her heart skip a beat. “Good to hear. Ye’ve been very brave, Cody.”
The boy beamed at her, his smile wide and untroubled. “Did ye see how fast Da caught that arrow? He’s like a knight in a story!”
Her chest tightened again, but she forced her smile to remain steady. “Aye, yer da is very quick,” she agreed.
She watched as he turned his attention back to his toys, the moment of seriousness passing as quickly as it had come. He picked up the carved horse again, trotting it across the rug with soft neighing sounds.
Freya stayed for a while, watching him play. There was a fragile kind of peace in the room, and she wanted to savor it, to hold on to this moment where Cody was carefree and untouched by the darker truths of the world.
“I’ll come back to see ye in a bit, all right?” she asked, lingering in the doorway.
“All right, Mistress Freya,” he nodded, waving at her.
She stepped out into the hall, closing the door gently behind her. Her heart felt heavier than before, weighed down by the knowledge of how close they had come to losing that bright, innocent boy. But she resolved to protect his peace for as long as she could.
That, at least, what she could control.