Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Just to check on him, naythin’ else.
Those were the words Freya kept repeating to herself as she moved silently.
She couldn’t sleep, not when the laird’s wound lingered in her thoughts.
Though he had dismissed her earlier with a gruff assurance that it was nothing, she knew better.
Injuries, no matter how minor they seemed, could fester in silence.
When she reached his chamber, the door stood slightly ajar. She hesitated, her hand poised to knock, but then she heard the faint sound of water sloshing within. Curiosity tugged at her, and she peeked inside.
The sight stole her breath.
Goodness me, why is he…
She couldn’t finish that thought as she drank in the sight of him.
He stood in front of the mirror, his broad back to her, a damp cloth in his hand as he washed himself.
He turned slightly, his profile now visible, the sharp line of his jaw taut as he rubbed the cloth over his chest. The sight of him, half-clothed, so strong and unguarded, sent a wave of heat through her, exploding somewhere between her thighs.
Her breath hitched. She pressed a hand to her lips, willing herself to look away, but it was no use.
She swallowed hard, her pulse racing as unfamiliar feelings stirred within her.
Want. Desire. They came upon her like a storm, fierce and unrelenting.
She had admired him before, of course—his strength, his devotion to his son, his sharp mind.
But this was different. This was raw, visceral.
Michael turned then, his gaze catching hers in the reflection of the mirror.
“Freya?” His voice, deep and low, filled the room, a note of surprise in his tone. There was no other way in which she wanted him to address her. Her name on his lips sounded almost like blasphemy, and yet, she wanted to have him repeat it over and over again.
She jumped, her cheeks flaming as she realized she’d been caught. “I—I’m sorry, me laird,” she stammered, clutching the satchel tighter. “I… I came to check on yer wound.”
He turned fully now, the cloth in his hand forgotten as he faced her. His hair, dark and damp from where it had been splashed with water, clung to the nape of his neck. His shoulders were wide, his muscles rippling beneath the flickering light of the candles that cast golden hues over his skin.
His chest glistened in the candlelight, and the sight of him made her knees feel weak. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air between them thick with unspoken tension.
“Ye shouldnae be wanderin’ the halls so late,” he said, his voice lower now, his eyes searching hers.
Freya swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she clutched the strap of her satchel. “I couldnae sleep,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was worried… about ye. I mean, yer wound.”
Michael’s gaze softened, but there was something else there too—something darker, more intense. He stepped closer, and Freya’s breath caught as the space between them seemed to shrink.
“Ye worry too much, lass,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur.
Freya looked up at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to speak, to tell him she was only doing her duty, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she found herself drawn to him, her eyes lingering on the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips.
“Wounds…” she said softly, “they can turn ugly if nae tended to.”
Michael’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, the tension between them became unbearable. He reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek, and the touch sent a shiver down her spine.
“Freya,” he said, her name a whisper on his lips.
The world seemed to fade around them, the flicker of the candles casting shadows on the walls as they stood there, so close and yet not close enough. Freya’s breath came in shallow gasps, her body alight with a longing she had never known before.
She reached up, her hand trembling as it rested against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers. “Michael…” she whispered, his name escaping her lips like a prayer.
Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she swore she saw the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, as though he could read her thoughts. Her heart thundered in her chest, her pulse racing so fiercely she thought it might burst.
Michael leaned in slightly, his eyes locked on hers, and the air between them seemed to crackle with an electric energy. Freya’s lips parted, her breath shallow, her body yearning for the closeness, the heat, the touch she craved more than anything in that moment.
But just as the space between them seemed to vanish, a knock at the door shattered the spell.
“Da?” Cody’s voice called out from the hallway, small but insistent.
Freya gasped softly, stepping back as if the sound had pulled her from a dream. Michael closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening, the tension in the room shifting instantly.
“Go back to yer chamber, lad,” Michael called, his voice steady but edged with a hint of frustration. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
There was a pause, and then Cody’s hesitant voice replied, “Aye, Da. I’ll wait for ye.”
Freya’s cheeks burned with a flush so fierce it spread to the tips of her ears. She clutched her satchel tightly to her chest, her heart pounding as though it might leap from her ribcage.
“I—” she began, but her voice faltered. Her eyes darted to Michael’s, and the look he gave her—a mix of regret, longing, and restraint—only made her pulse race faster.
“I should go,” she said quickly, her words tumbling over each other as she stepped toward the door.
“Freya,” Michael demanded, but she couldn’t look back, couldn’t let herself stay in the charged intimacy of the moment.
She slipped out into the corridor, her steps quick and hurried as she made her way back to her chamber.
Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her flushed cheeks, her breaths coming fast and shallow. Her body still burned, a deep ache of unfulfilled desire that left her unsteady. She could still feel the warmth of his touch on her skin, the weight of his gaze, the pull of his presence.
“What am I doin’’?” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.
But even as she chastised herself, she knew the truth… she wanted him. She had never wanted anyone like this before, and the yearning was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Reaching her chamber, she leaned against the closed door, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself. Her mind was a whirl of emotions—desire, confusion, and a touch of shame—but one thing was clear: she wanted him more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.
Michael stood motionless in the center of the room, staring at the door that Freya had just disappeared through. The air still felt heavy, charged with the tension of what had almost happened. He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face, his skin still warm from her touch.
He turned back to the mirror, his reflection a shadow of the man who had been moments away from kissing her.
His jaw tightened, and he tossed the cloth onto the nearby table before reaching for his nightshirt.
As he pulled it over his head, the rough linen brushing against his still-damp skin, his thoughts remained on her.
Freya.
She had awakened something in him, a wildfire he couldn’t seem to contain. Ever since that kiss in the alley—impulsive, desperate, and entirely unforgettable—he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. It was maddening.
Her face lingered in his mind—the way she’d looked at him tonight, her eyes wide with something he dared to believe was desire. Her lips had parted, as though she’d been waiting, yearning for him to close the distance.
And he had wanted to. God, how he’d wanted to.
But then there was the book.
He couldn’t get the damned thing out of his head.
An emotionless monster.
The phrase echoed in his mind, taunting him, and his hands curled into fists on his knees.
Is that how she sees me?
Did she share her sister’s opinion? It gnawed at him, a bitter seed of doubt that refused to let him rest.
If she truly thought him cold and unfeeling, then why had she come to his chamber tonight?
Why had she looked at him like that, her cheeks flushed and her breath quickened?
Her presence had been anything but detached.
She had lingered, watched him. There had been something in her eyes, something raw, unguarded.
And yet, the doubt lingered.
He couldn’t reconcile it. Freya was a healer, a woman of compassion and skill, someone who brought light and warmth wherever she went. He was the opposite, a man forged by duty, hardened by loss, bound to a life that demanded strength and stoicism.
He clenched his jaw, his thoughts spiraling.
She deserves better than this. Better than me.
But the thought of her with someone else made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain. The very idea of her smiles, her touch, her laughter belonging to another man filled him with a quiet, simmering fury.
“She’s under me skin,” he muttered to himself, the words barely audible in the stillness.
He didn’t know how to untangle the mess of feelings she stirred within him. Desire, yes, but something more. Something deeper, more dangerous.
The thought of losing her, of her walking out of his life, was unbearable. Yet the thought of her staying, of her seeing him as the man she and her sister had painted in that book, was equally tormenting.