Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Why have ye been avoidin’ me today?”
Michael had to admit that wasn’t the sort of question he expected from her when she opened the door to his study.
However, he should have known that Freya was no fool, that she would notice his mixed feelings.
She would notice how he left the room before she awoke, how he barely met her eyes when they crossed paths in the halls.
Yes, he spoke when spoken to, being the ever proper laird that he was, but the warmth from the night before was gone, replaced by something colder and distant.
“Are ye plannin’ on ignorin’ me forever, then?” she demanded.
That would hardly be possible.
His jaw tightened. “I’m nae ignorin’ ye.”
She scoffed. “Aye? That’s rich, considerin’ ye cannae even look at me.”
He did look at her then, and it was a mistake. Because all he could see was the way she had looked at him the previous night. He could see her flushed cheeks. He could hear her moans and breathless breathing. She could feel her need while she spoke his name like a prayer.
And yet…
He turned away. “It’s better this way.”
He didn’t believe it, but he had to say it.
Monster.
The word churned inside his mind, torturing him. He would never be able to forget it, never be able to put it aside.
Freya didn’t move. “Better?” she echoed, but her voice was laced with something dangerous. “Better for who?”
Michael clenched his fists. “For ye.”
A beat of silence. But he knew that she would remain silent for much longer. She had obviously come to him with something on her mind, and she would not leave before sharing it with him, one way or another.
“Saints preserve me,” she muttered, sounding exasperated. “Just tell me why. Please. Tell me why ye’ve acted colder to me than a damned Highland winter. Do I deserve it?”
He exhaled sharply, his control slipping. “Because I dinnae think that ye wanted to be near a monster.”
The words fell between them like a blade.
She stilled, almost as if she didn’t immediately know what he was referring to, although he doubted that was possible.
“A monster,” she echoed, saying the word in a slow and steady manner. For a moment, it seemed as if she had misheard him.
“Aye,” he nodded in clarification. “A brute. A man who’s seen too much war, shed too much blood. Isnae that how yer sister described me in her book?”
“Marissa?” Freya echoed once again. “Are ye talkin’ about her?”
“Of course,” he scoffed. “What else would I be talkin’ about? It is obvious how she sees me, and I am certain that ye and Abigail share her opinion. And honestly, I cannae blame ye. What kind of fool would want—”
“Ye great daft man,” she frowned, but it was obvious that she wasn’t truly upset with him. “Do ye think so little of me? Of me sisters?”
He didn’t say anything to that, but the word still burned at the edges of his frayed mind.
“The book, Freya, is a story that Marissa has described in great detail and I cannae turn a blind eye to how much I resemble the protagonist.”
She inhaled deeply, shaking her head. “It is a story about our parents. Do ye always think that the world revolves around ye?”
It was his turn to frown. “Nay. But I can read between the lines, ye ken.”
“This is nae about readin’ between the lines,” she corrected him. “It is about truly understandin’ someone. In Marissa’s case and the case of her book, there are things ye forgot to take into account.”
“Is that so?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Oh, nay,” she refused in a slightly playful, slightly serious manner.
“It is nae me book, so it is nae me place to elaborate on it. If ye wish to clarify anythin’, then ye should speak to Marissa, instead of goin’ around accusin’ people of thoughts they never had.
Because, I must say, I take offense at ye thinkin’ that I would shrink away because someone lived a life that was never their own to choose. ”
“I chose me own life,” he reminded her slightly gruffly. “I make me own decisions.”
“In that case, let me tell ye, Laird McEwan, if ye’d been raised in a warm English manor, recitin’ poetry instead of swingin’ a sword, I’d still think ye were the most infuriatin’, stubborn, impossible man I’ve ever met.”
Michael stared at her for a moment, with his mind reeling.
She huffed again. “And just so we’re clear, I dinnae wish ye to stop.”
His breath caught. Before he could speak, before he could process the rush of relief and want and something much deeper than he ever thought he could feel for a woman, she turned on her heel and aimed for the door.
She paused just long enough to throw the following words over her shoulder. “Ye’re a fool if ye think that me and me sisters would spend a single hour in the company of a monster.”
And then, she was gone.
He was still smiling to himself long after he was left alone. His heart was hammering.
Aye, I might be a fool.
But she was his.
The library was peaceful that evening. At least, it was until the door opened.
Freya didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The shift in the air, the weight of his presence. It was unmistakable.
She felt his gaze settle on her, but he didn’t speak her name, which was what she expected. Instead, his attention moved to Marissa.
“I need a word,” he told her.
Marissa set her book aside. “Aye, Yer Lairdship. What is it?”
Freya tensed seeing him like that. Something assured her that she knew exactly why he was there. His eyes flickered on her face for a moment, before his focus shifted back to her sister once more.
“The book ye gave me to read,” he said, carefully. “The one about the warrior and the lass who—” he hesitated to finish.
Marissa’s expression immediately cheered up. She loved talking about books and writing, especially her own books and her own writing. “Aye. What of it?”
Michael exhaled. “Yer inspiration for it. Can ye tell me about it?”
Freya resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course. He was here to confirm or disperse his suspicions. And she would gladly listen to this conversation.
“I wanted to write a beautiful love story about two people who loved each other,” Marissa said simply.
“Aye,” Michael nodded. “But that love story… did ye come up with it yerself?”
“Nay,” she smiled. “It was inspired by me parents. By our parents.”
Michael frowned, obviously not entirely convinced. “The warrior in yer story…”
“Is based on me faither,” Marissa gladly clarified. “Why? Is he nae a good character?”
“He is… just… I was wonderin’,” Michael started explaining himself, but it was obviously that he was only now starting to realize the error of his understanding of the book. Freya had to admit that she was relishing the sight much more than she thought she would be.
“In a way, it is our family’s history,” Marissa beamed, her eyes sparkling. Then, she suddenly seemed concerned. “If the warrior doesnae seem like a good character, I still daenae wish to change him. It is how he was, and I daenae wish to rewrite our own family’s history.”
Freya was proud to hear her sister speak in such a manner.
“Of course,” Michael said, nodding again. “I was merely askin’ out of curiosity.”
There was a mischievous gleam in Freya’s eyes. “Why daenae ye girls retire? It is late. I shall be with ye shortly.”
Having given Freya a kiss, both Abigail and Marissa bid them good night. The library door closed behind them, and now, Micheal and Freya were left alone. She couldn’t help but tease him a little. He deserved that much for the shock of not seeing him in bed next to her, after what had happened.
“Ye really are a stubborn man, ye ken that?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the bookshelf. “Aye, well… I had to be sure.”
She arched a brow. “Did ye really think that I would twist me sister’s own words to spare yer feelings?”
His jaw clenched. “I dinnae think ye a liar.”
“But ye had to be certain,” she reminded him.
She caught him there. He was left without a word.
The teasing edge in her voice softened and she pushed herself up from her seat, stepping closer to him. “Michael… if I thought ye were a monster, do ye truly believe I would still be here?”
He didn’t say anything still.
She lifted her chin at him. “Would I have brought me sisters here? Would I have stayed another night under yer roof, let alone in yer arms?”
The tension in his shoulders seemed to loosen slightly, as if her words were finally reaching him.
“I see ye, Michael,” she whispered. “Nae just the warrior. Nae just the laird. I see the man who cares for his people. The man who fights for those he loves. The man who… who would sooner break himself than let anyone else bear the weight of his own past.”
She touched his hand gently. His own hand twitched beneath her touch.
“Aye,” she smiled. “Ye’ve done terrible things. So have we all.”
“Freya…”
She placed a finger against his lips, silencing him. “If ye ever doubt me again, Michael Hughes, I swear I’ll make ye read one of Marissa’s favorite romance novels cover to cover.”
A breath of something that might have been a laugh escaped him, and she smirked, satisfied.
But before she could step away, before she could let him off that easily, Michael caught her hand. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
She squeezed his hand once before slipping free, turning toward the door. “Now, if ye excuse me, me laird, it is late and I believe I’ve won this argument.”
He let out a slow sigh, shaking his head. “Ye’re impossible.”
She paused in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder. “Aye. But ye wouldnae want me any other way.”
And with that, she slipped out, leaving him standing alone in the library, watching after her like a man who had just lost a battle he had never intended to win.