Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Ye’ve nae seen her at all?” Michael asked, as his voice carried through the dining hall, much sharper than he had intended it to.
The scent of fresh bannocks and smoked ham did little to soothe his already frayed temper. Abigail and Marissa sat close together, speaking in hushed tones, while Cody tore into his meal with the enthusiasm of a boy who’d not eaten in days.
Marissa shook her head first. “Nay. We woke up and she was nae in her bed. But she’s likely in the garden, rootin’ for herbs.”
“Like a wee forest sprite,” Abigail added, much to Cody’s amusement. The children all chuckled, but for some reason, Michael was not amused.
His jaw tightened. He had half a mind to upend the table in frustration. “Aye, and I told her clear as day—nay one leaves the keep alone.”
Marissa exchanged a glance with her sister. “Freya’s got a mind of her own, me laird. She did mention yesterday that she needed more yarrow before the frost sets in. I daenae think she meant to cause any trouble.”
“Maybe she dinnae think she’d be long,” Cody added, with his mouth half-full. “If I ken anythin’ about Mistress Freya, it’s that she’s a stubborn healer.”
With a scrape of wood against the ston floor, he shoved back from the table and stood. “Stubborn or nae, she disobeyed me. If somethin’ happens to her—” He started, but he cut himself off, his anger thick in his throat.
No. He would not speak it aloud.
He turned on his heel, striding toward the entrance, as his plaid swayed with the force of his movements.
Cold air hit him as he stepped outside, but it did nothing to cool the heat simmering beneath his skin.
His boots struck the ground hard as he crossed the courtyard, his mind already fixed on the words he’d have for Freya when he found her.
He quickly found himself in the garden. The air carried the scent of damp earth and the fading sweetness of late-blooming heather. This was where she always came. His mind could see her kneeling in the dirt, her fingers plucking whatever meager herbs his garden could provide.
But she was not here now.
His gaze swept over the small patch of greenery, the rows of thyme, rosemary, and yarrow. He took in their curled leaves at the edges from the creeping chill. A basket sat beneath the stone bench, tipped on its side. It was empty. Nor was there any sign of Freya’s small footprints in the damp soil.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Damn ye, lass,” he muttered under his breath. “Why do ye have to be so stubborn?”
He glanced at the gate. She wouldn’t have gone there… would she?
His frustration gave way to unease as he strode past the garden walls and caught sight of two guards standing near the gate.
“Have either of ye seen Mistress Freya this morn?” he asked in a gruff voice, more command than question.
The older of the two, a broad shouldered man named Boyd, shook his head immediately. “Nay, me laird. Nae since yesterday.”
His chest tightened.
Foolish lass. Reckless, stubborn—
A gust of wind cut through his thoughts, biting at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the ice settling in his veins. His anger was slipping into something far more dangerous.
Fear.
If she was nowhere in the garden, nowhere in the keep, then where in the blazes had she gone?
As he passed by the old willow tree near the courtyard’s edge, something caught his eye. A scrap of white against the damp earth, half-hidden among the fallen leaves. He stilled momentarily. It was a crumpled piece of parchment.
Frowning, he bent down and plucked it from the ground. The paper was damp at the edges, the ink smudged, but the moment his eyes scanned the uneven scrawl, his chest went tight.
Someone signed it with his own initial. But he hadn’t written this.
A chill ran down his spine, colder than the Highland winds that howled through the valley. His grip on the parchment tightened until his knuckles turned white. Someone had lured her here. Someone had used his name.
And now she was gone.
A raw, gnawing panic twisted in his gut, battling with the fury that burned just as hot. He forced himself to move, to breathe, to think. Freya needed him, and he’d be damned if he let his own fear slow him down.
Spinning on his heel, he strode back toward the keep, his voice sharp as a blade. “Brodie!”
The castle doors hadn’t even fully swung open before the man appeared, his broad frame filling the entryway. Brodie was always near when he was needed.
Brodie took one look at his laird’s face and stiffened. “What’s happened, me laird? Is it the lad?”
“It’s Freya.” Michael shoved the crumpled note into his hand. “She’s gone. Someone lured her out—used me name to do it.” He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to stay steady. “Search the keep, the grounds—everywhere. I want every man we have looking for her. Now.”
Brodie scanned the note, his face darkening as he did so. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t waste a single breath. He just gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel, barking orders before he was even out the door.
Michael remained rooted to the spot, hands flexing at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The walls of the keep suddenly felt too close, too suffocating.
He should be out there searching for her himself, but where?
If she wasn’t in the castle, wasn’t in the gardens, wasn’t anywhere near—
His stomach clenched.
God above, let me nae be too late.
Freya’s head throbbed, a slow, pounding ache that pulsed behind her eyes. A chill seeped into her bones as she inhaled the damp and musty air, thick with the scent of old wood and something faintly metallic.
She blinked against the dim light, and her vision was swimming. The ceiling above her was rough-hewn timber. She immediately recognized it as the kind found in old cottages or abandoned hunting lodges. This was not the castle.
Panic tightened in her chest.
She tried to sit up, but something bit into her wrists, holding her fast. Her breath hitched. Her hands were bound. And tight. Rope burned against her skin as she struggled, her heart hammering faster with every tug.
“Nay. Nay, nay, nay!” she said loudly, unable to make herself believe that she had found herself here.
Her breath came quicker, shallow, frantic. She tried to move her legs, only to realize that they were tied as well. The realization sent a wave of icy terror through her.
“Where am I?” she managed to muster to herself, although she knew there would be no answer.
How had she—?
The memory crashed into her like a thunderclap.
Leighton.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips. He had been at the castle. She had stepped into the garden, seen the note by the willow tree, the one she thought was from Michael, and then…
Pain lanced through her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to think through the fog. A hand, rough and bruised, clamped over her mouth. Then, there was a voice in her ear, as cold as the steel of a blade. She could remember it all now.
“Who did this to me?” she asked again, needing to hear her own voice, needing to comfort herself in this dire moment.
“Help!” she tried screaming. “Help me! Anyone!”
A fresh wave of panic surged through her veins, but she clenched her teeth, swallowing another scream clawing at her throat. She doubted that anyone would hear her, that anyone would come to her aid.
Instead, she forced herself to breathe. In. Out. Slow. Steady. If she lost her head now, she was as good as dead. She needed to act.
Frantically, she turned her head, scanning the dimly lit room, searching for something, anything, that could help her.
The walls were rough timber, bare except for an old iron sconce that held a dying candle.
There was a small table sat in the corner, a pitcher of water resting atop it. A chair. A threadbare rug.
Nothing sharp. Nothing useful.
The ropes cut deep into her skin as she fought against them, twisting, writhing, testing for weakness. There had to be a way out. There had to be—
A sound.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Measured.
Coming closer.
Freya went still, while her pulse was a frantic drumbeat in her ears. She turned her head toward the door. Her entire body tensed up in wait.
The latch shifted.
And then the door creaked open.