Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“That cottage…” Michael nodded toward an abandoned looking place in an urgent voice. “Did we check it?”
They had searched for hours, covering ground farther than the day before, but with every passing moment, the weight of failure pressed harder against his chest.
Then Michael saw it.
Nestled among the trees, nearly swallowed by the shadows, stood a small, crooked cottage. It was old, its thatched roof darkened with age, the walls half-covered in creeping ivy. If he hadn’t been looking for something out of place, he might have missed it entirely.
Brodie frowned, following his gaze. “I… daenae ken, me laird,” he admitted, shifting uneasily in his saddle. “I led the search focused on the loch, nae the woods. And that place is hidden well.”
Too well.
Michael didn’t hesitate. “Then we check it now.”
He spurred his horse forward, the others falling into formation behind him. The trees parted as they approached and the wind rattled the brittle branches above. The cottage sat eerily quiet. There was no sign of movement, no flicker of candlelight within.
But Michael knew.
His gut twisted, that deep, instinctual certainty taking root in his chest. Freya was here. Or had been.
He dismounted swiftly, drawing his sword as he stepped toward the open door. The wood was old, the hinges rusted. He cast a glance at Brodie, who nodded, with his own blade at the ready.
Michael stepped inside first. His hand was gripping the handle of his sword as his sharp gaze swept across the cottage. His eyes immediately landed on the bed, which was in disarray.
The ropes were still there, frayed and hanging loosely over the edge of the mattress, as if someone had fought tooth and nail to be free. Dark droplets of blood stained the rough wool blanket.
A muscle in his jaw ticked, while his rage cold and sharp, settled deep in his chest like a blade buried to the hilt.
“She was here.” His voice was low, but every man in the room heard the deadly promise beneath it.
Brodie stepped forward, scanning the floor. His sharp eyes caught something near the hearth. Kneeling, he reached out, his fingers brushing against a small scrap of fabric half-hidden in the dirt.
He lifted it as he turned toward Michael.
“It’s from her gown,” Michael said, recognizing it immediately. The deep green fabric was torn, its jagged edge soaked with a faint smear of blood.
Michael’s grip on his sword tightened. Freya had fought. And she had gotten free. He almost smiled.
That thought was the only thing keeping his fury from swallowing him whole. She wasn’t lying here still bound and helpless… she had escaped. But where? And how long ago?
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think.
Nay rash decisions. Nay wasted time.
“She ran,” he muttered, more to himself than the others. His gaze flicked toward the open door and the dark forest beyond. He turned to Brodie. “Find her trail. Now.”
They all stepped out of the cottage at the same time. The others spread out, surveying the ground, searching for any sign of the direction where Freya might have been headed.
Michael did the same. He moved with purpose, but it was difficult to see. Their torches helped, but it all felt too quiet. Wrong.
Show me where ye went, Freya…
Then, he noticed it. He could have missed it so easily, but his focus was sharp.
It was a broken branch, its splintered end looking freshly snapped.
A few feet away, there was another one. There were some leaves disturbed as well.
And there, just underneath, barely noticeable, he could see a faint smear of blood on the bark of a tree where she might have leaned for support.
His gut twisted into a knot.
If someone hurt Freya, I’ll…
He couldn’t finish that thought. He refused to.
“This way!” he called out and the others momentarily rushed toward him as he brushed his fingers over the blood. It was fresh. Luckily, there was not much of it. Hopefully, not enough to be life-threatening.
She was injured, but she was moving.
Good lass.
Brodie came up beside him, his eyes focused on the same marks. “She’s runnin’,” he muttered, in confirmation of what Michael already knew.
Michael nodded. They had a direction now, but that wasn’t enough.
“Spread out,” he ordered. “Find more signs. We’re close.”
He refused to lose this trail. He refused to lose her.
“Ye really think ye can run from me, lass?” Leighton’s voice slithered through the darkness, which seemed to be conspiring with him against her.
The cold night burned Freya’s lungs as she ran.
Her bare feet stumbled over the uneven ground.
Every sharp stone and twisted root bit its sharp teeth into the soles of her feet, but she didn’t stop.
Dawn was near. She could feel it pressing against the oppressive night, as the sky slowly lightened to a deep blue. But it wasn’t coming fast enough.
“Ye ken ye’ve nay place to go,” Leighton’s voice drawled, closer now.
It was smooth and taunting. “Keep runnin’, if ye like, little lamb.
It makes nay difference. Soon as I find ye, I’ll have me fun with ye and then, ye’ll be dead.
That’ll be enough revenge for the laird.
An eye for an eye. He took from me, but I’ll take somethin’ from him too. Aye, I will.”
Freya clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering. Her body trembled, not just from the cold, but from the terror curling deep in her gut.
She risked a glance from behind the tree, her breath catching when she spotted him just a few yards away. His dark figure moved slowly and deliberately, as though he had all the time in the world.
“Ye cannae hide forever,” he murmured, his voice laced with dark amusement. “Ye’re tired, aye? I hear it in yer breath, wee thing. I can smell the fear on ye. Best ye make it easy on yerself. Come out and face me. I promise to make it quick.”
Freya swallowed hard, forcing her breaths to quiet. She gripped the tree, her nails digging into the bark.
Think, Freya, think!
She didn’t escape only to be caught now.
Slowly, she shifted her weight, careful not to rustle the leaves. If she moved now, if she ran again, he might hear her. She had to be smarter. She had to survive.
Leighton took another step, then paused, as if listening to the sounds she might make. “Ye ken what I regret, lass?” he mused, his voice almost conversational. “That I dinnae kill ye back in the cottage. Would’ve been quicker. Easier. But I like it better this way. Makes it sweeter.”
Bile rose in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, steadying herself.
“Come out, Freya,” he coaxed, his voice soft as a lover’s whisper. “Come out and die.”
That was when a hand clamped over her mouth. Freya’s scream died in her throat as strong arms wrenched her backward, dragging her against a solid chest. The stench of sweat and damp wool filled her nose.
“Tsk, tsk, foolish lass,” Leighton murmured against her ear, his breath making her nauseated. “Did ye really think ye could outwit me?”
She thrashed, kicking and clawing, but his grip was iron.
“Enough of that!” he snapped, yanking her tighter against him, and his arm squeezing the breath from her ribs. “I should slit yer throat right here and be done with it!”
Freya threw her head back. Pain exploded through her skull as it crashed against his nose, and a sickening crack filled the air. Leighton cursed, his grip loosening just enough for her to rip herself away from him.
Gasping, she stumbled forward, her feet slipping in the damp earth, but she caught herself and ran.
Branches whipped at her face, snagging in her hair, but she barely felt them. Her heart thundered and her body screamed with exhaustion.
Behind her, Leighton roared in fury. “Ye wee bitch! Get back here!”
She didn’t look back. Her legs burned, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she pushed on. The forest was too dark, the ground too uneven. She could barely see where she was going.
Just keep runnin’. Just—
Her foot caught on a root. The world tilted, and she went sprawling, hitting the ground hard. Pain shot through her palms, as her knees scraped against the cold earth.
And then, strong hands grabbed her shoulders.
Freya screamed, twisting wildly, fists swinging, but the grip wasn’t cruel. It was firm. Steady.
“Freya!”
That deep and commanding voice was unmistakable. She froze, as her breath hitched in her throat. She lifted her gaze, and through the haze of fear and exhaustion, she saw him.
Michael.
His face was shadowed, his jaw clenched, but his eyes… they were burning with something raw and fierce as he looked at her. For a moment, she couldn’t believe that it was him.
“Michael…” she called out his name, as if she were afraid that he was just a figment of her distraught imagination, that he might disappear at any moment and she would be once again, alone with the madman trying to murder her.
Before she could say more, he hauled her to her feet, his hands gripping her arms as his gaze swept over her, taking in the torn dress, the scratches, the terror in her eyes.
His own eyes darkened. “Where is he?”
Before she could answer, a rustling came from the trees behind her.
Michael shoved her behind him, and his sword was drawn in one swift motion.
That was when Leighton stepped into view.