Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Freya barely had time to think.
Her breath came in frantic gasps as she scrambled to her feet, her heart hammering so loud she could hear it over the sounds of battle.
Leighton had nearly killed Michael. She had seen it in his eyes, the cruel satisfaction, the way his blade had pressed against Michael’s throat. If she had waited even a moment longer… she banished the thought from her mind.
Leighton staggered, regaining his balance after her desperate attack. His head snapped toward her, and the fury in his gaze made her blood run cold.
“Ye filthy little wench.” His voice was a growl. His face twisted in a snarl as he took a step toward her. “I should’ve slit yer throat the moment I took ye.”
Freya’s pulse pounded in terror, but she didn’t retreat.
She had a knife in her hand, having taken it from one of the dead men, but that was little against a man twice her size, fueled by rage.
All she could do was stand her ground, even as he raised his blade, even as he came for her with death in his eyes.
But then, something happened. There was the faintest shift in the air. Something in Leighton’s expression flickered. A realization… but all too late.
Steel plunged through his back. Leighton’s body jolted, his mouth falling open in a soundless gasp. His eyes, now wild with shock, flicked down to the tip of a sword now protruding from his chest.
Michael’s sword.
Freya could only watch, frozen, as Leighton staggered, choking on his own breath. He tried to turn, but his body betrayed him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward into the dirt.
For a long, terrible moment, the world seemed to hold still. Then, Michael took a slow, painful breath.
“Ye… daenae deserve… a death from the front…” His voice was hoarse, his words clipped, but they carried through the clearing like a death knell.
Freya’s knees nearly gave out in relief. Leighton was dead. But it was not over.
Michael’s guards were now standing over the dead bodies of the men who decided to take Leighton’s side. Without thinking, she dropped to her knees beside Michael, her hands already reaching for him before she could think.
“Michael…” Her voice trembled as she pressed a hand to his shoulder, her fingers grazing the deep wound on his arm. His skin was clammy beneath her touch and his breathing shallow.
It was poison… but which one?
Panic clawed at her chest as she scanned his face. His jaw was clenched tight, his lips were pale, and his body was swaying even as he fought to stay upright.
“Tell me what ye feel,” she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady.
Michael exhaled sharply, his eyes unfocused. “Like fire in me veins… slowin’ me down.” His fingers curled weakly around his sword, as if sheer will alone would keep him conscious.
Freya’s heart pounded.
Think, Freya. Think.
She reached for the wound on his bicep, peeling back the torn fabric of his sleeve. The cut wasn’t deep, but the edges were already darkening. It was spreading.
A slow poison. Not meant to kill instantly, but to weaken.
She swallowed hard.
Leighton wanted him to suffer.
Her mind raced through everything she had learned from the healer’s books, from treating the wounded men back at the keep.
What kind of poison?
There were too many possibilities.
Her fingers trembled as she brought them to the wound, carefully dabbing at the darkened edges. It wasn’t clotting properly. That meant—
“Belladonna?” she whispered aloud, shaking her head.
Nay, nay… somethin’ else…
She glanced around desperately. There had to be something to slow the spread, to give them more time. But they were in the middle of a battlefield. No herbs, no tinctures.
Only her.
“Freya.”
Michael’s voice was strained, but still steady. He was watching her, his gaze sharp despite the way his body fought against him. “Can ye fix it?”
A lump formed in her throat. “Aye,” she said without hesitation. She had to make him believe it. More importantly, she had to make herself believe it, too.
She forced herself to breathe, to think, to banish the panic clawing at her chest and heart.
Her hands hovered over Michael’s wound, her fingers ghosting over the darkened edges. The spreading blackness beneath his skin, which was slow but relentless, told her it was not a simple poison. If Leighton had used something common, Michael would already be dead.
But he wasn’t. And that meant it was a poison designed to linger.
Freya swallowed hard, forcing her mind to recall the healer’s texts, all the lessons she had stolen in the quiet of candlelit nights.
Fire in the veins… Slowin’ the body… The blood refusin’ to clot…
Then it struck her.
“Henbane,” she whispered, the realization hitting her like a lightning bolt.
It made sense. The dizziness, the sluggish limbs, the fever beginning to build beneath his skin.
Henbane was often mixed with nightshade to weaken a man without killing him outright.
It caused confusion, exhaustion, the slow shutting down of the body.
Most importantly, there was a cure… if she worked quickly.
“Freya?” Michael’s voice was hoarse, barely above a breath now.
She looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark with pain, but he was still fighting. He was still watching her, trusting her.
“It’s henbane,” she said quickly, shifting closer to support him before he collapsed entirely. “I ken what to do. But I need—” She cut herself off, eyeing the area.
She needed willow bark. Yarrow, if she could find it. A way to purge the poison before it took full hold. Her gaze darted toward the trees. The forest was thick, the underbrush wild, but she had spent enough time gathering herbs back home. She knew where to look.
“Stay here,” she ordered, although she knew he had little choice.
He gave a dry, breathless grin. “Daenae think of runnin’ off now, do ye hear?”
She almost chuckled out loud. She caressed his sweaty cheek with the palm of her hand, then nodded. The scent of blood lingered in the air and she knew it would remain there for a long time, tainting the ground, until nature purged itself.
She searched frantically, her fingers scraping through damp earth, through tangled roots and fallen leaves.
Come on…
Then, she found a patch of willow, with its slender branches hanging low, half-hidden between the trees. She grabbed the bark, continuing to tear strips away with trembling hands before turning back. Michael was slumped where she’d left him. His breath was even more shallow.
“Michael!” She fell to her knees beside him, pressing a hand to his face. His skin burned hot now, as fever licked at the edges of his strength.
“I have it,” she breathed, quickly working to crush the willow bark between her fingers. “Ye need to chew this.”
His eyes fluttered open, dark with exhaustion.
He looked as if he had no strength left, but he did as she commanded.
His jaw tightened as he forced the bitter bark past his lips.
Freya exhaled sharply. It would help ease the fever, but she needed something stronger, something to drive the poison out completely.
She looked around again, her pulse jumping when she spotted a cluster of small, white flowers peeking through the grass.
“Yarrow,” she whispered in relief.
Ripping the stems free, she crushed them swiftly, then mixed them with the remnants of the willow bark before pressing them to Michael’s lips.
“You have to swallow, Michael,” she urged softly. “It’ll force the poison out.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “If it doesnae kill me first, ye mean.”
“I’ll kill ye meself if ye daenae do as I say,” she shot back, trembling but soothed by the fact that he was still well enough to jest.
His lips twitched weakly, something akin to amusement, but once again, he did as he was told. His throat worked slowly, painfully, as the herbs slid down. Then, all they had to do was wait.
Freya kept a firm hold on him, watching every flicker of his expression, every rough breath. The minutes stretched, agonizingly slow.
Suddenly, he shuddered violently as his muscles tensed. A strangled groan escaped his throat as his body rejected the poison, and he turned sharply to the side, retching into the dirt.
Freya held onto him, whispering quiet reassurances, ignoring the tears that pricked her eyes. It was working.
“That’s it,” she murmured, running a hand down his back as he trembled. “Let it pass. It all needs to go out.”
He let out a rough exhale, his body still shuddering, but the feverish heat beneath her palms was already fading. She allowed relief to wash over her. The worst was gone, although he still did have a long way to recover from the poison.
Michael stirred, letting out a low groan as he pushed himself upright. His movements were slow, but the strength was already returning to them. The poison was leaving his body. He was alive.
Freya could no longer hold herself back. A strangled sob broke from her lips as she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders. Her fingers dug into him, clutching at the solid warmth of his body, desperate to feel him breathing, living, next to her.
“Ye daft, stubborn man,” she choked out, pressing frantic kisses to his face, on his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Ye nearly died on me!”
Michael let out a low rumble, his breath warm against her skin. “Lass, ye kiss like a battle charge. Too rough.”
She pulled back just enough to glare at him, her eyes still shimmering with unshed tears. “Aye, well, ye had it comin’. What were ye thinkin’, lettin’ yerself get poisoned?”
He gave her a tired but amused look. “I dinnae exactly plan it, Freya.
She huffed, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. “Ye scared me half to death.”
Michael’s expression softened then. His large, calloused hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. He held her as if she were something fragile, something precious, despite the strength she had just shown.
“Then let me make it right.” His voice was quieter now, steadier. “Freya… marry me.”
Her breath caught.
Michael’s gaze never wavered, filled with something deeper than his usual confidence. There was something raw, something real, something she hadn’t seen before.
“I’ll take care of ye, of yer sisters. I swear it. I’ll spend the rest of me days protectin’ ye, if ye’ll have me.”
Tears welled in Freya’s eyes, her heart slamming against her ribs. This man. The one who had fought for her, bled for her, trusted her with his life.
And now—he was offering his life to her.
A watery laugh broke from her lips as she nodded. “Aye, ye great fool. Of course, I’ll have ye.”
Michael exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on her for just a moment before he pulled her to him, capturing her mouth with his.
Freya kissed him back, her lips soft against his as her heart raced in a way that had nothing to do with fear or danger.
It was a sweet, desperate relief, the kind of kiss that said everything words could not.
For a long, dizzying moment, it felt like the world had faded away. It was just the two of them, wrapped in the warmth of their own tangled emotions.
But then, a loud, throat-clearing cough echoed from behind them. Freya’s eyes snapped open, her face flaming as she pulled back, nearly bumping her head into Michael’s.
There, standing a few paces away, was Brodie, his arms crossed and a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Me laird, seein’ ye’ve just been poisoned, perhaps it’s time we head back to the castle?”
Freya blushed, chuckling. “I think that is exactly what we need to do now.”
Michael let out a low, strained chuckle, but it quickly turned into a wince of pain as he tried to sit up straighter. The movement pulled at the wound on his arm, and Freya could see the lingering exhaustion in his eyes.
“Careful, Michael,” she murmured, placing a hand on his chest, her concern immediately returning.
Michael laughed again, though it was tinged with more pain than humor. “Aye, Brodie. I’ll try to save me romantic gestures for later—when I’m nae on the verge of dyin’ again.”
Freya couldn’t help but smile at his teasing, even though her heart clenched with worry. The humor, though laced with pain, was a relief in itself. It meant he was truly coming back to her, back to life.
Brodie chuckled, shaking his head, before nodding toward the others. “Come on, let’s get ye both home.”
With a final, lingering glance at Michael, Freya helped him to his feet, holding onto him as they both started walking back.
The cool morning air felt like a balm on her skin, and despite the battle, the bloodshed, and the poison still lingering in the back of her mind, it was hard not to feel a surge of warmth.
She had him.
He was alive.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything seemed… right.