Chapter 2

2

W hat am I doin’?

She had never ventured so far alone before, never without guidance, without someone to protect her. Freya rode cautiously, her body trembling with the chill of the evening air and the uncertainty that coursed through her veins.

The cold seeped into her bones, making her hands shake as they gripped the reins. Each slow step Seileach took felt hesitant. The sound of hooves crunching the blanket of leaves and twigs beneath them was the only noise that seemed to pierce the otherwise silent world.

The shaking, as much as she hated to admit it, wasn’t only from the cold. No, it was fear creeping in, the doubt, a little voice in her head that whispered to turn back.

But Freya was too stubborn to heed it.

It had been hours since she had left, there was no turning back now. She thought of her sister, Laura—brave, reckless Laura who never hesitated to run headlong into danger, even when they were children. While Freya stayed behind, poring over books and lessons, Laura had learned how to loose an arrow, throw a punch, and ride horses faster and harder than anyone else.

It was easy to see why Adam had always favored Laura, why he spent most of his time with her and did not seem to view her as a burden.

Adam… God, what will he say when he sees me?

Freya was on his tail, following the same route he intended to take. Alone, even in her overwhelmed state, she was certain she would catch up to them if she pressed on—if she ignored the soreness of her thighs and the ache in her spine, and quieted the doubts that stirred in her mind.

Freya let out a breath, the air fogging before her eyes.

I’ll show him.

Her brother was a clever man, she knew, but she still could not shake the feeling that he had made a grave mistake by entrusting Doughall Scott with her care. The very thought of that man made her stomach churn and twist.

Doughall was likely at the castle by now. Freya had left a note behind, explaining her intentions, but he would no doubt be surprised to find her missing.

Good .

She shuddered at the thought of being left behind with that bloodthirsty brute. Out here, surrounded by the darkening woods, seemed much better than spending one moment in his presence.

Safer, certainly.

Doughall was older than her, and she had always feared him, even when she was a young lass. It was hard, impossible even, to imagine him as anything but an diabhal— the devil. With each passing year, he had grown more and more ruthless. How her brother could ever consider that man a friend was beyond what she could understand. Adam might trust him, but she did not.

As the sun fully dipped below the horizon, she made it to the edge of a loch. Loch Dubh. She knew this land well, not by sight, but by memory. She had spent countless hours studying the maps of MacNiall lands and those that surrounded it. The hills, roads, and bodies of water were etched into her mind. But now, for the first time, she was seeing it before her.

“Shall we stop, Seileach?” she asked her mare, gently scratching her between the ears.

Freya carefully and slowly slid down from the saddle, her hand still clutching the reins as she led the mare to the rocky shore. Though the sun had set, dusk had not yet given way to true night; there were still traces of light across the sky in shades of purple and pink, those same colors dancing over the soft ripples of the water.

She stood at Seileach’s side, her hand stroking the mare’s well-brushed coat. Her gaze moved upwards, noting the first stars that appeared in the darkening sky. It would be a clear night, she could tell. A part of her wondered if she should stop for the night, rest for a bit before continuing. But she knew that if she wanted to reach her brother, she would have to press on. The stars would guide her, like lanterns above.

We’ll rest for a few moments and then continue.

Kneeling by the water’s edge, she cupped her hands and splashed the cool water on her face, hoping it would steady her some more. But as the water dripped from her skin, a sound made her heart skip a beat—the not-so-distant sound of creaking branches behind her.

Seileach’s ears twitched at the sound, and she huffed, lifting her head toward the tree line. Freya knew her horse well, and the sweet beast was rarely spooked, but something had her on edge.

Freya’s stomach twisted as she straightened, straining her ears as she held her breath.

The night was still, but she knew that she wasn’t alone.

Two men emerged on foot, their faces hidden by the dim light. One was tall and lean, and the other was stout. They slunk along the ground the way a cat might hunt down a mouse. Behind them, a third man came into view, his silhouette towering over them on horseback.

A chill ran through her, turning her blood to ice.

Seileach remained at her mistress’s side, but her gentle demeanor was giving way to fear. She shifted restlessly, the whites of her eyes visible as her nostrils flared, steam rising.

Freya gripped the reins tighter. There wasn’t enough time for her to attempt to flee, at least not on horseback across such a stony shore, but perhaps she could buy herself some time. She drew in a breath, racking her brain for what to say, but before she could find her voice, the man on horseback spoke.

“It’s all yer fault.” His voice was a growl, but the sound… it was almost familiar, as if she had heard it once before.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she took a step back, forgetting about the water at her heels. Her boots and the hem of her dress were soaked through, the cold water lapping at her. Her heart raced as her eyes flickered between the three men, watching as they revealed their gleaming blades.

There was no room to run, no way to fight.

“What do ye want?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

She needed to keep them distracted—just long enough to think of an escape, of anything that might save her.

But they did not seem interested in talking. The taller one, who was wearing a twisted grin, elbowed his shorter companion, his lecherous gaze roving over her.

“Can we have a wee bit o’ fun with her first?” he asked.

The stout one grunted in agreement. “She’s bonny, aye?”

Freya’s stomach churned, but she did not dare let it show on her face. Her hand, still gripping Seileach’s reins, curled into a fist, her nails digging into her palms, though the pain barely seemed to register. Her panic was rising, the weight of just how helpless she was like an anchor rooting her to the spot. She could not let them see how close she was to crumbling.

The man on horseback shrugged, his indifference an arrow to the gut. “I dinnae give a damn what ye do with her, as long as she isnae breathin’ after.” His voice dripped with malice, clearly meaning it.

He did not care what they did—she meant nothing to him until she was cold and dead.

The water behind her was too deep and cold to offer an escape as the two men on foot stepped forward. The taller one was grinning, his few teeth gleaming in the dim light.

“Come ‘ere, lass,” he said in a sickly-sweet voice.

She could make out his features now, see the lines across his forehead and the dark beard that seemed to swallow half of his face. He was as hideous and hungry as a wolf, his eyes gleaming as they took her in.

“Run!” a voice cut through the night, sharp and commanding.

Freya’s heart leaped into her throat, and the men froze, turning toward the sound of thundering hooves against the earth. A dark, cloaked figure broke through the trees, riding hard atop a midnight-black horse. One hand wielded a cavalry lance, the other a round shield.

Freya did not recognize the rider, but she knew a blessing when she saw one. Without a second thought, she gripped Seileach’s reins tighter. Moving quickly, she reached up for the saddle, preparing to hoist herself up. She had just gotten one foot in the stirrup, rising to swing the other over the horse’s back, when a hand clamped down hard on her shoulder and pulled her down.

Freya fell, her spectacles thrown off her face, her slightly blurred gaze cast up at the still-darkening sky. More and more stars shimmered above her as time seemed to slow down. Her body hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs. Pain shot through her ribs, and for a moment, she could do nothing but let out a surprised gasp. All around her, the trees spun, and her heartbeat roared in her ears.

Dazed, her eyes struggled to focus as she lay on the cold, hard ground. Freya could hardly make out the shape of her savior, who moved like a shadow, dark and swift, weaving as they fought off the shorter man and the other rider. She heard the sound of steel clashing, ringing out into the night. She could barely breathe; her body felt heavy, her limbs foreign.

A hideous face appeared over her, shadows twisting over grimy and pockmarked skin. The tall man’s breath smelled of rot and old ale as he straddled her, pinning her until she felt every pebble digging into her back.

“Ye willnae be so bonny when I’m done with ye,” he promised, his lips curling into an ugly grin as his bony fingers found her throat.

Her hands shot up, desperately clawing at his arms, but the pressure was unbearable. There was nothing she could do as her vision began to blur. Dark spots danced before her eyes, and panic surged in her chest.

Is this vile creature the last thing I will see?

Her thoughts scattered.

Laura… Adam… please…

Her mind reached out for something, someone. Anyone. The pressure tightened around her throat, her body trying to move as everything seemed to fade.

And then, suddenly, she gasped.

The grip around her throat loosened, and something hot splattered across her face. Freya gasped, coughing violently as she gulped in the air. Her vision cleared just enough to see the tall man above her begin to slump, a guttural sound escaping him. Something warm and wet seeped through her clothes, finding her skin. The man was shoved off her, falling to the ground at her side.

A tall figure stood over her now, casting a long shadow against the night sky. He no longer held a lance in his hand but a broadsword, the blade dripping with blood, glistening in the faint moonlight. Freya stared at him, her eyes widening. A nightmare brought to life.

The Devil himself.

Anyone but him.

Her mind was spinning, her breaths shallow as she stared up at Doughall Scott, now kneeling next to her. His face was partially shadowed, the moonlight illuminating his features and turning them sharp and cruel. Even in this light, even with his blade bloodied, he was disarmingly handsome.

Damn him.

She blinked, dazed, her body trembling as she struggled to make sense of what was happening right before her eyes. Laird MacGordon, a man she hoped she would never lay her eyes on again, was here. Her gaze slowly moved to the tall man’s body, which was a heap of silence. She quickly looked away, bile rising in her throat. Doughall had run his blade through the man’s throat…

I’m alive. Or am I in Hell?

Doughall reached out, his fingers taking her by the chin, forcing her gaze to settle on his face. His eyes were the shade of cold steel, shimmering in the moonlight as he studied her. The contact sent a jolt through her, and her skin crawled at his rough touch. She wanted to recoil, to slap his hand away, but she could not move, could not think clearly enough to even make sense of her mind.

Doughall was a monster, a devil—she knew this. She had seen him kill a man with her own eyes, years ago. And yet, he was here, saving her from whatever those wretches had planned.

“Why are ye here?” Her voice was raspy and uneven, as if she had not spoken in years. It sounded foreign to her, like it was coming from someone else entirely.

He stared back at her, then dropped his hand. “Are ye hurt?”

Freya shook her head, but she wasn’t sure. There was a dull ache in her back and ribs, radiating through her. But in her state, she could not tell if anything had been broken, if there had been any damage.

As Doughall rose to his feet, she glanced around with wide eyes, fumbling for the spectacles she had lost in her fall. She found them among the pebbles and put them back on, grateful to discover that they were not broken or cracked.

The shore of Loch Dubh was eerily quiet, save for the lapping of the waves and the breeze rustling the leaves. Her restored vision found a cloaked man who had not been there before, standing over the motionless body of the stout assailant—now a lump with a lance sticking out of him.

“He got away,” Doughall said in a flat tone, almost annoyed.

The cloaked man nodded. “Ye want me to hunt the bastard down?”

“Nay,” Doughall answered, his voice low.

Freya’s breath hitched as he held out his hand to her.

Why is he here?

Her head was spinning. Doughall’s attention seemed to settle on her, those eyes boring into hers deeper than she would like. Reluctantly, she took his hand, and with no effort at all, he pulled her to her feet.

Her ribs were sore, her breath seeming heavier as she stumbled forward slightly. Freya steadied herself, refusing to rely on the man at her side. Everything around her was a blur, an overwhelming haze.

She looked over the scene once more, her gaze skimming over the bodies on the ground before turning to the two horses grazing on the grass bank above the shore.

“Seileach!” she screamed as realization washed over her, weighing her down as she whirled to look around her.

Her heart felt as if it had been gripped by an iron fist, tightening and clenching with each frantic glance.

“Seileach?” Doughall raised an eyebrow.

Freya drew in a breath and looked up at him, unable to stop the tears welling up in her eyes. “I need to find me horse,” she said in a firm tone, a tone that told him that she would not leave without her mare. Usually, she struggled for words, but at this moment, they came easily.

She stepped away from that devil of a man, moving toward the tree line. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she whistled, the sound piercing the night. She paused, turning her head to listen.

Nothing. Again.

“Find her damned horse,” Doughall commanded, his voice sharp but not hiding his annoyance.

The cloaked man moved toward his own mount, hoisting himself up with ease before disappearing into the woods.

Frantically, Freya continued to whistle, the sound becoming more desperate and uneven. She was certain she would never stop, not until there wasn’t a breath left in her chest, if not for the pair of strong hands that gripped her shoulders. She looked up at Doughall, grateful for the shadows that hid her current state.

“I have to find her,” she whispered.

“I have sent me man-at-arms to find the horse,” he stated coldly, his eyes boring into hers again. “We need to return to MacNiall Castle, lass.”

Freya drew in a shaky breath.

This was all a mistake… I shouldnae have come. Why did I think I could do this? And why, why did it have to be him who found me?

“I willnae leave me horse behind, Doughall Scott. I willnae?—”

“Ersie will bring yer horse back.” His voice was unwavering, sharp as a blade. Doughall’s fingertips dug into her skin, firm but careful. It was clear that he knew his strength, knew that he was much larger than her. “Ye and I will return, now.”

“ Please, I need to find?—”

“It’s an order, lass.”

Freya glared up at him, her chest heaving.

An order?

For a brief moment, she felt it—that same small spark that had caused her to leave the castle in the first place.

Before it could spread like wildfire, she doused it with a deep, steadying breath. “Promise me. Promise me that ye will find Seileach.”

Doughall frowned. “I dinnae make promises.”

“Then I thank ye for yer help, but I will find me horse by meself,” she snapped, wrenching herself out of his grip.

Turning on her heel, she faced the loch. The surface reflected the moon, waves of silver shimmered and danced. She needed to think , think of where her horse would have run off to.

I hope she’s all right…

Glancing over her shoulder, she was pleased to see Doughall moving toward his horse. Freya tried to bite back the smile that tugged at her lips, watching as he stood there and prepared his saddle. But the smirk spread across her lips anyway. She could not believe that she had won—he was giving up, and she was witnessing it.

However, that smirk, that feeling, quickly faded away.

The Devil turned to face her, holding a length of rope in his hands.