Chapter 3

3

“ Y e wouldnae dare.” Freya shook her head, taking a step back.

Doughall stood before her like a mountain, immovable, casting a shadow over her. He made no effort to hide the length of rope between his hands.

“Ye ken I would,” he replied, his voice as steady as stone.

Freya’s stomach twisted, and her heart lurched, her feet moving as she made to turn, to run, but Doughall was faster. In one swift motion, he closed the distance between them, his hand like iron as it clamped around her arm. She struggled, twisting to free herself as she gasped, but he moved with an ease that made her blood boil. In seconds, he was tying the rope tightly around her wrists.

Her breaths came fast as she stared down at her bound hands, at the frayed rope that dug into her skin. Her rage simmered as she struggled uselessly against it.

“Ye will let go of me,” she snarled, barely able to catch her breath as he stepped away.

He held the other end of the rope in his hand, tethering her to him. Once more, she struggled against it, despite the burning pain in her wrists.

“I will scream,” she warned, drawing in a breath to ready herself.

Doughall gave a slight shrug. “Should I gag ye as well, Freya?”

She closed her mouth, pursing her lips as tears of frustration mingled with the feeling of embarrassment. “I willnae go, ye will have to drag me then.”

He tugged on the rope, testing the length between them. His eyes met hers, his expression carved of stone—there was no hint of emotion. He wasn’t an open book for her to read, yet a part of her was almost certain that he was enjoying this.

“So be it,” he said finally, pulling harder.

Freya gasped as she was jerked forward, her feet unsteady beneath her as she stumbled toward him. Her face was on fire.

“Ye truly are a beast, ye ken? A damned—” The words were stolen from her as she looked back up at him.

If he heard her insult, he made no effort to acknowledge it or care. His gaze was fixed on her, as if he was seeing through her.

And it infuriated her.

Freya yanked harder on the rope, testing his resolve. But he simply stared back, unmoved, his eyes intent in a way that made her shiver.

Curse him!

He pulled once more, sending her toppling forward, almost into his chest. She had to tilt her chin to the sky to meet his gaze. Before she could finish the insult still playing on her tongue, his hands found her ribs. She gasped as he lifted her, sweeping her off her feet as if she weighed nothing at all.

“Put me down!” she screamed, thrashing against him, bringing her bound hands down against his shoulder and kicking wildly.

“Easy, lass,” he murmured as he turned around, his voice almost mocking.

His horse stood waiting, watching as its ears flicked. Doughall lifted Freya effortlessly, and before she could wriggle free, he lowered her into the saddle.

She cursed inwardly. She was running out of options.

“Ye are despicable,” she hissed, glaring down at him.

Doughall clucked his tongue dismissively, swinging up behind her on the horse. His broad chest pressed against her back as he reached forward, one hand closing around the reins as his thighs pressed firmly against the horse’s flanks.

“Mind yer tongue, lass,” he murmured as the horse moved forward. He leaned in closer, his mouth close to her ear. “Or ye will find me far more despicable than ye can imagine.”

The sound of the horse’s hooves against the packed earth was all that kept Freya grounded as they rode. Hours had passed since they had left the shores of Loch Dubh, hours of her wrists being tied together and tethered to Doughall Scott like some kind of disobedient hound.

Her face flushed, not from the wind that swept across the moors, but from the sheer indignity of it all. She sat stiffly in front of him, her body unwillingly pressed against his. The hard lines of his chest and abdomen were cruel reminders of just how close they were. Too close. Her hands rested awkwardly on her lap, uncomfortable with the tight bonds.

“Ye can untie me,” she finally said, her voice sharp.

Freya couldn’t see his face, but she could feel the way his muscles tensed up slightly behind her, as if the mere suggestion annoyed him.

His voice, when he spoke at last, was as cold and unyielding as the air around them. “I dinnae trust ye.”

Her jaw clenched. “I willnae go anywhere,” she hissed. “Untie me.”

“I was tasked with protectin’ ye, and I will do so however I see fit.”

Freya bit her tongue hard enough that she tasted copper. She wasn’t one to curse, not one to have an outburst, but Doughall was testing her limits. She would thank him for saving her, eventually, but she would never forgive him for this embarrassment.

Still, at least Seileach had been found. About an hour into the painful journey, Doughall’s man-at-arms had emerged from the forest, leading the sweet mare behind his own. Not that Freya was allowed to ride her horse. The Devil hadn’t even given her the choice.

The cold seeped through her cloak, the bite sharp against her skin, but she refused to lean back against Doughall for warmth. Yet, with each passing second, her body felt heavier and wearier. Her shoulders and ribs ached, her muscles fighting the sway of the horse.

A shuddering breath escaped her lips as Doughall shifted behind her, leaning forward. He had been holding the reins with one hand the entire time, but now, as she looked down, she saw that both his hands were gripping the leather straps. He was all around her, and there was nowhere for her to go. Her heart rate quickened, even though she willed it not to. The weight of his large body surrounded her, his breath hot against the top of her head.

I shouldnae have left home. None of this would’ve happened if I just…

“How did ye find me?” The question slipped past her lips.

“Ye werenae in the castle. The stableboy saw ye leavin’. Ye were easy enough to follow—ye didnae get as far as I thought ye would,” he said coolly.

He had tracked her down like a hunted animal.

“If ye were hopin’ to run away,” he said, his words cutting through the air like shards of glass, “ye did a poor job of it.”

Each word was a twist of a blade.

Freya drew in a shaky breath, her eyes narrowing on the road ahead of them. The silence that followed was thick with tension, with words she wished she had the courage to spit out like venom. But with each passing moment, she realized it was pointless.

In the distance, illuminated by the moonlight, she saw MacNiall Castle waiting for them. She drew in a breath, a feeling of unease rising within her. She had left, and so soon she was returning. The only small mercy was that her brother would be away for some time.

Adam… what will he do when he finds out?

“Are ye plannin’ to tell him?” she asked quietly.

Doughall’s grip on the reins tightened, his knuckles turning white, his breath a low exhale before he spoke. “That ye ran away? Or that ye were almost killed?”

She stiffened, her stomach knotting. Freya hated that he was right.

“Both.” Freya’s voice was muffled, but it still surprised him.

Doughall stared ahead, trying to ignore the feel of her body swaying with the movement of the horse, so much of her brushing and nudging against so much of him. It could not be helped, to avoid her running off, but he did not have to pay any attention to it.

It was strange to him that he had never given Adam’s sister a second glance before, that he had not known that she was anything more than a wee mouse until now.

A tedious, wee thing.

Doughall urged his horse forward, his gaze narrowing as MacNiall Castle appeared before them. It was a fine castle, to be sure, but it seemed to pale in comparison to his own. He barely glanced down at the woman sitting stiffly in front of him; she was as silent as he’d ordered, her bound hands fisted on her lap.

Her silence was temporary, he knew, though he appreciated the few moments’ respite from her backtalk and whining.

“Ye can stop yer fussin’. We’re here,” he said flatly.

“I ken,” she muttered back, “since ye were kind enough nae to blindfold me too.”

He bent his head until they were practically cheek to cheek. “There’s still time.”

Her body stiffened, and she pulled herself forward, giving him a brief respite from the press of her body. But he knew the movement of the horse would only knock her back against him.

At the gates, Doughall dismounted, then reached up, grabbing her around the waist to lift her. Not so tenderly, he set her down. He did not look at her but could feel her eyes burning holes in his head.

“Me hands,” she snapped, holding out her arms.

“I dinnae take orders, lass. I give ‘em.”

He pulled her roughly to him, and without a second thought, he lifted her again and threw her over his shoulder, carrying her through the gates like the deserter that she was.

Try and make a fool out of me, would ye?

She did not beat her fists against his back this time, her embarrassed resignation obvious in her limp body. After all, these were her people; she would not want them to see her like this. She should have thought of that before she acted rashly.

“Please, can ye put me down,” she murmured quietly, a rasp of desperation in her voice.

Halfway across the near-empty courtyard, with most of the castle residents safely in their beds, Doughall set her down for the second time.

Without a word, he lifted her bound hands and rested them against his chest. Holding her gaze, he slowly fed the rope back through the central knot, taking care not to add to the redness that bloomed on her wrist. Her brother would take umbrage with any injury, and his point had been made—there was no reason to let her suffer further.

“Ye better hope that yer wee outin’ hasnae caused any lastin’ trouble,” he said, teasing the knot loose. “Did ye recognize yer attacker?”

She blinked, her brown eyes—the color of autumn leaves—turning suddenly wild behind her quaint spectacles. He could practically hear her heart beating out of her chest with terror.

Scared, wee mouse.

“Well?” he prompted coolly.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I’ll ask ye again tomorrow,” he said. “Ye better be ready to reply.”

If I dinnae ken the identity of the one who ran, I willnae ken whose head to chop off.

It was that wide, wild-eyed stare, so like the one he remembered before seeing it snuffed out forever. It stirred in him a murderous, vengeful rage that would not be sated until someone had paid the price with their blood. And he would collect payment.

He was gentler than before as he eased the loops of rope over Freya’s hands, his fingertips skimming over the unblemished, smooth softness of her skin. Formerly unblemished, at least, for she now had cuts aplenty.

“Must ye be so rough?” she mumbled.

He shot her a dark look. Clearly, she had no idea how gentle he was being.

He pulled the last of the rope off her and draped it over his arm, before grasping her wrist to look at the red band that the friction had caused. With a smirk to himself, he wondered how loudly she would scream if he kissed it better.

“Ye’ll need a salve,” he said instead. “I trust ye’ll walk like a civilized lass to the healer?”

She pulled her hands back to her chest and rubbed her wrists with a sour look—a look that said she was no longer his captive.

“I’ll walk,” she agreed, bowing her head.

“Good.” He turned and barked at a cluster of nearby guards, letting some of his anger fly. “Get the horses rubbed down! Ye, wake a maid and get a bath drawn for Lady Freya! Ye, wake the cook—I’m ravenous.”

The guards scuttled away as if he had lit a fire beneath their feet, while the others hurried up to the battlements to resume the duties they had clearly neglected. Doughall’s eye twitched at that.

There’s another Laird in control now. Ye’ll nae have a moment to forget it.

Bony hands, as rough and worn as the walls of MacNiall Castle, prodded at her ribs. Each touch sent a dull throb of pain through Freya’s side, making her wince.

“Some bruises, but nae a thing broken,” Sorcha, the healer, muttered as she continued to prod at the tender flesh.

Freya clenched her jaw as she tried to maintain her composure. It hurt, but she wouldn’t dare voice it. Not that it mattered, truly. Sorcha was clever enough to see through anything that Freya might attempt to hide.

She had never been hurt like this before. It was a strange feeling.

“And how did ye get such injuries?” the healer asked, pausing to glance up at Freya with wise, sharp eyes.

Anything said in the small, cold room would surely reach the ears of her brother. Freya did not wish to lie to the healer, but it was clear that the truth needed to be stretched as thin as possible without it snapping.

Her eyes flickered to the door.

Sorcha had been quick to kick Doughall out of the room after he had escorted Freya to the healer’s chambers—a small mercy and a big relief for Freya. It had been a singular thrill to see the door slam shut in his face. Still, she wondered… was he outside the door now? Was the Devil waiting for her?

Her gaze moved back to the healer, and she chose her words carefully. “I dinnae recall much, but I must’ve fallen off me horse. Laird MacGordon found me on the ground.”

It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. If the healer doubted her, the old woman made no mention or sign of it. Freya fought back the breath of relief that threatened to escape her, lest she seem too obvious. She did not need word of what had happened to reach her brother. Not yet, at least.

“Ye’re lucky that Laird MacGordon found ye.”

Freya forced a small, tight smile and nodded. “Aye.”

“It could’ve been far worse, ye ken,” the healer added.

Once again, Freya nodded, though she bristled at the thought inwardly. She knew she would have to thank him, for as much as she hated to admit it, he had saved her. It was clear what her fate would have been if not for Doughall and his man-at-arms. Still, the thought made her stomach lurch and her wrists itch.

He tied me up and led me like a dog, and if I didnae ken better, I’d say he enjoyed it.

Once Sorcha was content, she opened the door and unceremoniously ushered Freya into the hallway. The door closed behind her, and Freya stared ahead, letting out the breath she had been holding.

Doughall Scott was nowhere to be seen.

Each step felt heavier than the last as she moved down the dimly lit passage, the sound of her heels clicking against the stone floor echoing back. Her mind was just as heavy, full of guilt and annoyance.

All of that for nothin’.

She had failed to get far, let alone find her sister. In the span of no more than half a day, she had almost been killed. Worse still, she had been saved by a man who was known for his cruelty. Some even said he had been responsible for his parents’ death, but Freya didn’t believe that. He was but a mere child back then. The part about his cruelty though… that was something she knew too well. Something she had seen the very first time she had stayed in his castle almost six years ago…

She wasn’t sure how she was feeling, or how she should feel.

Glancing ahead, her feet stopped at the same time as her heart. The morning light filtered through one of the tall windows, bathing the carved stone floor in a warm, golden glow. Standing at the end of the hallway, soaked in that light, was the Devil himself. His eyes were locked on her, his expression unreadable, but the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down her spine.

Doughall was waiting for her.

A part of her was tempted to turn back, to flee, but she somehow managed to straighten herself. Lifting her chin, and pulling her shoulders back, she tried to ignore the ache in her side as she approached him.

Doughall’s gaze never wavered, not even when she stood directly before him. His gray eyes pierced through her—her clothes, flesh, and bone—as if he could read her thoughts, her feelings.

“Were ye injured?” His voice was flat, emotionless.

Is he concerned?

It was impossible to tell.

Freya slowly shook her head. “Some bruises, but nothin’ is broken.”

Now, I should thank him.

She opened her mouth, prepared to swallow whatever pride she had left, but he spoke before she could form the words.

“It seems ye cannae be left unattended.” His jaw tightened slightly, just subtly enough that if she were not so close, she would’ve missed it. “And it seems ye cannae be trusted either.”

Freya blinked. “I beg yer pardon?”

She was prepared to retort, sharp words jostling for a spot on her tongue, when he spoke again.

“Ye will come with me to MacGordon Castle,” he said, his voice cold and firm.

“Nay, I willnae,” she snapped.

The audacity of this…

Doughall raised an eyebrow, his face still a mask devoid of any emotion or hint of what he was thinking. The way he looked at her infuriated her to no end. He did not need to say anything, though—it seemed clear to her that she had little choice.

“What could ye possibly do at yer castle that ye cannae do here?” she said, refusing to relent without something of a protest.

“Keep ye where I can see ye.”

“And ye cannae do that here?”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Nae the way I plan to.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Her throat constricted.

“Ye owe me a favor for savin’ yer skin, and I intend to make ye useful.”

“Useful?” She swallowed uncomfortably past the lump in her throat.

She did not like the sound of that. If she went there, to be his captive and him her keeper, she feared she might never return.

“Aye. While there,” he said, reaching for her hand and turning her arm over to eye the red bands around her wrists, “ye will convince everyone that ye are madly in love with me.”

For a moment, Freya stared up at him, numbed by the iciness in his gaze and the danger in his voice. She could not seem to process what he had just said to her. Then, a feeling rumbled in the pit of her stomach, and before she could steady herself, a burst of laughter escaped her.

Her laughter echoed, filling the hallway. She laughed so hard that her ribs began to protest, the dull ache turning into a sharp pain. Wincing, she placed a hand on her side and held her breath, knowing that if she did not, she would not stop laughing.

“I didnae ken ye had a sense of humor,” she wheezed.

Doughall did not laugh with her, nor did he so much as crack a smile. Her laughter faltered as she looked up at him, her amusement fading quickly. Realization washed over her. His expression was unchanged, his eyes still cold and almost… calculating.

He wasn’t joking.

“I could never do such a thing,” she said firmly. “I couldnae?—”

“Ye will learn how.” His voice was low. “And ye will be convincin’.”

Freya’s chest tightened, panic rising in the back of her throat. “Nay,” she stated, shaking her head again, her brow furrowed. “I willnae do that.”

She needed to leave, now. Doughall was a large man, and his presence alone made the space feel smaller. She drew in a breath and stepped to the side, trying to push past him in the narrow hallway. His arm shot out, blocking her path. Freya’s chest tightened, and she stepped back without a thought, her body twisting, her back finding the cold stone wall behind her.

Doughall moved forward, closing the space between them. “Ye will. Ye owe me. Consider yerself lucky—after the trouble ye caused me, I could have asked for more.”

Her heart was pounding so loud in her chest that she was certain the Devil could hear it as well. He was close, too close, and she could not pretend that it did not frighten her. But there was something more, something she couldn’t quite explain.

Freya forced herself to meet his eyes. “Ye are too close.”

“I was tasked with keepin’ ye safe, Freya. I will do whatever I see fit to ensure that ye remain unharmed.” Doughall’s voice dropped, a growl that made her toes curl and her body tremble. “Ye need nae accept it, but ye will obey.”

Obey?

Her blood boiled at his words, but she could not seem to find her voice. Doughall was so close, his face inches from her own, she could feel his warm breath against her cheeks and smell the hint of whiskey on his tongue.

Why is he doin’ this?

Freya swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”

His eyes darkened. “Nay one would dare touch the Devil’s bride.”