Chapter 4

4

H ow much longer?

The silence inside the carriage was suffocating, broken only by the creaking of the wheels over the uneven ground. Freya could do little more than stare blankly out the window, her stomach in knots and her head pounding with each passing moment.

It had been a day since Doughall had returned her to MacNiall Castle. Now, they were on the road, bound for MacGordon lands—unfamiliar to her, a territory that she had never intended to step foot into. But she had been given little choice, and her mother seemed all too pleased to leave.

Moira sat across from her, her eyes closed, but Freya knew better. She wasn’t sleeping. Her silence had been as constant as the road beneath them, winding and certain—she had barely acknowledged her daughter’s presence.

Freya opened her mouth to break that silence, but what could she possibly say?

She let out a small breath, turning back to the passing landscape beyond the glass.

They had never been close, she and her mother. Freya had always been quiet, the shadow among her siblings—the one who wasn’t chastised, the one who didn’t cause them to worry. She was a good lass, the dutiful perfect daughter.

If only her mother knew the truth.

Freya wasn’t sure how her mother would react if she told her what had happened, what she had done… Would she even believe her?

It was clear that Doughall had not mentioned how he had found her, but for how long? When would he reveal it? Was he waiting for something? Or perhaps he did not care enough to mention it.

The carriage began to slow down, and Freya’s heart rate quickened. She did not hesitate, her hand already on the door. She pushed it open the instant they came to a stop. The cool autumn air hit her like a splash of water, but it did nothing to clear her mind.

As she started toward the front, she could almost swear that she had heard her mother’s voice calling after her, but she did not dare stop.

Ahead of her, Doughall dismounted in one fluid, effortless motion. At his side was his man-at-arms, and she realized that she did not even know the other man’s name as she approached the two. She was about to ask when Doughall turned to face her, his eyes cold and his expression as hard as stone. That ice wall built around him, unmoved by any force, greeted her as if she were nothing more than an obligation.

Isnae that just what I am?

Still, she squared her shoulders and stepped forward. “Are we close?”

Doughall frowned and glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, rolling hills sat before a mountain, its snow-kissed peak almost blending with the sky. At its base, a loch stretched out like a polished mirror. It was a beautiful sight to see, the mountainside blanketed in deep shades of green and speckles of auburn. A thin mist curled upwards from the loch’s shore.

“Just beyond the mountain,” Doughall answered curtly. “Half a day.”

Freya nodded, her heart sinking as she followed his gaze. She wished she were anywhere else—back at MacNiall Castle, anywhere not under the cruelly cold gaze of Laird MacGordon. She could not stand the thought of being so close to him, and yet she knew she had little choice.

Her gaze shifted as the man-at-arms moved, pulling down his hood. Freya blinked, struggling and failing to mask her surprise. It was no man at all, but a woman. A beautiful woman. Her blonde hair was tightly bound in a thick braid that fell over her shoulder, but it was her eyes that were most striking—emerald green, sharp and clever.

The woman offered Freya a cautious smile, her demeanor neither unfriendly nor inviting. Was this truly the person who had helped to save her? Was she the one with the lance and the shield? It would have explained why Doughall had suddenly appeared with a broadsword in hand and no shield.

“Forgive me,” Freya managed after a moment, quickly slipping back into the role of a polite, proper lady. “Please, forgive me. I am afraid I dinnae recall yer name.”

The woman bowed her head—an unusual gesture, more befitting a warrior than a lady. She stood taller than Freya, and Freya herself wasn’t lacking in height. There was something about her that was imposing, formidable in a way that could not be ignored.

“Ersie MacRae,” she replied. “Laird MacGordon’s shield.”

“Shield?” Freya repeated, taken aback by the title. Her eyes darted between Ersie and Doughall. A feeling clawed its way inside her, irritating and unwelcome.

Is this Ersie his lover?

Not that she could truly blame him if that were the case. The woman was striking.

But why did she care? What did it matter to her?

If she’s his lover, I should pity her.

Before she could stop herself from dwelling on it, Doughall cut in, his voice less cold than she was used to. “Ersie, tend to the horses while we… discuss things in private.”

Ersie nodded, taking the reins of both their horses before leading them away. She remained close but far enough that she could not overhear what wasn’t meant for her ears.

Freya, even more annoyed now, crossed her arms and faced Doughall. The last thing she wanted was to speak to him in private, but it seemed that she did not have much of a choice in the matter. A reoccurring annoyance.

“Tell me about yer attacker,” he said suddenly. “The one on horseback.”

Freya blinked, thrown off guard. She had hoped he would forget. She had buried that moment deep, trying not to let it surface over the last day, not wanting to dwell on how close she had come to real harm. The wind whistled through the trees, whispering around them, and she let out a small sigh.

“He seemed familiar,” she admitted, forcing herself to face that memory. “As if I had met him once, perhaps in passing… but I couldnae place him.”

Doughall’s eyes narrowed slightly, considering her words. “Familiar how?”

“His voice,” she whispered, feeling a knot tighten in her chest. “I thought… I thought perhaps I had heard it before.”

Doughall turned his head, his gaze fixed on the distant mountain. His face was all hard lines, a sharp jaw, and a stern brow. He looked as if he had been carved from stone, statuesque and solid. She had never realized just how handsome he was, or perhaps she had never let herself dare to admit it until that moment.

“It’s likely Stewart’s man,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

She frowned, confusion knitting her brow. “ James Stewart?”

Doughall’s silence confirmed it.

“But he is dead. Why would one of his men try to…?”

The name alone sent a shiver down her spine, a reminder of how things had been just months ago.

He is dead…

Doughall looked down at her. “I dinnae ken. But he willnae try it again.”

“How can ye be so sure?” she asked, her voice tight.

Freya shook her head, struggling to make sense of it as she wrapped her arms around herself. A chill moved through her body, not caused by the autumn wind.

Her eyes flickered toward him once more. Doughall was looking at the mountain—or at least, that was what she thought at first. There was a distant look in his eyes, and she realized that he was staring toward his home.

“Ye are mine to protect now,” he said, his words final and unyielding.

Before she could respond, he turned and started toward Ersie and the horses. He moved with more grace than she imagined was possible for a man of his size. The wind tugged at his dark hair, tousling it. The folds of his plaid billowed. As much as she wanted to deny it, there was something about the way he moved, the way he commanded everyone without speaking a word, that drew her in.

Doughall had learned long ago to hide his emotions, to keep his face as still as the stone walls of MacGordon Castle. It was a skill he had perfected, one that had served him well. But in Freya’s presence, he could feel that skill waver—the faintest, finest crack in the impervious rock of himself, chipped at by the fear in her autumnal brown eyes when she had mentioned her assailant.

I’ll kill the wretch with me bare hands.

The more he thought about the rider who had gotten away, and what the brute might have done to the flame-haired, stubborn, wayward innocent now in his care, the more his rage simmered.

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the doors of MacGordon Castle, his rage was boiling .

“Oi! Carriage, now! Horses, now!” he barked at the stableboys who were in the midst of tossing a ring over a post.

The boys sprinted over, their heads down.

Doughall beckoned three maids over. “See to it that me guests are fed and their rooms are prepared. Baths drawn, fires stoked,” he commanded as he dismounted.

It came naturally to him, and he did not think twice about it, though his tone carried more venom than usual. His voice brooked even less argument than normal, and the servants rushed to obey in a heartbeat.

Doughall’s eyes flickered to the carriage door as Ersie remembered to open it. Moira Kane, the mother of Adam and his sisters, emerged with grace. Though it was subtle, he could see the slight hunch of her shoulders and the heaviness of her steps.

But it wasn’t Moira he was waiting to see.

Freya stepped out, the image of perfection in her mother’s shadow. Her head was held high, her shoulders were pulled back, and her eyes were fixed on the castle doors ahead of them.

Seeing the two women walking was like looking into the past and future at once. Freya looked very much like her mother, omitting the fine lines on her face and the gray streaks in her red hair.

Despite himself, his gaze lingered on Freya. The sunlight touched her just so, turning the deep shades of auburn into flames. He could see the fire in her, the spirit she tried to keep subdued. It was something that piqued his interest and vexed him at the same time.

Ye wouldnae have run from yer home, against yer braither’s wishes, if ye didnae have a willful ember in ye.

Her eyes met his for the briefest of moments before she tore her gaze away, as if looking at him for too long would reveal her thoughts. Doughall wondered what was going through that pretty head of hers.

“Ye will join me and me kin for the feast tonight,” he said, his voice an order rather than an invitation. He wasn’t in the habit of asking for anything.

He saw a flicker of something in Freya’s eyes, something defiant, but it faded quickly and was replaced with a polished smile. It did not reach her eyes as she offered him a graceful curtsy.

“We thank ye, Laird MacGordon, for yer hospitality,” Moira said, her voice soft, her smile tender yet sad.

He had known her for some time and had seen the shift in her demeanor, though he had given it little thought until now.

Doughall nodded stiffly in return, not one for pleasantries. He shifted, turning his body to scan the waiting servants near the door. “Ye…” He glanced at a round, freckle-faced maid. “Ye will show them to their rooms.”

The maid hurried toward them, her steps quick and nervous. Whatever she said, he did not care to hear, as his gaze had settled on Freya once more. He could see the tension in her, the worry that seemed to pull at the corners of her mouth. There were things they needed to discuss, matters that could not wait much longer. But now wasn’t the time.

He turned away, his focus shifting to his second-in-command. Ersie was busy speaking to a stablehand who seemed most reluctant to take the reins of her temperamental gelding.

Just as he took a step toward them, Freya’s voice cut through the air like a bell. “Doughall.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, surprised to hear his name and not the title he had claimed. The familiarity of it shocked him, but he could not say he did not like the sound of her calling out his name.

She met his gaze. “Can I have a word… with ye?”

“Later.” Doughall turned back and left.

The way she had said his name, the way she had looked at him…

I must be tired from the journey.

“Ersie, come,” he said, his voice curt.

Ersie raised an eyebrow at his tone, but she did not bother to argue. She followed him as they made their way to the front doors, eventually falling into step with him.

Doughall forced himself to focus on the tasks that were awaiting him inside, but there was a nagging feeling he could not quite ignore—the sensation of eyes on his back.

He did not look back, but he knew just who was watching him.