Chapter 5

5

“ T here he is!” Flynn Robertson’s voice echoed through the hall.

The familiar space was illuminated and warmed by the flickering fire and candles. Shadows danced to a soundless melody across the stone and paneled walls. The long oak table was made for more private events, and this was one such occasion.

“How was the journey, Nephew?” His aunt Isla’s voice was lilting, sweet. It did not suit her, by any means. She was a mischievous, meddlesome woman who was usually anything but quiet.

His aunt and uncle were already seated at the far end of the table, as they often were during these small dinners. His uncle, Flynn, sat close to his wife, their closeness made only more obvious by the way their shoulders almost touched. There was more than enough room for both of them, but they seemed to prefer it this way. Why? Doughall could not be sure.

As he sat at the head of the table, his gaze turned to the door. Doughall wasn’t sure why he was so fixated on her arrival, but he found himself unable to look away. The younger, quieter twin of Adam’s sisters had never caught his interest before.

In truth, he had barely noticed the girl in all the years he had known her brother. She had always lingered in the background, a timid presence that he could barely recall. But now… something had shifted. He could feel it and see it. There was more to her than met the eye… and he could not complain about what met his eye, either.

“The journey was well enough,” he answered.

The door creaked open.

Freya wore a simple gown, green with darker shades that accentuated the fiery strands of her hair. But she still appeared unassuming. She did not dress to impress, but the gown still suited her in ways that made his gaze linger for too long.

She did not look at him immediately.

She was alone, which was a surprise. But not an unwelcome one.

It will be easier without Moira here.

Doughall rose from his seat and moved around the table, stepping toward the new arrival. Her gaze snapped to him when he stood before her, holding out his hand to her. He could see the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, but it was quickly masked. She stared down at his open palm, saying and doing nothing at all.

“Freya, love,” he said, his voice softer than it had ever been. “Allow me to introduce me aunt and uncle.”

She blinked as if he had pinched her, rather than referred to her with such a term of endearment.

Do as ye were told, he willed her with a slight flex of his fingers.

With a loud gulp, she took his hand. Her skin was warm and soft, her hand so small in his, a stark contrast to the calloused fingers that curled around her own.

Doughall guided her to the table, setting her on his right side. His hand brushed against her arm for a brief moment, and he was almost tempted to let it linger.

Freya gracefully dropped her hand and then turned to Isla and Flynn, curtsying. “It is a pleasure to meet ye both. Doughall has told me so very much about ye.”

Ye little liar.

She was better than he thought she would be after that first hesitation.

The meal was served quickly, platters of glistening, roast meats and buttery vegetables filling the table and the air with mouthwatering aromas. But Doughall found himself without much of an appetite. He served himself a small helping from each platter and then picked at his food, feeling her eyes on him.

He ignored her stare.

The table was quiet, save for the subtle prodding of his aunt and the encouragement of his uncle. Freya answered their questions, but she did not do more than what was expected. She seemed so in place, looking bonny and agreeable, and yet he swore he could hear the discomfort in her voice.

When he looked up, she was no longer staring at him. Rather, she was glaring at him, her gaze hard.

“When we finish, will ye show me the castle?” she asked, her voice laced with a challenge.

It wasn’t a question—it was a demand.

Ye’ve learned nothin’, have ye? We’ll have to remedy that.

He held her gaze, saying nothing at first, before taking a long sip of his ale. He set the pewter cup down with deliberate slowness, soaking in the feeling of her annoyance. Then, without breaking eye contact, he stood up. His chair scraped across the floor, the sound harsh in the quiet of the room.

Once more, he extended his hand. The command in his posture was unmistakable.

Freya did not hesitate, rising gracefully and slipping her hand into his.

“Excuse us,” Doughall said to his aunt and uncle as he all but dragged her toward the door.

She did not struggle against him, instead allowing herself to be guided.

Behind them, he heard his uncle chuckle. “Ah, to be young.”

This was a mistake.

The door to his study closed behind them with a dull thud, the sound settling in the air like a warning. Doughall moved toward the window in an attempt to create some space between them. He did not say a word, but he could feel her fury, crackling in the room like a fire about to burst from its pretty hearth. But he did not care. He had made his decision, knowing full well how she would react.

Still, he could not ignore that small, unwelcome thought.

Leaning forward, his fingers gripped the edges of the windowsill as he stared out at the pitch-black beyond the pane. Freya’s temper intrigued him more than he dared to admit. It was… something unexpected, something he could not understand.

He wasn’t someone who was surprised easily, but she seemed almost… unpredictable. She wasn’t the demure woman he had expected, and despite himself, he was curious to know just how deep her fire could burn.

“Ye didnae prepare me for this,” she hissed from behind him.

He raised an eyebrow but did not turn back. He had prepared her—he had told her what she would need to do, that she would need to be convincing, to play the part. She had agreed, for the most part. What more could she expect from him?

Her footsteps grew louder as she moved toward him. “I havenae even spoken a word of this to me maither,” she admitted, her voice turning soft with worry. “How could ye expect me to be prepared when I havenae had the chance to?—”

“Would ye like me to tell her?” Doughall cut in, finally turning his head just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye.

The offer wasn’t genuine—he had no intention of telling Moira—but the challenge still hung in the air between them. He knew she would not want that.

“Ye wouldnae dare!”

“It’s only temporary, until yer braither returns,” he said, looking back outside.

There was nothing to see, but in the faint glow of the fire, he could make out her reflection.

She crossed her arms over her chest, turning her face away from him. “And what do ye get out of this?”

He did not bother hiding the truth. “There are some benefits to this… arrangement. Me uncle will stop throwin’ any lass he finds me way. And me council will stop pesterin’ me about findin’ a wife and producin’ an heir.” The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly, though it wasn’t quite a smirk. “I have nay doubt that ye will play the part well enough.”

“Does me braither ken?”

Doughall turned to face her, meeting her gaze. “Nay, nae yet.”

“And ye think he will see reason in it?” She furrowed her brow.

Doughall nodded. “Aye.”

Doughall did what was necessary, always. He expected Adam to understand that, eventually. Yes, her brother would be… disagreeable at first, but when he learned that no harm came to his sister, he would understand.

But Freya wasn’t convinced. She stepped closer to him, her eyes flashing with that fire he could not seem to look away from. “I should have had a say in this,” she said, her voice rising with frustration. “I should have been given a choice.”

“Ye lost the right to that when ye put yerself in danger and put yerself in me debt.”

Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling with each gulp of air. She was furious, and it showed in the way she glared up at him, her face flushed and her back rigid. He could not help but notice the freckles just below her collarbone, like a trail leading to her bosom. Perhaps lower.

Too close, she’s too close.

But instead of stepping away, he found himself lingering, savoring that heat that radiated from her.

She was intoxicating.

His gaze flicked away when he caught himself staring for too long. This wasn’t meant to happen. He wasn’t meant to be interested—certainly not in her. But now that she was here, he wasn’t so sure that he could step away.

Freya’s voice broke through his haze. “I will play the part,” she told him, her frustration lacing each and every word. “But I willnae obey ye. Ye dinnae have that control over me.”

Those words… they felt more like a challenge than anything else.

“But I do, lass. Dinnae think for one moment that ye are in a place of power here. Look around ye, Freya. Where are ye?”

Her eyes narrowed. She was seething, but she did not answer.

“When ye are in me castle, on me lands, under me care,” Doughall continued, his voice dropping to a whisper full of promise, “ye belong to me. Ye will obey every order, whether ye like it or nae.”

“So, I am yer prisoner until Adam returns?”

Doughall shook his head slightly. “Ye are me guest.”

Her laugh was bitter. “Is this how ye treat yer guests?”

“Only the most esteemed,” he said, unable to resist making the jab.

He could see how much it riled her, and for some reason, he could not bring himself to stop. He wanted to push her, to see just how far he could go until she shattered into a thousand pieces.

Freya stepped back from him, turning her face away, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Since ye didnae allow me to bring me horse,” she said through gritted teeth, “I want ye to lend me one of yers so I may ride whenever I please.”

She had insisted on bringing the horse, complained about it, but Doughall had not been sure that the old beast would make the trip. Still, his stables were well equipped, and he had some horses that would suit her well enough.

“Very well,” he agreed. “But only with Ersie. Or meself.”

At the mention of Ersie, her eyes flickered. A look of curiosity crossed her face, but it faded just as soon as it appeared. “And I wish to go wherever I want?—”

“Ye have access to the castle, and outside of it with an escort.”

Will she try to run away?

He moved closer, crowding her against the edge of his desk, leaving her with nowhere else to go. She bumped into it, her eyes widening at the realization, but she did not try to sidestep him.

Doughall closed the space between them, leaning in closer. “But let me make meself clear.” His voice was husky with promise. “If ye try to escape, I will hunt ye down. And I willnae untie ye after I’ve caught ye this time.”

The image of her bound before him flashed through his mind, and for a brief moment, he let it linger. He wasn’t sure if he hated or relished the idea. Perhaps both.

“Aye, M’Laird ,” she spat before turning sharply, pushing past him.

Without thinking, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back. She stumbled, crashing into his chest. Her breath came in short gasps as she glared up at him, defiance burning in her eyes.

“I didnae permit ye to leave, lass.”