Chapter 7

7

“ A h, there ye are, lad.” Flynn beamed as Doughall stepped into the small cellar.

The rich scent of aging barrels and the sharp tang of whiskey mingled in the air, filling his senses and calming him just a bit. But not much.

He had barely slept last night, his mind too occupied with thoughts of fiery red hair and a sharp tongue. Doughall was no stranger to sleepless nights, but it was rare for something… or someone… to affect him so much.

The distillery wasn’t large, by any means, but it was well known. Business, from the look of things, was good enough.

Doughall glanced down at his uncle. “How do ye feel?” he asked, eyeing the desk cluttered with papers before him.

Flynn did not rise from his seat, nor did Doughall expect him to. The man had a bad knee, and when it was damp—which seemed more often than not—it ached something fierce. There seemed to be one cure for such a pain, and Doughall watched as his uncle poured two glasses of it. Amber liquid swirled, glowing warmly in the dim morning light that crept through the small window.

“Ye ken me,” Flynn sighed. “I dinnae ken when to quit.”

Doughall sat on a stool across from the desk, leaning forward as he reached for one of the glasses. He took a sip, savoring the taste, then embraced the burn as it slid down his throat and into his belly. It tasted different from the last whiskey he had tried. Not bad, but different. There was a sweetness to it, something he could not quite place.

Flynn seemed to notice the look on his face. “A new recipe.”

“It’ll do well,” Doughall said, meaning it.

“Aye, as did ye. That lassie ye brought home… I wasnae expectin’ it. Och, she’s a bonny thing and nay mistake.” His uncle raised his glass. “To yer happiness, Doughall. It’s about bloody time.”

Doughall raised his glass but did not dare say a word about it. His mind reeled, thinking about last night in the study. He had been so close to overstepping, to losing a sliver of his rigid self-control.

She is nothin’ but trouble.

He would have to be more careful in the future, distancing himself in mind if not in body.

After polishing off his glass and listening to his uncle ramble on about the market north of Inverness, Doughall stepped outside. The morning was crisp, and there was the feel of rain in the air.

The distillery sat at the base of the hill, on the outskirts of the small village that sprawled at the foot of the castle. The scent of fresh earth and peat lingered in the breeze as he walked along the trodden path, his eyes scanning his surroundings with each step.

Once a week, he would go down for a sip of whiskey, and each time would seem much like the last time. The only difference now was that he was hosting Freya, and he was a suspicious creature by nature. Anything out of place, he would notice it. Any face he did not recognize, he would question.

As he passed the small stone cottages and wooden dwellings, the reaction was immediate and instinctual. The people scattered. Some bowed their heads in respect while others faded into the shadows of narrow alleys. It was always the same—an unspoken fear of the Devil that wandered among them.

Doughall had fed into it, allowed for such reactions to become the norm, and at times he welcomed it.

He looked up at MacGordon Castle, a seat held by the Laird for more than a century. It was in his blood, and it was one of the few things he truly loved. The castle was formidable. Built in the early twelfth century, it had withstood sieges, rebellions, and storms that had torn through the Highlands like the wrath of God. It wore the scars on its weathered stone walls, a seasoned warrior ready to withstand whatever came next.

As he approached the gates, the guards stationed there straightened, their eyes never meeting his. He did not acknowledge them as he walked through, considering them part of the structure itself.

Ersie stood there, waiting for him. Her sharp eyes were hard as steel as she frowned, clearly upset. “Are ye nae concerned that he would come here?”

His eyes narrowed for a moment as he considered her question. “Aye, I have thought of it.”

“And yet ye’re rovin’ around with little more than yer dirk,” she huffed.

Her concern was noted, but not necessary. “It’s nae me he is after.”

That seemed to satisfy her, though her gaze flickered toward the castle walls as if searching for danger within the walkways and recesses where trouble could lurk. He could not blame her for being cautious—he felt it as well, but there was no point in waiting in fear.

“Is she awake?” he asked, changing the subject.

Ersie nodded. “Aye, she broke her fast in her chambers.”

There seemed to be more that his second-in-command wanted to say, but Ersie appeared to think better of it. Instead, she bowed her head. “I’ll be in the yard if ye need me.” Her voice was flat.

She hated the yard, hated to train.

Most did not take well to a woman being in such a position, especially some of the men she would instruct. They knew better than to voice their doubts or dislikes, but they were still there, persistent as Highland drizzle. Doughall had told her he would deal with whoever dared to speak ill of her, but she had insisted that let her handle it. And so she did, each morning in the yard.

She was a strong woman, formidable. Deadly . Unfortunately, it took some longer than others to realize it.

Doughall nodded before turning to leave, but her voice stalled him. “Are ye sure about this, Doughall? About this lass? I ken ye made a promise, but?—”

“Aye, I made a promise.”

And I should’ve kept me vow to never make a promise to anyone but meself.

With that, he left her there.

Freya had been avoiding her mother for most of the morning, but she soon found herself with nowhere else to go. Standing in the middle of a corridor was her mother, and she had no means of escape.

Moira walked toward her, her head held high and her shoulders pulled back. The same way she had taught her daughters to move, pose and behave. But there was a look in her eyes that made Freya’s stomach churn.

“I believe ye and I have some things to discuss about Laird MacGordon,” Moira said.

Freya swallowed hard. “I didnae mean to keep it from ye.”

She wasn’t sure what to expect from her mother, but the look on her face wasn’t something she had considered. Her mother was smiling, and Freya wasn’t sure if she was convinced or if she was seeing completely through her.

Looping her arm through Freya’s, Moira began to walk slowly in the direction she had come. “Yer betrothed’s aunt has kindly invited us to discuss the feast.”

“What feast?”

“Why, the feast to celebrate the love ye have found.”

What have I gotten meself into…

“Ah, finally!” Isla’s voice was warm and welcoming as they stepped into a small hall, the kind where a family might gather on a winter evening.

She was sitting before the fireplace, two empty chairs on either side of her. She stood up and quickly crossed the hall, unable to hide her excitement.

“We have so much to discuss, lassie.”

Freya could hardly muster a smile, but somehow she managed. How could she get out of this? What could she say or do to make this stop?

“I dinnae think Doughall and I would care for a feast. Maither was just tellin’ me about yer… plans.”

“Nonsense!” Isla declared, her voice tinkling like a bell.

Freya felt his presence behind her—she knew immediately that it was him without even having to look.

His voice was a deep rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. “I agree with me bride. Nay celebrations.”

Her cheeks flushed at the way he spoke.

Me bride.

She was saved, she was sure. As the Laird, he had the final say.

Or so she hoped.

Her mother turned around slowly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she took a step forward, her gaze never leaving Doughall. “It’s nae proper to nae do such things, Laird MacGordon. Ye do intend to honor me daughter, aye?”

It wasn’t a question—it was a demand. And Freya was beginning to learn just how much Doughall hated those.

She held her breath, waiting for his response. His jaw tightened, his eyes cold and unreadable as always. Then, without a word, he merely grunted and turned on his heel, leaving the room without a second glance.

Now back by the fireplace, Isla clucked and smiled. “Well, that is the closest thing we will get to an agreement.”

She chuckled, glancing between Freya and her mother as if this was all perfectly ordinary.

Freya wanted to protest again, to scream that none of this was what she wanted. She even considered telling the truth, all of it, as the two older women sat down and began to make plans while she stood there, half listening and half devising a way to get out of this mess.

“Will ye excuse me? I think I should lie down,” she murmured, uncertain if they would even hear her over their excited chatter.

Her mother gave her a quick glance, then waved her off. Isla barely seemed to realize that she had spoken at all.

Freya watched for a moment as the two prattled on about what food would be served, who would entertain, and what music would be played.

As she walked out and down the hallway, she tried to recall the last time she had seen her mother excited about… well, much of anything. Since the passing of her husband, Moira Kane had become a shell of herself, a shadow of the woman she had once been.

At least she seems pleased.

Perhaps that was worth enduring the discomfort of the coming month.

Doughall had spent most of the day holed up in his study, though it was in part to avoid any conversations about feasts. His aunt and Moira would be relentless in their planning, he was sure. And Freya—he had no desire to see her just yet. Not after how heated things had gotten in this same room last night.

He leaned over the letter he had started writing, quill in hand as he stared at the mostly blank parchment. He had intended to write to Adam about everything that had happened over the past few days, but every time he started, he found himself unable to focus. His mind wandered, but no matter how he tried to bring it to heel, it always seemed to return to Freya, to the threat that hovered above her.

She would have been killed, but not before unspeakable things had occurred. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he could kill them all again and again, in the most horrendous ways—in ways that would befit his unofficial title.

And then there was the one on horseback. The coward that had fled. A loose end, still out there somewhere, still a threat. That thought gnawed at him, teeth sinking in deeper and deeper. Until that man was dead, she wasn’t safe.

With a frustrated sigh, Doughall rose from his desk. He paced the room for a moment, before turning to the door. He stepped out into the hallway. He needed to tell Adam what had happened… but perhaps it would not be a terrible idea to include her in such messages.

A servant was standing outside his room, waiting for a message or a command.

“Bring Freya Kane to me study,” he ordered, his voice carrying down the hallway.

The young man nodded and offered a bow, before disappearing from view.

Doughall returned to his desk, leaving the door slightly ajar as he sat back down. Rubbing his temples, he thought of how to explain it all to his friend—to her brother. As much as he hated to admit it, he had almost failed to keep her safe. She had run off, nearly died, and if he had arrived only a few moments late…

A sound in the hall drew his attention. He looked up, expecting to see Freya standing in the doorway, but it was the servant again. His face was pale, and he was wringing his hands nervously.

“Laird MacGordon…” His voice trembled. “I-I couldnae find her.”

Doughall’s eyes narrowed. “What do ye mean ye couldnae find her? ”