Chapter 8

8

W here the hell is she?

Doughall tore through MacGordon Castle like a man possessed. He flew down every hallway, through the kitchens, and started bursting through the doors of each room. But she was nowhere to be found.

I saw her earlier. Where could she have gone?

Blood pounded in his ears, his frustration mounting with every passing moment. The thought of her slipping away—or worse, someone taking her—was unbearable. He had brought her here to protect her, and now he had lost her. The castle, the home he knew like the back of his hand, suddenly felt like a labyrinth.

Servants moved around him, everyone searching.

Doughall moved down a hallway, one he had avoided for some time, one that held memories he had hoped would not surface again. There was no reason she would be here; he had ensured that all the doors had been locked save for when the rooms were cleaned a few times a year.

And then he heard it.

“Oh God. Please, nay. Please?—”

He recognized her voice. He recognized the hushed whisper that came from behind that door.

Doughall froze, his breath catching in his throat. The door before him was one he had not opened… in decades. It was his mother’s room once, and it had remained how she had left it.

He had given Freya the freedom to go wherever she pleased, but this room… he had not even thought to warn her to stay away from it. His breath hitched as he heard another sound from within, a gasp and another whimper.

He did not think as his hand moved for the hilt of his dirk, drawing the short blade as he burst through the door. He entered ready to kill, ready to do whatever he had to if it meant keeping her safe. His eyes scanned the room wildly, looking for any hint of danger.

But there was none.

Freya sat in the chair near the window, her eyes wide and startled, a book open in her lap.

Slowly, she rose from her seat as she stared at him. “What is the matter?”

“Ye shouldnae be in here.”

Doughall’s grip on his blade did not loosen. The blood rushing through his veins did not settle. It took him a moment to realize that she was alone, unharmed, and the only danger in the room was reflected in her eyes.

“Ye said I could go wherever I pleased within the?—”

“Aye, and locked doors are locked for a reason,” he spat.

She frowned. “It wasnae locked, Doughall. It was… wide open, and then I saw the books and?—”

“Ye think ye can lie to me?” He forced himself to take a deep breath, his knuckles white on the hilt of his dirk. “The door was locked.”

“And I’m tellin’ ye that it wasnae,” she urged in a shaky voice. “I… wouldnae have the first notion of how to… pick a lock.”

Doughall’s gaze swept over the room once more, noting the metal bucket and scrubbing broom that had been left by a careless hand in the corner.

Someone will pay for this.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself enough to speak in a more even voice.

“And ye thought ye could take what’s nae yers?” he gritted out, nodding toward the book in her hands.

Freya blinked, her surprise shifting to confusion, before indignation washed over her features. “I didnae take anythin’. I was readin’ right here, in the room,” she stammered, her brow furrowed as her eyes flickered to the book, as if it might provide her with some kind of defense or excuse.

“Get out.” Doughall’s voice was sharp, his knuckles white as he gripped the dirk tighter, willing that strain to stamp down the tide of feeling that rose within him.

Freya frowned. “But… it’s a library. Why can I nae be here, doin’ what ye do in a library?”

“It doesnae matter why ,” he seethed, his voice threatening to crack. “I said, get out.”

Whatever fear he had seen in her eyes had faded, and she took a step toward him, the book raised as she met his gaze. “If I am nae meant to be here, then perhaps ye should have mentioned that, rather than barge in like ye’ve gone mad.”

“There was nay need to mention it. Ye shouldnae have been able to get in.”

“And I didnae ken that, since the door was open,” she repeated fiercely.

Her tone—or perhaps it was the look in her eyes—ignited something within him. Doughall sheathed his blade, his gaze locked onto hers. He took a step toward her, then another, until he was inches from her face.

“I willnae say it again, lass. Get out of this room and never come here again, or ye’ll regret it.”

“Nay,” Freya said with more reckless courage than she had ever felt in her life. “I think I’ll finish this book first.”

She walked away from him, but she could feel his eyes on her, following every step, every sway of her hips. A part of her was certain she was making a terrible mistake, but the other part told her that she would not regret it.

The room had seemed like the perfect place to hide away, to escape the prying eyes of her mother and Doughall’s aunt. She had stumbled upon it after managing to escape the discussions about the feast.

There had been no dust, but no signs of life either. It was clear that the room was well taken care of—though rarely used, if at all. It seemed as if it had been locked away from the world, and he had just confirmed it. Shelves upon shelves of books lined the walls… more than she could count.

It was a haven in MacGordon Castle.

But now, with Doughall’s heavy gaze on her, all sense of escape vanished.

“Ye must leave this room,” he commanded once more, his voice almost a growl. “If it’s books ye want, ye can ask for ‘em, and they’ll be sent to yer chambers.”

Freya opened the book once more, pretending to read it. “But I cannae ken what I want to read without seein’ what is here, and ye still havenae given me a reason why I cannae be here.”

Though the book was before her, she still watched him above the pages. His jaw clenched, his displeasure clear as day. She knew she should listen, should run while she still had the chance, but she was rooted to the spot.

“Ye’re trespassin’, and I am sayin’ ye must leave,” he seethed.

Freya leaned back in the chair, trying to appear unaffected, but her heart was thundering in her chest. She watched as he started toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, like a hunter stalking its prey. She swallowed hard and turned her focus back to the book, in an attempt to appear nonchalant.

But she felt him. Every inch of his presence drew her attention as he closed the distance between them. When she finally dared to glance back up, she almost gasped. There was something different in his eyes—displeasure, certainly, but also something else. Something dark and intriguing.

“Do ye remember what I said I’d do if ye disobeyed me?”

A shiver ran down her spine. “Ye said ye’d punish me, but?—”

Before she could finish, his hand moved, his fingertips pressed against her lips to silence her. His touch was firm.

Freya’s breath hitched at the unexpected contact, her eyes widening as her pulse raced.

“That is exactly what I’m plannin’ to do,” he growled.

Before she could think, let alone speak, he gripped her by the arm and pulled her to her feet . The Canterbury Tales tumbled to the floor between them, but if Doughall cared, he did not show it.

Freya’s chest heaved, her body betraying her resolve as heat flooded her face, neck, and chest. She knew she should push him away, should resist, but something inside her crumbled under the weight of his touch and gaze.

Doughall’s other hand moved swiftly, capturing both her wrists. In one smooth motion, he pulled her hands above her head and pushed himself against her. Freya stumbled backward but remained upright, at least. Her back hit the bookshelf behind her, her hands pinned to a row of leatherbound spines.

There was nowhere for her to go.

“Tell me, Freya,” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. Her toes curled at the heat of his mouth, at the feeling that stirred somewhere deep within her. “Will ye disobey me again?”

She closed her eyes, her mind screaming at her to put an end to this. But her body was screaming something entirely different, something animalistic and needy. Heat pooled in her belly as his fingers tightened around her wrists, and when his lips brushed her neck, she couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips.

“Answer me,” he growled, his teeth grazing her skin.

Her mind went blank, consumed by nothing but the feel of his mouth against her throat. She hated him for making her feel this way, hated the fire that he ignited within her. If this was her punishment for disobeying, she might never heed a word he said ever again.

“I dinnae ken,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He bit her, coaxing a soft moan from her lips, and she cursed herself for it. But Doughall did not relent. His lips trailed down her neck as his hand slid down her wrists painstakingly slowly, only for his fingers to brush her collarbone. She lowered her hands to her sides as she tilted her chin up, savoring the feeling.

“Good lass,” he whispered against her skin, his hand now on her waist. “Because if ye disobey me again…” His hand slid down her stomach, then lower, moving with agonizing slowness over her gown. “There will be consequences.”

Freya gasped as his fingers brushed the curve of her hip, her mind spinning, torn between wanting to resist and surrendering to the undeniable desire that was consuming her. She wanted more, she wanted to demand more.

Doughall’s lips feather over her jaw, coming closer and closer to her mouth. Freya willed it, silently urging him and hating him in equal measure, but she felt she might explode if he did not kiss her. He seemed to know, pausing an inch away from her mouth, his hot breath tingling her skin.

Does he want me to ask for it? I willnae.

His hand slid up her throat, not squeezing just holding, until her head was pressed against the book spines. She understood then; he was keeping her in place so she could not take what she desired.

With a deep growl, as if he resented the position that she had put him in, his lips finally crashed against hers. A ferocious, ravenous kiss, his mouth catching hers again and again, growing more insistent… as if her lack of response irritated him.

I’m bein’ disobedient again.

She kissed him back, uncertain of herself but following his lead. Instinct made itself known, that fire in her belly an unexpectedly wise teacher. She melted against him, kissed him hard as if it was a battle she had to win. But when she tried to touch him, to let her hands wander, he caught her wrists and pinned them over her head again.

Breathless and overwhelmed, she bucked against him, frustrated in the most delicious way that she could not touch him as she pleased. His hand dropped from her throat and rested on her hip again, his grip fierce, pushing her back so her buttocks were pinned to the bookcase. Clearly, that was forbidden too.

But with each little test of the waters, his mouth became hungrier, more demanding, his tongue invading her mouth, dancing with hers.

When he suddenly pulled back, she almost begged him to continue.

Breathless and dazed, her eyes searched his for something—anything to show just how he felt at that moment. But the face looking back at her was one made of stone, carved into an expressionless visage with cold eyes.

“Doughall?” she whispered, confusion creasing her brow.

If he heard her, he made no attempt to show it.

Before she could stop him, he turned on his heel and tossed over his shoulder, “Ye’ll nae come to this place again.”

Within a moment, he was gone from the room.

Freya stood there, still leaning against the shelves, attempting to steady her heartbeat.

Damn him! A thousand times, damn him!