Page 108 of Taming the Highland Misfits
She set off at once, and was soon standing in the corridor, counting the doors until she found the one in which Alex had kissed her. Her heart plunged in disappointment as she tried the handle and found that the door would not budge.
Freya had to bite her tongue to stop herself from screaming with frustration, but a second later, she jumped in fright as a deep, familiar voice said, “Freya.”
* * *
She whipped around with a little squeal, and her eyes widened as she saw Alex. He was staring at her, and in the half-light, he seemed sinister and menacing. He was carrying a dagger in his hand, and a sword was strapped to his hip.
Then, as she gazed at the sword, Freya felt a shaft of fear pierce her. There was no love in this man’s eyes. He had said her name only once, and made no move towards her, and no attempt to kiss her. He simply stared at her, and in that moment, she pieced together everything her father had told her, and it all seemed perfectly plausible. How could she have been so stupid?
Alex was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and until now, she had considered herself the luckiest woman in the world. Of course, she was still very young, as Mhairi was always telling her. She had always felt that Freya’s lack of interest in other men was not good for her development. She had had plenty of offers of courtship and she had turned them all down; there was only one man in the world for her, and that was Alex.
“Mistress,” she had said, as she pinned up Freya’s hair, “ye know quite a few young men! Wait till ye go out in the wide world–then ye will see a’ kinds o’ men, frae the ones that are as handsome as the princes in fairy tales, tae the ones that are as ugly as sin. I will grant ye, Alex MacNeill is a good-lookin’ lad, but looks are no’ everythin’.”
However, Freya had not taken Mhairi’s advice, but had pinned all her hopes on Alex, yet now she was wondering if Mhairi had been right. Had she been too hasty, led by her desire for Alex and not her common sense? If her father, whom she trusted implicitly, thought Alex was a criminal, then could she really believe he was not?
“You know they are looking for you?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes,” he replied. He did not step towards her, or say anything till she spoke again, and his composure was deeply annoying.
“You know what you are being accused of?”
He nodded again.
“Have you nothing to say?” she demanded.
That time there was no answer at all, and that was when she lost control. For a while, all sense left her as anger consumed her and she took out her frustration and fury on him. When he eventually pushed her away, she felt as though her world had ended. He did not love her. He loved no one but himself and the MacNeills, it seemed.
* * *
Freya’s whole body was trembling. She was standing with her back to the cold, hard wall, pressing herself against it as hard as she could, almost as though she wanted to disappear into it. She had screwed her eyes shut, but she opened them to look across at the man opposite her, the man she loved with all her heart–or at least she had thought she loved.
Freya’s eyes were fixed on Alex as if mesmerised; she could not seem to tear her gaze away from him. In the dim light, she could see the gold sheen of his eyes gazing back at her. Most people said they were hazel, but to Freya, they were a shade of amber, like the cloak of autumn leaves the sycamore trees wore before winter. In the rose-coloured haze of her girlish adoration, they were, of course, the most astonishingly beautiful eyes she had ever seen.
Then there was the rest of him. How could she describe how the sight of him made her feel? She had known him since he was sixteen and she had been just short of her thirteenth birthday. Her body had been changing, maturing, awakening to the first stirrings of sexuality, and seeing him gradually changing into the man he had become now had been a sensual adventure for her.
Alex obviously had some Norse ancestry, judging by the fairness of his skin, his shining hair and short, spiky beard, both the colour of a field of ripe wheat. His features were strong and well-defined, with a broad forehead and slightly aquiline nose, high, jutting cheekbones and a sensual mouth with a full lower lip. Freya knew that underneath the beard was a square chin with a deep cleft in the middle, but she had been very impressed when he first grew his beard! It added to his masculinity, if that was possible.
Was it possible? Alex was without a doubt the epitome of manhood, being taller and more powerfully built than any other man she had ever seen, at least in her limited experience. His shoulders were wide, his arms and calves heavily muscled, and on the odd occasion when she had seen his thighs as he worked, she had been amazed at their bulk and strength.
As well as all his other attributes, Freya had always loved Alex’s voice. It was deep, gravelly, and seemed to rumble from deep in his chest, and this suited her perfectly, since she had always hated whiny speech. It reminded her of the bleating of sheep.
Now, however, all that concerned her was the situation she found herself in, standing, trembling and near-exhausted in the semi-darkness with the only man she had ever loved but was now trying desperately to hate.
Then they both froze as there was a ringing clash of metal, and heavy footsteps sounded along the corridor, becoming louder and louder as they advanced towards Freya and Alex.
Freya almost panicked; almost, but not quite. Had she had another second to think about it, she might have stood in front of Alex and tried to order the guards not to take him, but then she looked into his eyes. They were glinting in the dim light, and they might as well have been made of glass for all the expression she could see in them.
He had said not one word in his own defence, and had shown no emotion at all while she beat him with her fists and vented her fury and frustration on him. Why should she defend him? It was quite obvious that he was feeling absolutely nothing.
That was when she called the guards, who immediately surrounded Alex, trussed him up and took him away. Accompanying them were a triumphant Aidan and Gerald.
“Well, you traitor,” Aidan said smugly. “You will not be marrying my sister now. Indeed, you will not be marrying anyone. You will be enjoying the hospitality of the Kilkenrigg dungeons for the time being until you are sent to trial, then I will persuade my father to hang you, which is exactly what you deserve. What do you have to say to that, eh?”
If Aidan had been expecting anger or resistance, he was sorely disappointed. Alex said nothing, just as he had done since Freya had tried to talk to him.
“Well?” Aidan asked impatiently. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Alex was silent, and it was obvious that Aidan was becoming frustrated and angry. He raised his fist to strike him, but it was grabbed from behind by Gerald, who stepped up beside him and shook his head.
