Page 64 of Taming the Highland Misfits
HIGHLANDER'S LETHAL SECRET
PROLOGUE
He could hardly bear to look at Freya. Since the first time he had seen her, she had reminded him of a wild horse, with her mane of unruly red hair, stormy silver-grey eyes and the bold and determined way she carried herself. She walked with her shoulders back, spine dead straight and chin lifted, and she always looked at whomever she was talking to straight in the eye. Nothing scared her, or at least that was the impression she liked to give, but he knew her better than anyone. He was aware of the secret gentleness she kept hidden under her unyielding exterior–after all, no one was made of stone, least of all Freya Murdaugh. That was why he loved her.
All this was passing through his mind as he faced Freya across the corridor. In all the years he had known her he had never seen her look more fierce, but at the same time, he knew she was terrified inside. Despite the furious frown she was giving him he was convinced her heart was breaking, as was his.
Now she spoke, her voice throbbing with fury. “How could you betray my family and your clan, you heartless beast?” she demanded. “I loved you, and I thought you loved me. Did you not ask my father for my hand in marriage? Were we not just about to set a date for our wedding?”
She paused and turned away for a moment to collect herself, looking out of the window although she could barely see anything through it. The moon had begun to wane and was barely a half-circle now, casting no more than a few feeble rays through the opening. A lamp had been lit further down the corridor, but it was too far away to cast much light their way.
However, Freya could see enough to note that his face was frozen and expressionless. He did not look at her, did not flinch, but kept his gaze fixed on a point on the opposite wall. He said nothing and looked as if he had been carved out of stone.
“So our engagement–was it some kind of jest to you?” she demanded, coming up to him and poking her finger into his chest. “Talk to me, you swine, or I swear I will scream loudly enough to burst your eardrums, and every guard on the estate will come running to my aid.”
The man said nothing; the muscles on his face did not even twitch.
Freya looked at him for a moment more, then her rage exploded. She clenched her fists and began to beat his chest and shoulders but to no avail. It seemed that her feeble attempts to hurt him had no effect at all.
He did no more than take a step backward so that his back was touching the wall, then a few moments later he raised his hands to grip her wrists and stop her from hitting him.
She had forgotten about his hands; Freya was no match for their size or the fearsome strength of their grip. As soon as he clamped his fingers around her wrists she gave up the assault and took a step back from him, then she threw back her head and screamed as loudly and for as long as she could.
After no more than a few seconds, they heard the sound of men’s running feet and the clamour of their voices coming towards them, and suddenly they were surrounded by half a dozen thickset men in uniform.
“Here he is!” Freya yelled as the guards came rushing towards them, weapons at the ready. “I have found the filthy traitor! Now get him out of my sight!”
In no more than a few seconds, his hands had been tied behind his back and he was being led away. He made no sound of protest and did not struggle, merely submitted to the less-than-gentle treatment that was being meted out to him without putting up any sort of fight at all. It was as if all the life had gone out of him.
In some ways that was the saddest thing of all, Freya thought. Alex was usually so full of spirit that to see him being meekly led away without any protest at all was almost heartbreaking. It was so unlike him as if he had lost all hope and had given up fighting.
As Freya saw them disappear around the corner of the passageway and out of sight, all her pent-up grief came surging out in a storm of weeping. Unable to hold herself up anymore, she sank to the floor and wept until she had no tears left.
She had nothing now; she had chosen someone who was not worthy of her love, but she could not just wish away the feeling. It was not like dust that could be whisked away with the flick of a broom. It had seared itself onto her heart and left a scar there that would last until her dying breath.
There would never be another man like Alex, she realised. He was strong and gentle, fierce and proud, but able to admit when he was wrong, which was a rare quality in a man. Had all that been an act? It must have been.
How am I going to live without him?Freya asked herself desperately, then a wave of anger swept over her. He was not deserving of her tears. She would make sure that she shed no more of them, because he simply was not worth weeping over. He was a criminal, an enemy, and she had wasted too many tears on him already.
Freya stood up and squared her shoulders then determinedly marched back to her bedroom, the one she had hoped to be sharing with her beloved before too long. However, she was determined to look to the future now; the erstwhile love of her life was history. Her future lay before her with someone much better. She had no idea who; she would make sure that he was a good man, but she would never fall in love with him, because now she knew that love only existed in fairy tales.
1
Ten years earlier…
Freya had loved horses since the first time she saw one. That memory was very blurry, since she had only been two years old at the time. However, her father had told her that she had pestered the life out of him until he bought her a tiny Shetland pony when she was five years old.
She still saw the little animal, a small chestnut mare by the name of Dolly, who had been her favourite until Freya became too tall to ride her anymore. She had grown old, then retired and now spent her days grazing peacefully in the fields around Kilkenrigg Castle where they both lived. She rarely moved faster than a walk these days, however, she was always able to summon up a lively canter if there was an apple on offer!
Nowadays, at the ripe old age of twelve, Freya rode a grey gelding called Lancelot, or Lance for short. She had given the pony, a much bigger one than Dolly, the name of her favourite hero from the stories of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Lance was a somewhat more spirited mount than Dolly, which suited Freya, since she had not been gifted with a calm temperament either.
He seemed to realise this, and Freya was convinced that he could read her mind sometimes. When she felt angry or frustrated he would always gallop at his fastest, soar over walls and fences, and toss his head in a fit of annoyance at anything that irritated him. Freya always said that he was her favourite person.
“The horse is not a person, Mistress Freya,” Caitrin, her new governess, pointed out as she helped her into the saddle one day.
Freya shook her head. “He is more of a person than many other human beings that I know,” she argued. “He talks to me, he understands my mood, and I understand his.”
“Talk to you?” Caitrin looked at her doubtfully and shook her head. “Mistress, horses cannot talk.”
