Page 66 of Taming the Highland Misfits
It frustrated her that she did not yet have the rounded breasts that most boys her age seemed to find so attractive. However, she was sure that it would not be too long before they grew, then she would be just as pretty as all the other girls her age who were more developed than she was, but that did not help her at this moment.
She could feel that her face was flaming, but she could not seem to look away from him, and as she watched, a slow smile made the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. Freya saw the expression turn into a smirk, as though he knew the effect he was having on her and was revelling in it. Her temper flared and burst into a flame of anger as she looked at the handsome face staring back at her; he was so smug and self-assured that it was sickening. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she marched across to him with a face like a looming thunderstorm.
“What are you looking at?” Freya demanded, poking him in the chest. He had unusual eyes which were a shade of hazel that was almost amber–, the most beautiful colour she had ever seen. She had been unaware of his height while she was on horseback, but now she could see that he was so tall she had to tilt her head back to look at him. This put her at a considerable disadvantage and annoyed her even further.
Instead of being intimidated by her obvious annoyance, the young man seemed to find it intensely amusing, and his smile widened as he looked at her. “I am sorry,” he said, not sounding repentant at all. “I have only recently arrived here. I have come to train with your father’s guards.” He bowed. His voice, even though it had only broken quite recently, was deep and gravelly, and Freya was finding it difficult not to watch his mouth as he spoke.
She would wonder later what these strange feelings were, but now her chief emotion was one of deep annoyance. His words were respectful, but his tone was not, and she felt indignant that he was not showing her more respect. She was the Laird’s daughter, after a.l!
“I am Freya Murdaugh, and my father is the Laird here,” she informed him, still frowning deeply. Yet, if she thought that telling him who she was would intimidate him, she realised a moment later that she was wrong.
“I know who you are,” he informed her, still smiling in his irritating fashion. He put his hands on his hips and raised his chin, his stance one of utter defiance.
Freya felt like slapping him, but just then her governess came up behind her. “Mistress,” she said firmly, “you must come inside and change.” Her glance flicked up to the boy’s face, and she looked a little puzzled. She was not sure who this young man was, or what he had said to irritate Freya, but she knew she had to take her away from him. She reached out to grasp her by the arm and lead her away, but Freya shook her off irritably.
“Leave me alone, please!” she snapped. She turned back to the handsome youth again, to find that he was still standing staring at her. For a few moments they engaged in a duel of wills, glaring daggers at each other. Freya was determined not to let him beat her; nobody had ever managed to stare her out before, and he was not going to be the first.
However, after a full minute, Freya was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable, and, since there was no sign that he was going to be the first to surrender, she gave up and dropped her gaze. She was absolutely furious, and had never been so embarrassed in her life.
She was about to turn and walk away when something occurred to her. “Who are you?” she demanded angrily. “And why are you hanging about in the courtyard?”
“My name is Alex MacNeill,” he replied, in a tone of careful politeness that still held an edge of defiance. He indicated the clothes he was wearing. “As you can see, I am wearing the uniform of the Castle Guard. My uncle is Laird Malcolm MacNeill, and he and your father arranged that I should come and learn my profession here. This is my first day, which is likely why you have not seen me before.”
“I have no doubt that we will be seeing a lot of each other, then,” she said haughtily.
“I look forward to it,” Alex said. His voice was quieter now, having lost its defiant edge. “Now, if you will excuse me, Mistress, I have duties to attend to.” Without asking for leave to go, he turned and walked away.
Freya watched him, boiling with anger, then she allowed herself to be led away by Caitrin, who had been standing watching the exchange helplessly. She would never let her governess know how much the handsome stranger had affected her; her heart was almost beating out of her chest. She was confused and disoriented.
What was happening to her?
* * *
As he walked away, Alex was being assailed by a mixture of emotions. At first, he had been amused by Freya’s wild nature, but after a few moments he had felt his anger rising to meet hers, and thought it better to make himself scarce before he lost his temper. That would not be an auspicious start!
He walked, then began to run into the castle. He had not been lying when he said he had duties to attend to, but there was no urgency. The girl had unsettled him, and he did not know why, so he felt the need to get away from her. He hoped she would not become a constant problem; he had better things to worry about.
2
10 years later…
“Ouch!” Freya yelled, as Mhairi pulled the ivory comb through her hair and came to a barrier of knots which she tried to tease out without much success. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Mhairi laughed wryly. She had been Freya’s maid for a very long time, and knew exactly what she could and could not say. “Mistress,” she answered, “if I had wanted tae kill ye, ye would have been dead a long time ago. Ye know why your hair is sae tangled, because I have told ye a hundred times.”
Freya knew what Mhairi was going to say; her hair was always impossibly knotted because she went out riding in the gale force Scottish winds without tying it up, so she only had herself to blame. However, she loved the feeling of her hair flying behind her; it made her feel free, and a few painful tugs of the comb were not such a high price to pay.
It did not stop her complaining, though. Mhairi had become used to it and did not take her harsh words too seriously. In truth, the two of them had a warm bond that was almost akin to that of mother and daughter, although Mhairi was always careful to remind Freya that she had a real mother who was in heaven.
Freya was not sure about heaven and hell, but she believed that her mother was waiting for her somewhere. She had been told since she was small that she had inherited Cora Murdaugh’s impossibly red hair and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose, as well as her silver-grey eyes. Those were her most beautiful feature.
Finally, the unruly mop had been tamed into some kind of order, but Freya was still not content. “Why do I have to do all this dressing up today?” she grumbled. “Is the king coming to visit or something? You will be making me put on one of those horrible frilly ball gowns next. Why all this dressing up? My father has something up his sleeve, I know he does.”
Caitrin, who had been promoted from governess to companion, had been sitting on a chair nearby doing some embroidery. “Why are you so angry?” she asked curiously. “You know your father would never do anything he thought was not in your best interests, Mistress. He is a kind man.”
“I know that,” Freya agreed, as Mhairi plaited her hair and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck. She sighed, wringing her hands together in her lap. In truth, she was not so much angry as scared of why her father wanted her to look so presentable that day. She hoped it was not to introduce her to a suitor, or even a betrothed. He was not above presenting her with a fait accompli. “But something does not feel right. I can practically read my father’s mind sometimes and I know he has something up his sleeve.”
“What dae ye think it is?” Mhairi asked, frowning.
