Page 73 of Sinbound to the Highlander
“I have some work to do, Love,” he said. “Please, excuse me.”
He did not turn when he heard her huff and the hard close of the door. He retreated to his meeting room, solidly conflicted. Perched at the window, he looked out, wishing someone or something would come and free him from all this turmoil.
Is she the Freya I ken or isnae she?
He stayed there, mired in his debacle, until the sun dipped and dusk began crawling in. With no more excuses, he went to get something to eat.
* * *
Blinking furiously, Freya frowned at the sight of two Elspeth’s before her, the images of her sister splitting apart and merging with every breath she took. And her body felt heavy—even lifting her arm felt as if she was dragging a bag of bricks up to her face. She blinked, and her lids were heavy as lead.
Elspeth came forward and peered into her eyes, “Freya, are ye all right?”
“Nay,” Freya said, and the goblet tumbled out of her hand. “Nay, I dinnae feel right. We’ll have to go back to the castle—” as she tried to stand, her feet crumbled under her. In shock, she realized when she had felt this before—the night when her hairpin had gone missing. Had—had Elspeth drugged her that time as well with the milk?
Her knees collided with the sharp gravel, and she called out in pain. “Elspeth, help.”
Her sister sat back, and slowly finished her drink while Freya’s trembling hand stretched out for help. Nonchalantly, Elspeth gestured to her maid, “Strip her.”
While her clothes were being torn from her, Freya heard Elspeth saying, “Ye carried the dye, aye?”
“Wh—” the word could not come out as her tongue felt pasted to the roof of her mouth.
The maid yanked her thick pelisse coat off, and while unlacing her dress, called the carriage man to help. He held her legs while the dress was dragged off her, leaving her in only her thick smock and hose. Elspeth was nibbling on cheese and sipping her wine as if she had not a care in the world.
When they were done, Elspeth rested the goblet down and went over to her. Freya’s eyes were beginning to dim, but she saw the nasty smile Elspeth gave her as she yanked the hairpin from her hair. “Ye kent ye would steal the Laird from me, and I’d let it go by without a murmur? Ye? A destitute, ugly, wretch?”
Elspeth held the pin in a grip that would easily let her plunge the sharp end into Freya’s heart. Twitching on the ground, Freya could only stare at Elspeth, her eyes showing the depth of the gut-wrenching turmoil raging inside her from Elspeth’s betrayal. The agonizing, excruciating pain within her that was sharper than any wound she had ever suffered. Her heart felt dissected in two.
“He will be with me,” Elspeth snarled. “Ye have nay right to have taken him, and now he’ll ken that filth like ye have nay place with yer betters.”
“I daenae ken she likes ye, Freya…I have never seen her be happy with ye, even when ye have spent hours together. I’m telling ye Freya, and she doesnae deserve yer love.”
Evan’s words came back to her with the same icy sensation as the air around her. Freya had allowed her blind trust to lead her into something that she was not sure she would survive.
Her eyes clenched tightly, but then she heard Elspeth call to her maid, “Ye have the paint, aye?”
Paint?
“Aye, Miss,” the maid said.
Cracking her eyes open, she laid with numb limbs as the maid began to use scarlet paint to dot Elspeth’s face with. Dumfounded, Freya watched as her sister transformed into her. Soon, as her chest began to freeze entirely, Elspeth stood and donned Freya’s dress and pelisse. The last laceration to Freya’s heart was when the maid combed Elspeth’s hair into the same style Freya had on, and the pin was slid in the tresses.
Spinning, Elspeth said, “What do ye ken, Sister Dear?”
Reaching out in desperation, Elspeth spat into her face. Gesturing for the carriage man, she said, “Ye ken what to do.”
Half insensate, Freya felt herself being lifted, and carried to the edge of the cliff. A split breath before she was thrown over, Freya called out, “No!”
She sucked in a breath before her body plunged into the depths below, and the water closed over her in a cruel closing. Her hand, reaching out in despair, and her body sinking to the bottom of a watery grave.
* * *
“Nay!” Freya shouted, her body jackknifing, and her eyes wide open but unfocused. The room was dark, but she felt warmth—an extreme opposite of the cold, she had felt plunging into that loch. The contrasting sensation of having a bed under her back, against the liquid vastness she had thought was going to be her grave had her even more scared.
She made to get up, but her limbs felt as fluid as the water that someone had undoubtedly plucked her from. Her feet landed on the floor, but the cold stone had her wincing. Her hand flew to her chest, and she realized the gown she was in, was not the one she had fallen in.
Bracing her hand on the cot, she tried to get up, but her body was so incredibly weak. She slumped back to the cot, just as the door opened and a woman came in. From the firelight, Freya saw the woman was older with gray hair pinned away from her aged face.
Shying away from her, Freya bit her words back, but the woman took a seat, rested her hands on her lap, and spoke, “Ye’re finally awake, Dear. I kent ye would be sleeping for another three days.”
Three days! Good god, they must ken I’m dead.
