Page 37 of Sinbound to the Highlander
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Afierce protectiveness surged into Evan for Freya at the mention of marriage. Why was Lady Lobhdain thinking of marrying her off so quickly? Was it stated as something that would happen in the future, or was it a plan already in motion?
The tight press of Freya’s lip stirred more feelings inside him than he cared to examine or admit. Freya was so innocent and possibly fragile, that again, he wondered if he had done right by taking her into a life she knew nothing about. The expression on her face was making him want to protect her—to look after her. And he vowed to do so in any way he could.
“Are ye prepared to marry?” he asked quietly.
“Someone who lived a life I kent before this,” Freya said, quietly. “A humble life, one where nay one would pay much attention to me. She mentioned some old suitors that were turned away by Elspeth. I kent she has the best intentions for me, I could see it in her face, she’s tryin’ to be kind, but I daenae if I’ll ever be ready for that.”
He pulled her closer in an offer of unspoken comfort as her distress was almost palpable. Though he towered a head over her, Evan could bet that if she leaned just a little more, she would fit snugly into the curve of his arm. He glanced at her, but she kept staring ahead.
“Lady Lobhdain said a year?” He verified. “A lot can happen in a year, but if ye deanae want to marry, then daenae.”
There was no reason to be jealous, he told himself, but the burn had already started to smolder in his belly. He had already started to blame himself for taking her out of her comfort place and putting her into a situation that she had begun to flounder in. He would never forgive himself if she ended up with a husband that would look down on her for her humble origins.
Freya’s shoulder brushed on his chest, but she did not move away, and the soft smell of river water and mint wafted up to him. It was clean, refreshing, and so much removed from the cloying scent of heavy perfumes or oils that so many women used. From her motion, a lock of her hair slipped away from her bun and curled over her temple.
Freya twisted, and her eyes went wide at how close they were. Spots of red dotted her cheeks, as she pulled away from him a little, “Do ye ken there’s somethin’ wrong with nae being married? Who will accept me as the Laird’s daughter but one raised by peasants?”
“Some might nae,” Evan replied. “A lot of people in me status are trained to only look for wives or husbands from the same rank they are from. They might nay be understandin’ enough to appreciate yer unique position.”
Freya sagged onto his chest briefly before she sat up again, rather sharply for his comfort, “Will ye help me if the one she chooses is nae one who would treat me right? Ye’re the only one I can trust as ye understand me life.”
Her level of trust humbled him. “I promise.”
Freya’s smile was flickering, as worry was behind it. A cloud passed over the sun, and a brisk wind buffered their faces. “I ken it’s time for us to get back inside. Lady Lobhdain might be getting concerned. And I’d like that salve too.”
“Aye,” Freya rested her hand on his arm as they walked back to the castle and into Lady Lobhdain’s sunroom. It was empty, so Freya told him to wait there while she went for the urn. When she came back bearing a small stone cask, he took it from her.
“May I?”
With her nod, he opened the lid. Thick opaque salve with a slight ochre tint to it was before him, and it smelled deeply of an herb whose name escaped him for a moment. “What is it made from?”
“Goldenrod, olive oil, a pinch of mandragora root, and some sea salt,” Freya replied. “I’ve seen it work wonders on the elderly Missus Beathag supplies it to, I dearly hope it will work with yers.”
Sliding his fingers over the top, Evan pulled them away to rub his fingers together. The salve was not too thick and melted away on his skin to leave a soft tingly sensation behind.
“I ken this might just work,” Evan murmured, rubbing his fingers again. Capping the urn back, he held it close, “Thank ye, and I’ll send word to ye when me Maither uses it.”
Freya tilted her head to the side, “Would ye be interested in a wager about its effectiveness?”
A bit amused and more impressed about her daring, he said, “Name yer terms.”
She laid two fingers on the lid and tapped it, “If this daesnae bring fervent praises, I’ll make ye a better one, but if ye get those praises, bring me somethin’ ye ken this cure is worth.”
His brows darted up, “Ye’re assured it will bring praises, whether fervent or middling? What if there are nay any praises, at all?”
Freya shook her head, “That will never happen. I may nay ken much about many things, but this—medicine—is what I do ken. Do ye accept me, wager?”
I like this darin’ side of ye even more.
“Aye,” Evan said, tucking the urn closer, “yer wager is accepted.”
Using his free hand, Evan fingered the stray lock of hair on her cheek before he tucked it behind her ear. As his fingertips skated over her skin, she shivered and pulled away, but her fluttering lashes told him she had felt it too.
“Ye have stubborn hair,” he teased gently. “But then, somethin’ is allowed to break the rules.”
“Would ye like me to follow ye to the door?” Freya said—and was her voice just a little breathy?
