Page 2 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Freya frowned, her fingers twitching in her lap.
Look at me, please. Tell him he is wrong.
But Emily simply stood beside her husband’s chair, her head lowered.
“Emily,” Freya said softly, her voice calm like the sea before a storm.
Emily looked down at her finally, offering an apologetic look. “Aye?”
It was no use, Freya knew. There was no point in asking her friend to ignore the wishes of her husband; it would do no one any good. Adam was too headstrong, too proud, and too stubborn to listen. But perhaps… perhaps she could find some form of compromise. If she must stay behind, as much as she did not wish to, could she be under the care of someone else? Someone like Emily’s father.
Freya cleared her throat. “Do ye think perhaps Laird Wilkinson would be willin’ to?—”
“The Wilkinson lands are too far,” Adam interrupted before she could finish.
He stared back at her, his cold blue eyes boring into hers with a look of annoyance. She was irritating him, bothering him with all of this. She was inconvenient and a burden, and at that moment, she felt every drop of it.
Freya pressed her lips together, but her mind was racing still. Once again, she opened her mouth to protest, but Adam’s eyes narrowed on her.
His gaze was hard and unwavering. He would not relent. “I trust Doughall more than anyone else.”
The words hit her like a wave, throwing her body onto a rocky shore.
Trust? How could ye trust adiabhallike that man?
Freya bit her tongue, her lips pursed as she tried to force the words past them. Her mind screamed with all the things she longed to say, but each word was swallowed back into the dark and hungry pit of her stomach.
Laird MacGordon is a beast. A brute. Bloodthirsty as a vampyre.
His reputation alone was enough to fill her—to fill anyone, truly—with dread, but Freya had seen his actions for herself.
She pushed that memory down, refusing to let it surface. Not now.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice strained. “Let me go with ye.”
Adam’s expression only hardened, his jaw tightening as he shook his head. “Nay, Freya. Ye will only hinder us on the road. This isnae a request, it’s an order. I wasnae askin’ for yer opinion.” His voice was as sharp as a blade, slicing through her with ease. “Ye and Maither are stayin’ here, with Doughall, whether ye like it or nae.”
Her hands curled into fists on her lap, her fingernails digging into her palms. She would have marks, she knew. The pain grounded her, but it did little to ease the feeling surging in her chest. Once more, she turned her gaze to Emily, her dear friend, searching for something—anything. Her eyes pleaded,please, please, please. But Emily’s silence was answer enough.
Freya was alone.
Drawing in a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth, she pushed herself to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her as she bobbed a stiff curtsy to Laird and Lady MacNiall.
Her voice was steady, her expression a mask of composure. “If that is what ye deem best,” she said quietly, unable to swallow back the bitterness lacing her words.
Without waiting for a response, she turned for the door. Each step was heavier than the last.
I should go with them; I should be helpin’ to find her.
Freya stepped into the hallway, closing the door gently behind her. The moment the latch clicked, the breath she had been holding came out in a ragged rush, her chest tightening as her stomach twisted.
Laura would go, anyway. She wouldnae ask for his permission. She would break each and every rule if it were me.
But Freya wasn’t her sister. It was something she had always been painfully aware of, something that everyone seemed to remind her of. She wasn’t strong or brave or skilled in any way that mattered beyond these stone walls. And yet, there was something inside of her, something she did not quite know, that had been slumbering until she stepped into the hallway.
A small spark within, unfamiliar and yet welcome.
By the time she stepped outside, the sun was already high in the cloudless blue sky, but those rays offered little warmth. Autumn had painted the trees in shades of auburn and gold, and the crisp breeze nipped her cheeks. She was dressed for the cold, perhaps overdressed even, wrapped in layers of thick wool and a fur-trimmed cloak.
