Page 63 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
At that moment, Doughall was a boy again, standing in the shadows of the forest as his father fell to the shingles with a sickening thump, never to rise again, and his mother yelled for him to run. He could hear her voice so clearly that he almost turned to find her, his heart almost beating out of his chest at the thought that she had somehow come back to him.
The awkward slash of a blade brought him back to his senses, back to what,whowas important: Freya. Someone hecouldand would protect with everything he had.
“She’ll rain chaos down on ye too,” Lewis wheezed. “I’d have done ye a favor, sparin’ ye the trouble of marryin’ into such a family, if ye hadnae intervened that night. I’d have smashed that lass’s head on the rocks, then ridden after her braither, her sister-in-law, and finally?—”
Doughall struck, whirling through the air, his sword an extension of himself. That cold calm had flooded his veins once more, put there by the strength of holding Freya firmly and singularly in his thoughts, imagining the feeling of returning to her bedchamber with news that she was safe at last.
The two halves of Lewis Brown slid sideways, the last of Stewart’s men soaking the earth with his blood, paying the ultimate price for laying a hand on the Devil’s bride.
Freya had not moved from the center of the bed, though her back ached and she was in dire need of something to drink. To her, it was the only way to ensure that Doughall would return, like a spell—if she did not disobey his order, he would be safe.
She did not know how many hours had passed, but all had been silent in the hallway outside her bedchamber. The occasional footstep heightened her anxiety while simultaneously reassuringher that the guards, and Ersie,wereposted outside her chamber, protecting her.
“Stand aside!” a gruff, familiar voice bellowed, jolting her out of her trance.
“M’Laird, ye need to see the healer!” Ersie protested, two sets of footsteps thudding toward the bedchamber door. “M’Laird!”
A key scraped in the lock, the door bursting open to reveal Doughall, filthy and bloodied, his shirt torn. His fierce gaze landed on Freya, her heart jumping as he closed the door behind him, shutting it on the guards who had watched over her silently, and Ersie, who kept muttering, “Ye need to see the bloody healer first.”
Forgoing the promise she had made, Freya leaped from the bed and ran to him. She halted half a step away from him, trembling with uncertainty. Would she hurt him if she touched him? Was sheallowedto touch him? There was so much blood, but it did not bother her so much as worry her.
“What happened?” she asked, deciding that she did not care if he scolded her or threatened to ‘punish’ her.
She moved away from him, fetching the basin of cold water from the stand on the far side of the room. She brought cloths too—all that she had—so she could clean away the dirt and blood before she sent him off to the healer.
“What did ye come here first for?” she mumbled, clicking her tongue. “Sit down over there, by the fire.”
His brow creased as if he was about to refuse.
“Ye’re drippin’ all over the floor,” she added before he could speak. “Might as well have ye drippin’ in one place.”
With a grunt, he did as he was asked, padding over to the armchair by the fireplace. To her surprise, he took a blanket and laid it over the armchair before sitting down.
Taking a shaky breath, Freya went to him. She kneeled before him and set the basin down, soaking a cloth in the cooling water. As she met his gaze, there was something in his eyes that she had not seen before. A warmth, a relief that seeped into her chest, helping her breathe more easily.
“I take it this was Lewis’ doin’?” she asked, not knowing if she would receive an answer.
He nodded, hissing through his teeth as she pressed the cloth to the wound that appeared to be bleeding the most—a relatively small but deep gash in his shoulder.
“Ye were a fool to go after him alone,” she muttered, the water turning pink as she left the cloth in the basin.
Gingerly, she reached for Doughall’s shirt, easing it out of the belt that held his folded plaid in place. Aware that her cheekswere flushed, waiting for the moment he would stop her, she lifted the fabric up and up, revealing the defined lines of hardened muscle.
He was spectacular, even in his injured state. She doubted she had ever seen a body so… enthralling in all her life. Though, in fairness, the only men she had seen in a state of undress were the ones in her imagination. And he might as well have been conjured from her fantasies, his abdomen ridged, his chest broad and muscular, his arms so powerful that she now understood how he had lifted her with no effort whatsoever.
His wounds, ye oaf!
She snapped out of it, retrieving the sodden cloth.
“Did ye hear what I said?” She pressed the cloth to the wound on his shoulder. “Ye shouldnae have gone after him by yerself.”
He rested his fingertips beneath her chin, tilting her head up. “I practically raised an army for ye.”
“What?”
“To search for the bastard,” he replied. “I fought him alone, aye, but I willnae have me bride callin’ me a fool.”
She pressed her lips together, warmth flooding her cheeks.
