Page 8 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
His horse stood waiting, watching as its ears flicked. Doughall lifted Freya effortlessly, and before she could wriggle free, he lowered her into the saddle.
She cursed inwardly. She was running out of options.
“Ye are despicable,” she hissed, glaring down at him.
Doughall clucked his tongue dismissively, swinging up behind her on the horse. His broad chest pressed against her back as he reached forward, one hand closing around the reins as his thighs pressed firmly against the horse’s flanks.
“Mind yer tongue, lass,” he murmured as the horse moved forward. He leaned in closer, his mouth close to her ear. “Or ye will find me far more despicable than ye can imagine.”
The sound of the horse’s hooves against the packed earth was all that kept Freya grounded as they rode. Hours had passed since they had left the shores of Loch Dubh, hours of her wrists being tied together and tethered to Doughall Scott like some kind of disobedient hound.
Her face flushed, not from the wind that swept across the moors, but from the sheer indignity of it all. She sat stiffly in front of him, her body unwillingly pressed against his. The hard lines of his chest and abdomen were cruel reminders of just how close they were. Too close. Her hands rested awkwardly on her lap, uncomfortable with the tight bonds.
“Ye can untie me,” she finally said, her voice sharp.
Freya couldn’t see his face, but she couldfeelthe way his muscles tensed up slightly behind her, as if the mere suggestion annoyed him.
His voice, when he spoke at last, was as cold and unyielding as the air around them. “I dinnae trust ye.”
Her jaw clenched. “I willnae go anywhere,” she hissed. “Untie me.”
“I was tasked with protectin’ ye, and I will do so however I see fit.”
Freya bit her tongue hard enough that she tasted copper. She wasn’t one to curse, not one to have an outburst, but Doughall was testing her limits. She would thank him for saving her, eventually, but she would never forgive him for this embarrassment.
Still, at least Seileach had been found. About an hour into the painful journey, Doughall’s man-at-arms had emerged from the forest, leading the sweet mare behind his own. Not that Freya was allowed to ride her horse. The Devil hadn’t even given her the choice.
The cold seeped through her cloak, the bite sharp against her skin, but she refused to lean back against Doughall for warmth. Yet, with each passing second, her body felt heavier and wearier. Her shoulders and ribs ached, her muscles fighting the sway of the horse.
A shuddering breath escaped her lips as Doughall shifted behind her, leaning forward. He had been holding the reins with one hand the entire time, but now, as she looked down, she saw that both his hands were gripping the leather straps. He was all around her, and there was nowhere for her to go. Her heart rate quickened, even though she willed it not to. The weight of his large body surrounded her, his breath hot against the top of her head.
I shouldnae have left home. None of this would’ve happened if I just…
“How did ye find me?” The question slipped past her lips.
“Ye werenae in the castle. The stableboy saw ye leavin’. Ye were easy enough to follow—ye didnae get as far as I thought ye would,” he said coolly.
He had tracked her down like a hunted animal.
“If ye were hopin’ to run away,” he said, his words cutting through the air like shards of glass, “ye did a poor job of it.”
Each word was a twist of a blade.
Freya drew in a shaky breath, her eyes narrowing on the road ahead of them. The silence that followed was thick with tension, with words she wished she had the courage to spit out like venom. But with each passing moment, she realized it was pointless.
In the distance, illuminated by the moonlight, she saw MacNiall Castle waiting for them. She drew in a breath, a feeling of unease rising within her. She had left, and so soon she was returning. The only small mercy was that her brother would be away for some time.
Adam… what will he do when he finds out?
“Are ye plannin’ to tell him?” she asked quietly.
Doughall’s grip on the reins tightened, his knuckles turning white, his breath a low exhale before he spoke. “That ye ran away? Or that ye were almost killed?”
She stiffened, her stomach knotting. Freya hated that he was right.
“Both.” Freya’s voice was muffled, but it still surprised him.
Doughall stared ahead, trying to ignore the feel of her body swaying with the movement of the horse, so much of her brushing and nudging against so much of him. It could not be helped, to avoid her running off, but he did not have to pay any attention to it.
