Page 10 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
She pulled her hands back to her chest and rubbed her wrists with a sour look—a look that said she was no longer his captive.
“I’ll walk,” she agreed, bowing her head.
“Good.” He turned and barked at a cluster of nearby guards, letting some of his anger fly. “Get the horses rubbed down! Ye, wake a maid and get a bath drawn for Lady Freya! Ye, wake the cook—I’m ravenous.”
The guards scuttled away as if he had lit a fire beneath their feet, while the others hurried up to the battlements to resume the duties they had clearly neglected. Doughall’s eye twitched at that.
There’s another Laird in control now. Ye’ll nae have a moment to forget it.
Bony hands, as rough and worn as the walls of MacNiall Castle, prodded at her ribs. Each touch sent a dull throb of pain through Freya’s side, making her wince.
“Some bruises, but nae a thing broken,” Sorcha, the healer, muttered as she continued to prod at the tender flesh.
Freya clenched her jaw as she tried to maintain her composure. It hurt, but she wouldn’t dare voice it. Not that it mattered, truly. Sorcha was clever enough to see through anything that Freya might attempt to hide.
She had never been hurt like this before. It was a strange feeling.
“And how did ye get such injuries?” the healer asked, pausing to glance up at Freya with wise, sharp eyes.
Anything said in the small, cold room would surely reach the ears of her brother. Freya did not wish to lie to the healer, but it was clear that the truth needed to be stretched as thin as possible without it snapping.
Her eyes flickered to the door.
Sorcha had been quick to kick Doughall out of the room after he had escorted Freya to the healer’s chambers—a small mercy and a big relief for Freya. It had been a singular thrill to see the doorslam shut in his face. Still, she wondered… was he outside the door now? Was the Devil waiting for her?
Her gaze moved back to the healer, and she chose her words carefully. “I dinnae recall much, but I must’ve fallen off me horse. Laird MacGordon found me on the ground.”
It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. If the healer doubted her, the old woman made no mention or sign of it. Freya fought back the breath of relief that threatened to escape her, lest she seem too obvious. She did not need word of what had happened to reach her brother. Not yet, at least.
“Ye’re lucky that Laird MacGordon found ye.”
Freya forced a small, tight smile and nodded. “Aye.”
“It could’ve been far worse, ye ken,” the healer added.
Once again, Freya nodded, though she bristled at the thought inwardly. She knew she would have to thank him, for as much as she hated to admit it, he had saved her. It was clear what her fate would have been if not for Doughall and his man-at-arms. Still, the thought made her stomach lurch and her wrists itch.
He tied me up and led me like a dog, and if I didnae ken better, I’d say he enjoyed it.
Once Sorcha was content, she opened the door and unceremoniously ushered Freya into the hallway. The doorclosed behind her, and Freya stared ahead, letting out the breath she had been holding.
Doughall Scott was nowhere to be seen.
Each step felt heavier than the last as she moved down the dimly lit passage, the sound of her heels clicking against the stone floor echoing back. Her mind was just as heavy, full of guilt and annoyance.
All of that for nothin’.
She had failed to get far, let alonefindher sister. In the span of no more than half a day, she had almost been killed. Worse still, she had been saved by a man who was known for his cruelty. Some even said he had been responsible for his parents’ death, but Freya didn’t believe that. He was but a mere child back then. The part about his cruelty though… that was something she knew too well. Something she had seen the very first time she had stayed in his castle almost six years ago…
She wasn’t sure how she was feeling, or how she should feel.
Glancing ahead, her feet stopped at the same time as her heart. The morning light filtered through one of the tall windows, bathing the carved stone floor in a warm, golden glow. Standing at the end of the hallway, soaked in that light, was the Devil himself. His eyes were locked on her, his expression unreadable, but the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down her spine.
Doughallwaswaiting for her.
A part of her was tempted to turn back, to flee, but she somehow managed to straighten herself. Lifting her chin, and pulling her shoulders back, she tried to ignore the ache in her side as she approached him.
Doughall’s gaze never wavered, not even when she stood directly before him. His gray eyes pierced through her—her clothes, flesh, and bone—as if he could read her thoughts, her feelings.
