Page 13 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
The woman offered Freya a cautious smile, her demeanor neither unfriendly nor inviting. Was this truly the person who had helped to save her? Wasshethe one with the lance and the shield? It would have explained why Doughall had suddenly appeared with a broadsword in hand and no shield.
“Forgive me,” Freya managed after a moment, quickly slipping back into the role of a polite, proper lady. “Please, forgive me. I am afraid I dinnae recall yer name.”
The woman bowed her head—an unusual gesture, more befitting a warrior than a lady. She stood taller than Freya, and Freya herself wasn’t lacking in height. There was something about her that was imposing, formidable in a way that could not be ignored.
“Ersie MacRae,” she replied. “Laird MacGordon’s shield.”
“Shield?” Freya repeated, taken aback by the title. Her eyes darted between Ersie and Doughall. A feeling clawed its way inside her, irritating and unwelcome.
Is this Ersie his lover?
Not that she could truly blame him if that were the case. The woman was striking.
But why did she care? What did it matter to her?
If she’s his lover, I should pity her.
Before she could stop herself from dwelling on it, Doughall cut in, his voice less cold than she was used to. “Ersie, tend to the horses while we… discuss things in private.”
Ersie nodded, taking the reins of both their horses before leading them away. She remained close but far enough that she could not overhear what wasn’t meant for her ears.
Freya, even more annoyed now, crossed her arms and faced Doughall. The last thing she wanted was to speak to him in private, but it seemed that she did not have much of a choice in the matter. A reoccurring annoyance.
“Tell me about yer attacker,” he said suddenly. “The one on horseback.”
Freya blinked, thrown off guard. She had hoped he would forget. She had buried that moment deep, trying not to let it surface over the last day, not wanting to dwell on how close she had come to real harm. The wind whistled through the trees, whispering around them, and she let out a small sigh.
“He seemed familiar,” she admitted, forcing herself to face that memory. “As if I had met him once, perhaps in passing… but I couldnae place him.”
Doughall’s eyes narrowed slightly, considering her words. “Familiar how?”
“His voice,” she whispered, feeling a knot tighten in her chest. “I thought… I thought perhaps I had heard it before.”
Doughall turned his head, his gaze fixed on the distant mountain. His face was all hard lines, a sharp jaw, and a stern brow. He looked as if he had been carved from stone, statuesque and solid. She had never realized just how handsome he was, or perhaps she had never let herself dare to admit it until that moment.
“It’s likely Stewart’s man,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
She frowned, confusion knitting her brow. “JamesStewart?”
Doughall’s silence confirmed it.
“But he is dead. Why would one of his men try to…?”
The name alone sent a shiver down her spine, a reminder of how things had been just months ago.
He is dead…
Doughall looked down at her. “I dinnae ken. But he willnae try it again.”
“How can ye be so sure?” she asked, her voice tight.
Freya shook her head, struggling to make sense of it as she wrapped her arms around herself. A chill moved through her body, not caused by the autumn wind.
Her eyes flickered toward him once more. Doughall was looking at the mountain—or at least, that was what she thought at first. There was a distant look in his eyes, and she realized that he was staring toward his home.
“Ye are mine to protect now,” he said, his words final and unyielding.
Before she could respond, he turned and started toward Ersie and the horses. He moved with more grace than she imagined was possible for a man of his size. The wind tugged at his dark hair, tousling it. The folds of his plaid billowed. As much as she wanted to deny it, there was something about the way he moved, the way he commanded everyone without speaking a word, that drew her in.
