Page 14 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Doughall had learned long ago to hide his emotions, to keep his face as still as the stone walls of MacGordon Castle. It was a skill he had perfected, one that had served him well. But in Freya’s presence, he could feel that skill waver—the faintest, finest crack in the impervious rock of himself, chipped at by the fear in her autumnal brown eyes when she had mentioned her assailant.
I’ll kill the wretch with me bare hands.
The more he thought about the rider who had gotten away, and what the brute might have done to the flame-haired, stubborn, wayward innocent now in his care, the more his rage simmered.
By the time the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the doors of MacGordon Castle, his rage wasboiling.
“Oi! Carriage, now! Horses, now!” he barked at the stableboys who were in the midst of tossing a ring over a post.
The boys sprinted over, their heads down.
Doughall beckoned three maids over. “See to it that me guests are fed and their rooms are prepared. Baths drawn, fires stoked,” he commanded as he dismounted.
It came naturally to him, and he did not think twice about it, though his tone carried more venom than usual. His voice brooked even less argument than normal, and the servants rushed to obey in a heartbeat.
Doughall’s eyes flickered to the carriage door as Ersie remembered to open it. Moira Kane, the mother of Adam and his sisters, emerged with grace. Though it was subtle, he could see the slight hunch of her shoulders and the heaviness of her steps.
But it wasn’t Moira he was waiting to see.
Freya stepped out, the image of perfection in her mother’s shadow. Her head was held high, her shoulders were pulled back, and her eyes were fixed on the castle doors ahead of them.
Seeing the two women walking was like looking into the past and future at once. Freya looked very much like her mother, omitting the fine lines on her face and the gray streaks in her red hair.
Despite himself, his gaze lingered on Freya. The sunlight touched her just so, turning the deep shades of auburn into flames. He could see the fire in her, the spirit she tried to keep subdued. It was something that piqued his interest and vexed him at the same time.
Ye wouldnae have run from yer home, against yer braither’s wishes, if ye didnae have a willful ember in ye.
Her eyes met his for the briefest of moments before she tore her gaze away, as if looking at him for too long would reveal her thoughts. Doughall wondered what was going through that pretty head of hers.
“Ye will join me and me kin for the feast tonight,” he said, his voice an order rather than an invitation. He wasn’t in the habit of asking for anything.
He saw a flicker of something in Freya’s eyes, something defiant, but it faded quickly and was replaced with a polished smile. It did not reach her eyes as she offered him a graceful curtsy.
“We thank ye, Laird MacGordon, for yer hospitality,” Moira said, her voice soft, her smile tender yet sad.
He had known her for some time and had seen the shift in her demeanor, though he had given it little thought until now.
Doughall nodded stiffly in return, not one for pleasantries. He shifted, turning his body to scan the waiting servants near the door. “Ye…” He glanced at a round, freckle-faced maid. “Ye will show them to their rooms.”
The maid hurried toward them, her steps quick and nervous. Whatever she said, he did not care to hear, as his gaze had settled on Freya once more. He could see the tension in her, the worry that seemed to pull at the corners of her mouth. There were things they needed to discuss, matters that could not wait much longer. But now wasn’t the time.
He turned away, his focus shifting to his second-in-command. Ersie was busy speaking to a stablehand who seemed most reluctant to take the reins of her temperamental gelding.
Just as he took a step toward them, Freya’s voice cut through the air like a bell. “Doughall.”
He looked over his shoulder at her, surprised to hear his name and not the title he had claimed. The familiarity of it shocked him, but he could not say he did not like the sound of her calling out his name.
She met his gaze. “Can I have a word… with ye?”
“Later.” Doughall turned back and left.
The way she had said his name, the way she had looked at him…
I must be tired from the journey.
“Ersie, come,” he said, his voice curt.
Ersie raised an eyebrow at his tone, but she did not bother to argue. She followed him as they made their way to the front doors, eventually falling into step with him.
