Page 12 of Sinbound to the Highlander
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It was past sunset, but Freya had still not found any mandragora, and she was getting worried. Deciding that the best way was to go to the riverside first, she had searched there but found nothing. Anxiously, she followed the stream upriver, with her eyes stuck on the ground, flitting from shrub to shrub.
She had reached a spot of the river where it had narrowed to a shallow sandy pool, and she could see clearly over to the other side where the steep banks were before they led to the forest. Freya decided to check over there next, but she kept searching this side of the river. Under a thick oak tree, she spotted the telltale leaves of the mandragora plant and knelt to dig it out.
“Finally,” she smiled in relief, dropped the basket, and grabbed the iron tool. She pulled up only two sprouts and sighed. “I need at least four.”
Dropping them into her basket, she turned toward the other part of the forest, but what arrested her attention, was not the trees but the man lying on the bank—looking dead. His face was turned away from her, but he looked like one who had fallen from his horse, or, one who had suddenly collapsed.
Panicked, she looked around and spotted a dead tree laying nearly halfway across the stream. Hugging the basket close, she hopped on the tree’s trunk and inched her way across. With a small leap, she landed on the ground, and timidly approached the man. Resting the basket on the ground, she stepped carefully.
Please, God, daenae make him be dead.
Nearing him, she looked for any visible wounds from an attacker or an unnaturally bent limb from a bad fall. No splatters of blood were on the ground, no discarded weapon was there, and she did not see a horse anywhere near him.
This is bad.
Reaching him, she lightly grasped his shoulder to turn him and see if he was injured—when she found herself flipped and slammed into the ground. Both of his hands were pinning hers to the ground, firmly. A jolt of uncommon heat, starting from where he was holding her, blazed right through her.
His rough touch and the angry hazel eyes were glaring at her with deadly intent before his look cleared. His gaze went apologetic, and his hands relaxed a little from hers, the touch making her shiver and leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. But just as she opened her mouth to say something, his eyes narrowed.
“Miss Milleson?” he asked, his tone deep and smooth. “What are ye doin’ here and why…what’s on yer face?”
Freya’s words were stuck in her throat as she gazed at the most handsome man she had ever seen. His hair was light brown and windswept, and his eyes, set over broad cheekbones and square face, were the color of tempered gold. His hands were still pinning her to the ground, and though her heart was hammering in her chest, she felt no fear. Slowly, her hand lifted to stop from his face and, unwittingly, she wetted her lips. His eyes darted to them before going back to her eyes.
“Answer me, what are ye doin’ here, Elspeth?” he asked, “Did ye follow me, and what happened to yer face?”
“Who is Miss Elspeth…Milleson?” Freya barely managed.
He pulled away from her and sat back, gazing at her with confused eyes, but would not stop looking at her. “Elspeth Milleson is my betrothed but yer face…” this time, he used his knuckles to brush her cheek, and the fleeing warm touch ricocheted through her body, “is freckled. Still, ye look just like her.”
“Me name is Freya,” she clarified, “Freya Crushom. I live in Cillock village, just over yonder, and past this forest. Who are ye?”
“Evan Saunderson,” he said, and before the name clicked with a memory she had, he added, “Laird of Ruthven.”
Instantly, Freya felt like curling in on herself. She was in the presence of royalty and felt…less than. Daily this man interacted with the best people, women, and men with proper learning, and graces who dressed fancy and lived in luxury. They did not know what it meant to sew their clothes or knead their flour.
Freya felt underdressed, undereducated, and graceless. Moreover, his notice of her freckles still rang in the air. Though no one in the village had made her feel ashamed of her face, she knew a lot of people thought it was the mark of a witch.
Does he ken the same?
“What were ye doing, sneakin’ up on me? I was asleep,” Laird Ruthven asked.
“I…I…” again, the words died in her throat. “I was just checkin’ to see if ye were alive. I kent ye might have collapsed or were thrown from a horse, but me apologies, Me Laird, I’ll leave ye be.”
“Nay, daenae ye leave yet…” he stopped as she moved to stand, “I cannae figure out why ye two look so alike, aside from the freckles, that is.”
“Do they bother ye, Me Laird?” she asked, quaveringly.
“Nay,” he shook his head. “But still—”
She debated on telling him her story, but how could it hurt? The whole village knew about her heritage, or lack thereof. She hugged her legs closer to her chin, trying to ignore how his eyes flitted over her poor drab brown dress.
“I wasnae born in the village, Me Laird. Me parents, Balthair and Caitlin Crushom, found me on their doorstep, two decades ago,” she said plainly with a tiny shrug. “No one kens where I came from, but they took me in and raised me as their own. The people in the village are like me, extended family.”
Even with her explanation—that should have cleared the muddled look from his face—the expression only grew more profound. “Is somethin’ wrong, Me Laird?”
He still did not tear his gaze from her, and though it was a little unnerving, she felt it was more curious than intrusive. Laird Ruthven shook his head, “It’s just uncanny. Ye look exactly like her, as if ye two were…” his jaw dropped and his eyes went wide, “as if ye were twins.”
