Page 46 of Sinbound to the Highlander
Still reeling from her first kiss, Freya could not drift off to sleep. Her heart was still pounding a wild beat in her chest, and she could again feel Evan’s hands on her body. Those large palms, the smell of his skin, the thickness of his tousled hair, the glimmer in his eyes—they all stayed with her in a half daze. She lingered in that state until dawn came and blinking into full awareness, Freya sat up.
Evan had not spoken about what he would do if or when, Lady Grace or Laird Aidan broke the engagement to Elspeth, but a notion—and a ridiculous one at that—had her believing he would turn to her.
“He did say, he doesnea care about me schoolin’ or appearance, but why would he choose me?” she wondered out loud.
By habit, she made the bed and went to wash, quickly braiding her hair into one thick twist down her back and perched on the chair, to read the book on poetry. Now that Evan had explained a few things to her, she read the poem with a deep understanding, and at the end, felt hope spring up inside her.
“That joy may grow on joy, and constant last, and each day rise brighter than the past…” Freya recited.
A knock came, and she went to answer it—it was Lady Grace, clad in a lovely deep cobalt dress. “Oh, good ye’re awake,” her eyes skimmed over the room, and Freya knew the lady saw the made bed. Thankfully, she did not mention it. “Come with us to the mornin’ meal, Dear.”
“Aye,” Freya nodded, “How is Elspeth doing?”
Lady Grace’s face lit up, “Very well, thank ye for askin’. Aidan took her out for a walk a while ago to stretch her legs and look around. I believe Laird Ruthven joined them too.”
Slightly taken aback by that statement, Freya reeled in her reaction and smiled. “I hope they can join us then.”
Walking with her birth mother down to the Great Hall, she entered and breathed a sigh of relief. Laird Aidan, Evan, his mother, and Elspeth were already seated. Mounting the dais, she greeted them and sat, tuning in to Evan’s and Laird Aidan’s conversation about how the bloody Charles Edward Stuart had been coronated King on behalf of his father, after marching through and possessing Edinburgh.
“The good news is,” Laird Aidan said, wiping his mouth and dropping the napkin, “They are movin’ further away from us.”
After taking a bite, Lady Ruthven asked, “Evan, Dear, what are yer plans for today?”
“I was plannin’ on taking Laird Lobhdain to see the mines and the fishing loch, and possibly the grain fields this morn’ to have his opinion on those sectors,” Evan said. “And this evenin’ take Miss Milleson and Miss Crushom on a ride to the countryside, with guards, o’course.”
“Wonderful,” Lady Ruthven smiled, “That means I may borrow Miss Crushom for a moment.”
Freya jumped so hard her hand nearly knocked over her goblet, but she righted it in time. “Me?” she squeaked.
“Aye,” Lady Ruthven said, “I’d like to take ye to our healers and have ye show them a few of yer methods.”
Swallowing over the lump in her throat—because of all the eyes on her—Freya nodded, “I’d be happy to.”
She ate her food, with a peculiar heaviness in her chest at the thought of being alone with Evan’s mother for an unstated measure of time. With the meal winding down, Freya stood when his mother did, and with her excuses said, left the room.
The Lady took her to another section of the castle, on the ground floor that had a section overhead where a set of stairs led upwards. The smell of burning sage was comforting to Freya, and the women in pale-blue tunics and surcoats passed by with soft, comforting smiles.
Tables were set out with mortars and pestles, and dried healing bushes were dangling from strings further in the back. Beds were on that floor, but Freya suspected she would find more above.
“Missus Delilah,” Lady Ruthven called, “a moment of yer time, please.” To Freya, she added, “She is the head healer here.”
A woman, in a surcoat of darker blue with silver stitching on the neck and arms, came forward. “Lady Ruthven, what may I help ye with?”
“ ‘Tis Freya Crushom, she was the one who made the salve,” Lady Ruthven said, “I’ve brought her here so she can tell ye how she did it.”
Again, with the attention turned on her, Freya sucked in a deep breath, “Pleased to meet ye, Missus Delilah, do ye have any of these on hand….” Freya rattled off a list of plants, and the lady sent for them. With them assembled on a table, she began to show them the method Missus Beathag used to make the salve.
Attention was squared on her, from more than Lady Ruthven and the head healer, but Freya did not mind. It felt natural to talk about healing with people who understood what she meant, and the sage in the air was calming her too.
Stepping back from the table with mortar filled with the crushed leaves and the powered mandragora root, she added the milk and pinches of salt, she smiled, “Ye leave this to cool in a stone pot, and ye’ll have yerself a tub of salve.”
The head healer took the pot of salt and looked at it with wonder, “Such an obvious thing right in front of our noses, but we never kent to use it in that way.”
“It’s a very delicate balance using salt,” Freya advised. “Like we all ken, it can either cure or kill if nay used in moderation.”
Missus Delilah looked directly at her, “Have ye ever considered a calling in the healing arts, young lady?”
Nervously, Freya admitted, “Before Lord Ruthven found me and took me to Lady Grace, I’d only considered the calling of a wife, someone who kens all things, making remedies for me husband and bairns, cooking and taking care of the home. I kent I could use me knowledge to bring in more coinage to help me husband, but now I ken that’s nay how it will go, innit.”
