Page 15 of Sinbound to the Highlander
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When Freya had uttered the name Cillock, it had sparked a memory. If he was right, it was one of the leading farming villages in his Lairdship. But knowing the town was rustic and seeing it, were two different things to Evan. When they arrived at the village’s gate, they had both came off the horse and began to walk through it, so he saw the surroundings.
The homes seemed ancient, sunken in on themselves, like a weak loaf of bread, and would probably collapse on them if, God forbid, a hail storm rolled in. Evan could bargain that the current owners had inherited them from their great-grandparents as the only heirloom they could give. The villagers were not living in squalor, but with how the homes were old, it was clear that they had been overlooked in getting help in the past.
There was nothing remarkable about the village, but the scenery above them was majestic. The arc of the mountains and the verdant slope of the hills, along with the sounds of the river Evan could hear flowing nearby, balanced the poor image of the houses he was seeing, but he still vowed to send help.
The roads were mostly empty as lights were coming out from the wooden slat windows and under their doors. The few people that were on the street, with farming tools slung over their shoulder, called to Freya, and she replied to them kindly. She even stopped to inquire about an ailing mother or a newborn and her happy smile from their replies, was just lovely.
Elspeth would have passed by with an arrogant tilt to her chin and disdain in her eyes. That was, if, by some miracle, she did find herself in a country village.
He could see questions on the faces of those who spoke to her, but they never pried. He had no problem telling them who he was, but the issue was not raised. They moved off to a cottage at the end of a lane, and light was coming from inside. Freya stopped at the front steps, the tight grasp she had on the basket told him she was nervous.
“Please stay here, Me Laird,” Freya said quietly as she mounted the stairs and went inside.
He understood that she had to tell her parents first. Anyone, even those of his class, would be stunned to have a Laird appear on to their doorstep, without prior notice. He looked around to find a tree to tether the horse to when booted footsteps were behind him.
“Laird Ruthven?” A man—Freya’s father—called in disbelief.
Turning back, he stuck out his hand to the older man, “Aye, Mister Crushom, it is I, Laird Ruthven.”
Mister Crushom dragged his cap off his head, bowed, then stuck out his hand, which Evan took. Over his shoulder, she saw Freya and Missus Crushom linger in the doorway, the wife looking pale and anxious.
“How may I help ye, Me Laird?” Mister Crushom asked. “Freya dinnae say much when I rushed out. Is there a problem with the farm, are the goods nay reachin’ the castle, is there a—”
“Nay, nay,” Evan cut in with a soft laugh, “Nothin’ like that. I’m sure the goods are comin’ to the castle because I havenae been given any complaints from the kitchens but nay, it had nothin’ to do with the farm. It has to do with Miss Crushom, really.”
“Freya!” the father exclaimed, twisting to look at his daughter. “Did she do—?”
“Nay, nay,” Evan rushed again, reaching out to rest his hands on the man’s shoulder, “She has done nothin’ wrong, and I would appreciate it if ye stopped forejudgin’ what I am goin’ to say. May we talk inside?”
Mister Crushom turned to look at his wife for confirmation, who—though still paleface—nodded. Mister Crushom said, “It’s a very humble home, Me Laird.”
“Doesnae matter to me,” Evan replied. “Please.”
He was led into the one-room cottage with a kitchen nook at the far end. A bedroll was rolled into a corner of the room while a bigger stuffed mattress was in the most distant corner. A few stools were scattered, but a large wooden armchair, one Mister Crushom directed him toward, stood near the central heart.
“Thank ye,” he said while sitting.
“Would ye like somethin’ to drink, Me Laird?” Missus Crushom asked.
Giving her a grateful smile, he replied, “Just water, please.”
With Freya taking a stool, Missus Crushom went for the water, and Mister Crushom stood at the door. When he took the goblet of water, he drank some and then set it aside.
“I ken ye all are anxious about this war with the Jacobites comin’ at our doorsteps, and I am doin’ all I can to stop us from being razed to the ground,” he said. “I’ve struck up a deal with Laird Lobhdain to assist me with the forces we might need to keep us all safe…and I am betrothed to his daughter, Miss Milleson.” He raised his hand to stop the obligatory congratulations he knew would come. He then looked at Freya. “But why I need to speak to ye is that Miss Crushom…she looks exactly like Miss Milleson. Nigh identical.”
A startled look passed between the two parents, but Freya was perfectly calm and somewhat doubtful. He knew she still did not believe him, but he was sure he was right. There was no other explanation as to why two women looked so alike. Freya had even told him she had been found on their doorstep. She was not the Crushom’s child, so she had to be Laird and Lady Lobhdain’s.
Missus Crushom's lips were tight before she spoke. “It is a possibility, Me Laird, but why would Lady Lobhdain nae search for a child she birthed and was found missin’?”
“I’d have to ask the Lady herself,” Evan replied. “But me suspicion is that the Lady was told the bairn died. She wouldnae have any cause to search if the bairn had passed away.”
“That is a possibility,” Mister Crushom said hesitantly. “But why? Why would someone steal a child to give to us? And who in the castle would ken about our circumstance so they would do such a thing?”
“Pardon,” Evan asked, deeply cautious about Mister Crushom’s statement. “What do ye mean by yer circumstance?”
“He meant me,” Missus Crushom said, despondently, before she took in a breath. “I am barren, Me Laird, but I dinnae ken about it after I was married. It took us three years of tryin’ to conceive before I realized I was unable to carry a child. I told those in me family…especially a cousin of mine,” she paused to suck in a breath. “Her name was Matilda, and she used to work in the Lobhdain castle as a healer and a midwife, but,” her voice dipped to sorrow, “she never said a word to me about stealin’ a bairn. When Freya came to our door, we just thanked God for her, but now—” her voice broke.
